Homecomingby AntiquarianChaptersA Day at the RangeProspectsShoddyNormalAssumptionsThe VisitorBaggage of TricksMissing the MarkThe CMCs and the Case of the Missing MarkHeart to HeartDeclaration of WarPurpose and FamilyA Day at the RangeThe whistling of the tea kettle wakes me. It’s muted by a layer of blankets, earplugs, a heavy door, and two flights of stairs, and still it wakes me. I used to be such a heavy sleeper. Sighing, I pull myself out of bed, stretching the kinks out of my legs and setting the sleeping mask on my nightstand. And it is my nightstand. That still takes some getting used to after spending a considerable part of the Great War living in a castle. Not that the castle wasn’t lovely, and having a permanent serving staff laid on certainly had its advantages. But, for all my comments over the years on the grandeur of royal living, I have come to appreciate the simple beauty of my little boutique. Humming to myself, I head to the washroom and perform my morning ablutions. No doubt certain friends of mine would poke fun at the length of the process, especially given what our day’s activity shall be, but a lady does have standards, after all. Throughout the war I maintained my habits. Maintaining the sense that life marches onward in spite of conflict is essential to civilian morale. There’s no reason to break the habit now just because my friends spent years away from home, crawling through mud and blood in a desperate slog against a vicious foe to— A pounding on the door elicits an unladylike yelp from me. “Rarity, did you fall asleep in there?” Hmph. The nerve of some ponies. I cast a quick glance in the mirror to ensure that my appearance is satisfactory before snapping the door open with my magic. “Sweetie Belle, honestly, must you frighten me so?” The young mare cocks an eyebrow, not seeming impressed by elder-sister-outburst. I must be losing my touch. The fact that she’s almost as tall as I am now probably doesn’t help. “You were taking way longer than usual,” she replies. “I didn’t want your breakfast to get cold.” I try to drum up some hostility against her, but find it to be a losing battle. I smile and nuzzle her side. “Yes, well, I suppose that would be a shame, especially given what a fine cook you’ve turned out to be.” Grinning at the praise, Sweetie Belle wastes no time leading me downstairs. We pass by my Inspiration Room on the way to the dining room. It’s filled mostly with wedding dresses, and I can’t help but chuckle as I walk past. Over a year since the war ended, and still no end to the abundance of marriages. Sweetie glances back at my amusement. “What’s so funny?” “Just reflecting on the nature of romance and business,” I reply. The breakfast really is good. I had better tasting food at the castle, of course, but that’s because the chef, an earth pony rather bluntly named Chef, was a professional cook. Sweetie’s meal has the virtue of being a labor of love from an amateur who’s overcome, shall I say, an inauspicious beginning. To put it another way, she’s certainly come a long way from inexplicably transforming toast into bubbling tar. “What are you and your friends up to today?” I ask. “Well, nothing until the afternoon. I’ve still got to finish the bookkeeping.” I give her a reproving look. “Sweetie, darling, it’s our day off. Enjoy the time out with your friends! I don’t expect you to work overtime!” There’s that cocked eyebrow again. “You worked overtime the whole war. Managing the stores, the farm, the animals, the castle, not to mention—" I put a hoof to her mouth, forestalling further elaboration. “Sweetie, darling, those were unique circumstances. And, now that I’m not so overworked, don’t you think I appreciate the days off?” I chortle and resume eating. “You ought to make the most of your times of levity darling.” While you’re still young enough to do so. She picks at her food, looking guilty. “I know, I know, it’s just…I feel bad leaving you with so much to do now that I’m so busy most days with jay-rot.” Jayot … jay-rot … for a moment I begin to be concerned that there’s an unfortunately named young stallion that my sister has become interested in without telling me before I remember that she’s probably just referring to the Junior ROTC program with the abbreviated speech so regrettably common amongst today’s youth. “You have your own life to live, darling. And while I adore how helpful you are around the shop, I can manage without you working as much as you used to. Besides, you’re practically an adult, and I shall likely have to manage without you entirely soon.” I bat my eyelashes. “Especially if you meet a fine young military stallion.” Sweetie Belle snorts. “Fat chance of that anytime soon. Honestly, it feels like half the boys in my class have gotten denser since hitting puberty.” She wordlessly offers me the last egg. I shake my head and she happily takes it herself. JROTC is hungry work, after all. “All the same, you should take the time to enjoy yourself. After all, I plan on spending my day off rather frivolously.” She chuckles at that. “I wouldn’t let the others hear you call a day out shooting ‘frivolous.’ They might be offended.” She glances over at the oaken case lying on the counter. “I think they’ll like your little surprise though.” “I should certainly hope so. It took considerable effort to procure that antique.” “Well, I’m sure they’ll love it all the same.” She glances up at the clock and gives that mischievous little smile that I oh so hate seeing. “Maybe they’ll even love it enough to forgive you for being fifteen minutes late.” I swear; you’d think that young mare likes seeing me dashing about in a tizzy. I deny her assertion that I “shrieked” in dismay when I saw the time. However, I would be lying if I claimed that I did not beat a rather hasty retreat from the dining room, pausing only to grab sunhat, sunglasses, and the aforementioned case, shooting a disapproving glance over my shoulder as I left. Rolling on the floor laughing at one’s sister’s misfortune is most unbecoming, Sweetie Belle. What begins as a sprint though town swiftly slows to a brisk trot. Late or not, I’d prefer not to arrive icky with sweat. I can’t help but take in the sights and sounds of the village around me. Or perhaps it would be more proper to call it a true town, or even a small city. Having served as a muster-point for troops before sending them on to various theaters of war, Ponyville has grown from the tiny hamlet I was raised in into something more suited to the hub it has become. The town has more than doubled in size, expanding to include more shops, more stores, and more housing. Soldiers are a frequent sight on the streets these days. Most are cadets from the Ponyville Martial Academy, resplendent in their dark green dress uniforms, complete with jaunty berets. This in itself is a departure from the pre-war days, and not just because the uniforms have undergone significant changes; simply put, there was never a need to have a military presence in a little town like ours before. During the war, though, our military expanded tenfold, and it wasn’t exactly small to begin with. Between the increased need for security on the borders, the occupation force, and the grim reality that other kingdoms are modernizing their arsenals, we need warfighters in a way that we haven’t for centuries. These young cadets, most of them only a year or two older than dear Sweetie Belle, represent that need. Of course, the actual armed soldiers represent it even more closely. That’s another thing that would have been inconceivable to pre-war minds: rifle-toting ponies in olive-drab uniforms, wearing armored chest-plates and wide-brimmed Brodie helmets. Shining Armor made the importance of such increased security for critical towns like Ponyville abundantly clear after that … tragic day seven years ago. Two of the soldiers dip their helmets to me as they walk past, and I acknowledge their pleasantry with a smile and a nod, but I don’t slow my pace. I suppose the attention of two fit young military stallions ought to set my heart a-patter, but I have other matters on my mind at the moment. Like worrying about my tardiness. “Oh, I do so hope the others don’t tease me terribly for being late,” I hiss to myself. “That Sweetie Belle! I sincerely hope that she simply didn’t notice the time, because if she deliberately failed to mention it then I will be having a rather stern talk with her about the value of punctuality, which she ought to already know, what with her being in Junior ROTC and all, and—" “Hiya, Rarity!” greets Pinkie from directly beside me. I maintain that I did not shriek at the top of my lungs in a most unladylike manner. Once I regain my composure, and some modicum of a steady heartbeat, I address my dear friend in a calm and reserved manner. “Pinkie Pie, you scared the daylights out of me!” More or less. Pinkie giggles and twists her neck to look at me upside-down, somehow not spilling the beret from her physics-defying mane in the process. “Sorry, Rarity! I just didn’t want you to be seen talking to yourself.” She looks around furtively, as though spies might be listening, then leans into my ear, putting a hoof up to shield her mouth as she whispers, “Ponies might think you’re crazy!” A little over a decade ago, her behavior would have struck me as odd. As it stands now, I barely blink. “Well, thank you for your consideration, darling.” “Anytime, Rarity!” she gushes. We resume walking to our destination and I try to ignore all the ponies who I catch in the process of pretending they weren’t staring at my little, ahem, outburst a moment ago. We probably look to be quite the odd couple. Well, more of an odd couple than in the old days, I should clarify. It’s not just the difference of coats and manes anymore. These days Pinkie is sporting some rather impressive scars, to say nothing of her black-green beret and vest, the latter of which was once a combat engineer’s jacket before she tore the sleeves off. The case on my back is scarcely larger than a breadbox, while the rifle case slung over her back is longer than she is. There are a few other minor differences as well, like her battle-toned musculature, the combat knife she still habitually straps to her back hoof, and the fact that she’s actually walking rather than bouncing like she always used to. Oh, and she’s pregnant. That’s different too. Honestly, the lack of bounce in her step probably has more to do with not wanting to upset the foals she’s carrying than any lingering effects of the war, as one might have suspected. “Well, darling, I must say that I’m relieved not to be the only pony running late today. At least I shan’t have to bear Rainbow’s and Applejack’s attempts at comedy alone.” “Happy to help, Rarity,” she smiles. “Though I wouldn’t have been late at all if Bud wasn’t so fussy!” she adds with a scowl. “Fussy?” “Yeah,” grumbles Pinkie, letting her head dip. “These days it’s always, ‘let me get that for you, honey!’ ‘Don’t try to lift that by yourself, sugarplum!’ ‘Why on Celestia’s green earth would you need to take all of your guns, Pinkie, and how have the MPs not confiscated your horde of contraband weapons anyway?’” She snorts. “As if the MPs could even find my tunnel network to begin with. And today was just silly. All I wanted was to bring three of my long-guns today, and Bud was all over me about ‘not exerting myself.’ He wouldn’t even let me leave until I agreed to only take the one.” She glances at me. “Crazy, right?” Bud must be the incarnation of the Element of Patience to keep up with Pinkie’s inability to dial back her eccentricities even when conspicuously pregnant. “Well, darling, I’m sure that he just couldn’t bear to let such a beautiful young mare out of his sight.” Somehow, even the wicked scar across Pinkie’s muzzle, courtesy of a griffon saber, doesn’t manage to dampen the glow of her blushing smile one iota. “Aw, shucks, Rarity,” she giggles. “You always say the nicest things.” I smile. “Tis only what friends are for, Pinkie dear.” Our walk eventually winds its way out of town to the entrance of the Bronze Bayonet Memorial Shooting Range, a massive acreage at the edge of Ponyville surrounded by a rather unassuming white wall. Three ponies wait for us at the gate. Rainbow Dash is flying, as usual, in part from habit and in part of avoid putting too much strain on her one remaining back leg. She’s wearing a wool-lined flight jacket blazing with an appropriate rainbow of combat ribbons and has two rifle cases leaning against the gate house. Applejack stands next to her, wearing one of her trademark stetsons, with the absence of any sergeant’s chevrons stitched into it marking it as one of the ones she left at home for the war. Her rounded dog tags hang loose from the open front of her ‘lucky jacket.’ The rumpled green combat jacket has seen better days. Faded, pitted, weathered, and starting to fray at the edges, it’s in need of restoration. But Applejack won’t hear of it. “Not to Lucky,” she’d say if I asked. “He’s untouchable.” She has at least three rifle cases slung on her back, plus a duffel bag of ammunition and Celestia-knows-what-else at her feet. Fluttershy is sitting to the side, watching a butterfly. She’s not wearing anything resembling a uniform, though her hair is still done up in the conservative bun that she adopted at the start of the war. At her side rests her medical kit, an olive drab bag with a red cross on a white field stamped on the side. It’s the same bag she carried in the war, but by some miracle she’s restored it to be nigh-immaculate, to the point that, if I didn’t know better, I’d think she hadn’t seen any action at all. Unlike the others, she carries no weapons. Catching sight of us from some ways off, Rainbow throws her hooves up in the air in frustration at our sedate pace. “What are you two, a couple of snails? Get a move on! We’re burning daylight here!” Fluttershy lets the butterfly land on her hoof. “Oh, it’s okay. I don’t really mind.” Chuckling cheerfully, Applejack swipes at Rainbow’s tail with her hoof. “Don’t listen to the Tripod. Air Corps made ‘er even more impatient than she already was.” I must admit, I still flinch whenever I hear anypony call Rainbow ‘Tripod.’ Not that the pegasus seems to mind. “Pfff!” snorts Rainbow. “Is that jealousy I hear, ground-pounder? Can’t handle our superior awesomeness?” “Superior arrogance is more like it,” grins Applejack. “Ya’ll sky-jockeys wouldn’t know a proper battle plan if’n it bit ya in the flank.” “Mindless grunt!” “Feather-brain!” “Jarhead!” The two dissolve into an (apparently) good-natured bout of one-up-ponyship between their respective Branches, enabling Pinkie and I to close the distance. The five of us eventually gather at the entrance. Ignoring the bickering, I take stock of our little gathering. It’s impossible not to notice the absence of one of our closest friends. No matter how accustomed I am to it, and I still feel my heart sink just a little. Fluttershy notices my mood and trots over. “Is something wrong, Rarity?” “Nothing dear,” I reply with a sad sigh. “I’m just lamenting Twilight’s absence.” Rainbow interrupts her bickering to fly over. “What do you mean?” she asks. “Twilight’s just inside.” “Oh, she is?” I exclaim happily. “Capital! I was worried that she’d been feeling under the weather again. It’s so dreadfully often that she’s cooped up inside.” “Naw, she’s here. Spike wheeled her in and set her up early. She’s already taken over one of the shooter’s tables to spread out all her notes on force, trajectory, an’ whatnot. You know how she is.” I chuckle. “Yes, I do know how she is.” Quite well, in fact. Being her caretaker for so many years, I feel that in some ways I know her better than anypony, except perhaps Spike. “Well,” I say, trotting through the gates. “Best not keep her waiting any longer then.” Three dozen pony-shaped dummies composed of straw and skinned with burlap charge across the rolling field in a staggered line, resembling a still frame reproduction of the last great charge of the Scarecrow Brigade. At least, that’s what Pinkie Pie thinks it resembles. There’s a sharp crack and the head of one of the rearmost dummies explodes in a haze of straw and dust, reducing the bold dummy brigade’s numbers from thirty-six to thirty-five. Rainbow Dash ejects the spent casing from the heavy rifle with a precise flick of her forehoof. “Hot dang, AJ, that’s got a satisfying kick to it!” she exclaims, lying prone on the shooter’s table. “No wonder you dirt-suckers worship this thing!” Applejack smiles around a chaw of tobacco. Filthy habit. “Glad ta see ya can appreciate the finer things in life, RD.” She gives her friend a playful swat across her hindquarters. “Even if yer scrawny flank couldn’t handle this puppy out there in the Slog.” The pegasus arches an eloquent eyebrow and rolls to her side, glaring at the farmpony. “Well excuse me if the kick from a Sharps long-gun is a little much to handle while airborne, AJ, but you try firing a .45-70 round while pulling out of a 5000 foot dive at 2300 miles per hour!” Chuckling, Applejack hefts her smaller Spader Rifle. “Yeah, well, be thankful you got issued somethin’ with a higher rate o’ fire earlier in tha war. I didn’t get ta use one o’ these puppies till we’d near put the Buzzards on the run.” She rises to her hind legs for a standing shot and takes aim at one of the closer dummies. Taking a breath to steady her aim, she opens fire, working the guns’s lever-action in a controlled frenzy to put all five shots through her victim’s center of mass. The smaller caliber rounds don’t have quite the same explosive effect of the heavier Sharps Rifle, but the precision fire still shreds the dummy’s chest. With an almost loving sigh, Applejack settles back into a sitting position, fondling the weapon. “Now ain’t that a pretty sound yer makin,’ gorgeous?” she exclaims, grinning like a filly. I chuckle and adjust my hat to block the heat of the sun. “Take care, Applejack. If Arinze hears you talking about your firearm in such a manner, he may become jealous.” “Yeah!” exclaims Pinkie Pie, looking up from cleaning a Needle Rifle that she’d ‘borrowed’ from a Dominion soldier. “Poor zebra! Imagine finding out his wife’s cheating on him with a banged-up lever-action!” Even Fluttershy laughs at that. Applejack shoots Pinkie Pie a sour look before she, too, starts laughing. “Well, as far as homewreckers go, at least this’un don’t jam often.” Rainbow Dash snorts. “If that’s how you feel about it, I think we’ll need to host an intervention and get you some marriage counselling. How about it, Twilight? You up for doing some marriage counselling?” Twilight looks up from her research notes and gives a dry smile. “I think you or Pinkie are technically more qualified than I am for that at the moment,” she remarks. Her voice sounds stronger today, with almost none of its usual waver. Not bad for a wheelchair-bound mare with only one functioning lung, I suppose. “Oh, I’m sure you could do something, Twilight,” encourages Fluttershy, who had appeared beside our friend with a medical satchel to help the alicorn take her various pills and potions. “After all, friendship is the foundation of a successful marriage.” “Indeed,” I agree, taking advantage of the pause in shooting to make inquiries of my friends. “Speaking of which, Twilight,” my voice turns coy, “how are you and Big MacIntosh doing?” Twilight turns bright red and becomes quite fascinated with the calculations on her research papers. “We’re fine,” she answers flatly. “Now, Rainbow Dash, as compared to the kick of the Spader, how would you characterize the experience of firing the Sharps…” she trails off as the snickering of the other mares (sans Fluttershy) cuts her off. Flushing even redder than before she buries her snout in her notes. Fluttershy shoots me an arch look. I return it innocently over a sip of tea. Can’t blame a lady for wanting a little information about one of her best friend’s love lives. Especially when I helped her write most of those wartime letters. Applejack appears to take mercy on Twilight. “Say, Twi, if’n yer so keen ta learn about the kick, ain’t no better teacher than experience.” Twilight blinks at that. “I- I couldn’t. I shouldn’t.” “Why not, darling?” I ask. “I know a heavier gun like the Sharps isn’t your preference, but it’s not as though you haven’t shot before.” “No, it’s not that,” she interrupts. “I actually did fire first generation Sharps Rifles when they were introduced after Tirek, but since then I’ve only read about it.” “Well, you only read about running marathons and you still beat the horseshoes off of AJ and Dashie!” chirps Pinkie as she slides the bolt back into place on the Needle Rifle. Both athletes glare. Twilight bites her lip, then mumbles, “Well, I suppose it couldn’t hurt.” She glances at our resident medical expert for confirmation, “Or… could it?” Fluttershy shakes her head. “It won’t hurt. You can shoot it. You know… if you want to.” “See? Even the Angel of Angriff says it’s okay,” declares Rainbow. “So get your flank over here!” “Well… okay,” acquiesces Twilight. She wheels over to the shooters bench. Rainbow vacates the spot for her and sets the barrel of the Sharps up on a sandbag for stability, placing a box of ammunition within easy reach. Twilight’s horn lights up and she levitates five bullets out of the box, loading one into the chamber. Rainbow, still hovering at Twilight’s right, points out at the distant targets. “Now, you’re going to want to control your breathing and—" BANG! The crack of the rifle cuts Dash off mid-word and the chest of a distant dummy is reduced to dust. With one hoof she ejects the shell casing, loading the next with her magic. Another shot and another dummy’s head explodes. Eject. Reload. BANG! Hit. Repeat. Five shots end in five clean hits, any one of which would have been fatal had it landed on an actual pony. The echo of the last shot rolls over the hills, uninterrupted by dialogue as the five of us turn to stare at the alicorn, who lets out a long breath as she sits back in her wheelchair, a satisfied smirk on her face. “You’re right. That is much better than just taking notes. Good suggestion, Applejack.” Everypony else is quiet for a moment; then Dash says what’s doubtless on all our minds. “Hot dang, Twi. You woulda made for one heck of a sniper!” Twilight emits a cackle. “Yes, because hauling a wheelchair-bound sniper around a battlefield wouldn’t have caused any logistical problems. I can’t even begin to count the number of ways that could have gone wrong.” “Startin’ with the fact that Shining Armor would kill us for letting ya,” chuckles Applejack. “If Spike didn’t get to us first,” adds Pinkie. “All the same, that was really good shooting, Twilight,” smiles Fluttershy. “You looked like you were having so much fun, I was almost a little bit jealous.” Rainbow Dash opens her mouth as if to invite Fluttershy to experience it herself, but closes it so fast that I almost don’t notice. A few years ago, she would have suggested it without hesitation (and likely without tact), but we all know better than to ask Fluttershy to fire a gun. Better to just be thankful that she enjoys the range with us and leave it at that. “How about you, Rares?” asks Applejack, turning her attention to me. “You gonna shoot or what?” I smirk and set aside my tea. “In due time, I assure you. First I have to show you what I brought.” With a spark of magic I draw my case over. Five mares direct their attention to me. Rather than simply open the case, I decide to play it up a little. To simply reveal the surprise with no panache would simply not be proper. “Now, all of you have your own prized and exotic weapons to bring, often procured from,” I glance at Pinkie, “…less than willing sources, but I believe that I have found an article of war which shall put them all to shame.” “Ooh! Ooh!” exclaims Pinkie. “What is it? What is it? Is it a raygun? A laserbeam? A magic projector—" “This,” I cut her off, “is among the most difficult military articles to procure without a king’s ransom and is, fittingly enough, something of a rarity.” I giggle at my own joke. I’m not above that. “It is,” I click open the case and twirl it around with a flourish to display the contents, “an original, mint condition Gilded Peacemaker.” “Oooooh,” chorus the girls. Even Fluttershy is impressed. I don’t blame her. The Peacemakers were the first black powder pistol ever issued to officers of the Equestrian military, and the Gilded variety were issued only to officers of the highest caliber. Few were ever made, and fewer still remain. “H-how?!” stammers Dash. “I thought all the Gildies were either owned by some rich guy or destroyed!” “All but one!” I sing as I levitate the venerable sidearm out of it’s velvet case. “And, let me tell you, tracking this little beauty down was not easy. You wouldn’t believe the lengths to which I had to go to procure it.” Applejack approaches, holding out a hoof to touch it, and then pulls back as though afraid to sully it. “May Ah? “Of course, darling.” One by one they take the firearm and pass it around, oohing and awing appropriately at the inlay, the scrollwork, and, yes, the rarity of the item. Fluttershy is the last to look at it. “It really is beautiful,” she admits. “Almost seems odd that it’s something to shoot creatures with.” Well, when you put it like that… “But we’re still gonna shoot it, right?” demands Rainbow anxiously. I roll my eyes. “Well, I didn’t just bring it to look at.” “Well, if’n we’re shootin’ the granddaddy o’ service pistols,” Applejack gives a wolfish grin and produces her Colt .45 Revolver from beneath her jacket. “Ah think we should have a comparison with his heir.” Twilight moves one of the targets closer with her magic under Fluttershy’s watchful eye while I load the Peacemaker. It’s a rather laborious process, and one which makes me thankful for my magic. Black powder and a white coat don’t mix. Applejack goes first. Having cast off her jacket in the heat of the day, she moves up to the firing line and sights up on the dummy. “We doin’ one shot or the whole shebang?” “Just one shot should suffice,” I reply, setting aside my sunglasses and bonnet. “Unless you want to wait five minutes while I reload each time.” “Fair.” Her tongue sticks out as she steadies her breathing. I can’t suppress a twitch at the loud bark of the Colt. Rifles don’t bother me, but, every once in a while, the sound of a pistol reminds me of Hoofenberg. I glance at Twilight. She seems unfazed. But then, she doesn’t remember most of that day. A fortunate turn of events, to be sure. Applejack waves her hoof in front of my eyes. “Hm?” I ask. “Ah said yer up, Rares,” she repeats. “Oh. My apologies.” She cocks an eyebrow. “You okay?” “Why of course I am, darling,” I chuckle, hoping it doesn’t sound forced. “I was just…” I look to the target for inspiration, “intimidated by the precision of your shot.” “Uh huh,” she replies, not sounding convinced. All the same, she doesn’t press me about it. “Well, ya’d best start shootin’ before Rainbow up and yanks it from ya.” “Oh, like you don’t want to shoot it too, AJ!” Tuning them out, I sight up on the target. I must admit, shooting is more enjoyable than I thought it would be and I’ve turned out to be a fair hoof at it, but I’m under no illusions that I’ll beat Applejack with anything short of a miracle. All the same, I shan’t give it anything less than my best. I take aim, steady my breathing, squeeze the trigger with the inside of my joint… …and gag on the smoke while shaking my head to clear the ringing from my ears. “My word!” I wheeze, my eyes watering as I release the grip and levitate the offending weapon over to Applejack. “That makes quite a racket, doesn’t it?” “Hehe! She sure does,” grins Applejack, who seems unaffected by the noise. “Bit of a smoker too, looks like.” “Maybe it’s a navy pistol,” suggests Rainbow. “No, silly! That’s smoking and drinking,” corrects Pinkie Pie. Fluttershy offers me a glass of water, which I take with gusto. “Wherever it came from,” I manage after the coughing stops, “I would be willing to bet they were happy to see it go. Honestly, Applejack, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I prefer your plain old revolver to that gilded thing. It may look pretty, but choking on smoke from a single volley hardly brings any refinement to war.” The comment gets a chuckle, but it dies out pretty quickly at the sound of Pinkie’s more… bitter laughter. I turn slowly to see her polishing the Needle Rifle with a humorless grin on her face. “Oh, Rarity. It’s cute that you think there’s refinement in war.” She says it sweetly, but there’s a bite to her words that makes the sweetness sickening. “No matter how fancy the weapons, how efficient the tech, how brilliant the ways we conceive for keeping the enemy at a distance, war always comes down to two critters fighting in a muddy ditch over a bucking knife.” A cold silence settles on the range, broken only by the soft rasp of Twilight’s breath. Then Pinkie looks up with her trademark smile and exclaims, “But, hey, I got my hubby out of it, and now I’ve got four little buns in the oven! So I’d say it worked out pretty well!” She brandishes the rifled. “Now enough chit-chat! More shooting! Here, Twilight, try this Needle Rifle! It’s super-duper!” And with that she carries on as though nothing else happened. The other veterans slide back into the routine of the range without much bother. Even Fluttershy doesn’t seem that fazed. As for Twilight, she’s two busy having the modified Needle Rifle planted in her hooves to show shock. Which leaves me alone to look on and see how much has changed. Author's Note Equestrian history took a dramatically different turn in this AU right around the time Tirek nearly won. As such, I will be providing some contextual vignettes in the Author's Notes. If there are particular questions you have about this world, please ask, and you may well see a future vignette giving the relevant lore. *** For decades, Equestrian firearms had been largely neglected by both the military and the civilian market. Muzzle-loading muskets had existed for over a century, but never reached the point of being standard-issue amongst the military or even a popular civilian home defense weapon. The musket’s slow rate of fire, cumbersome nature, and inaccuracy led to most preferring the crossbow. Even the coming of the rifled firearms (and the corresponding spike in accuracy) and the higher damage output of the weapons relative to crossbows were not enough to offset the general antipathy towards the technology. As such, Equestrian small arms saw little use outside the borders, where the stopping power of guns was prized by independent ranchers and Equestrian Rangers for use against monsters. That all changed when Tirek nearly conquered Equestria. With memories of having their magic forcibly stripped away fresh in their minds, it was suddenly much easier to justify the development of weapons which had the stopping power of magical blasts but didn’t require a mage to use. Public sentiment on the matter of firearms had shifted enough that Secretary of War Hard Contact and Prime Minister Duke Golden Crown (known to his friends and detractors alike as ‘Fancy Pants’) were able to attach the Equestrian Small Arms Development Program to the bluntly-named EUP Guard Modernization Act. However, the margin for passing the Act had been so narrow that compromises had to be made, and the Program received little funding. Recognizing the importance of the Program, especially in light of worrying rise of the Unified Griffon Dominion, the reigning princesses of the Equestrian-Imperial Commonwealth quietly paid for the Program themselves. Sharp Wit’s famous Sharps Rifle (and its smaller cousin the Sharps Carbine) was the first mainstay rifle issued to Equestrian and Imperial troops. While this breech-loader had a slower rate of fire than the average battle caster, it was more reliable over the course of a pitched battle and could be used by all three pony races. The power of the weapon was sufficient to overcome the magical shields of even great combat mages like Shining Armor given enough time and numbers, and it was functional over longer distances than most offensive magic. Accurate, powerful, and reliable, the breech-loading rifle would be the backbone of the Equestrian Armed Forces for the first half of the Great War. Even as it was gradually replaced by more modern lever-action Spader and Turner Rifles, the Sharps was a common sight on the battlefield, and it remains the preferred weapon of sharpshooters even to this day. —Excerpt from Called Shot’s Arsenals Abridged: The Weapons of the Great War, Second Edition ProspectsIt’s a few hours before the other girls eventually tire of all the shooting and decide to call it a day. I say ‘tire of the shooting,’ but for the three actual combatants in our merry band it’s more a case of ‘ran out of ammunition.’ I suspect that if somepony had materialized with a truckload of bullets they would have merrily plugged away until the cows came home. ‘Until the cows came home.’ My oh my, it seems I’ve picked up some of dear Applejack’s countryisms. How long the years have been. At any rate, as Celestia begins to set the sun we make our way to the gate. There we find three stallions waiting for us. Or, more specifically, waiting for three of us. They greet their mares more or less simultaneously, but I pride myself on being detail-oriented, especially where romance is concerned, so I don’t miss a thing. Bud is a rather unassuming stallion, with a pale cream coat, short brown mane and tail, and black-rimmed glasses. He’s clean-shaven, a little shorter than Pinkie Pie, and a little thick about the middle. Glancing at him, one could be forgiven for assuming that he’s a clerk or perhaps a supervisor for a construction site and not a highly-decorated Marine lieutenant with two Bronze Stars and the Imperial Bloodstripe. “Hiya, hubby!” exclaims Pinkie, crossing the distance between them in what would be a short sprint for most ponies but is really quite sedate where Pinkie is concerned. She gives him a nuzzle. “Miss me?” “Always, sugarplum,” he says warmly. “The house is just eerily quiet without you around.” That I readily believe. He reaches for her rifle case. “Why don’t you let me get—” She smacks his hoof away. “No! Bad hubby! I’m perfectly capable of carrying Gretchen myself!” Bud looks hurt and she plants a kiss on his snout to show him it’s no hard feelings. “If I make your favorite casserole tonight, will you promise to hover a little less?” Bud smiles. “Only if you let me help you make it.” “It’s a deal. Seeya, girls!” After acknowledging the others’ goodbyes, the two of them trot off. Thunderlane, hovering a few feet off the ground, looks much the same as he always has, though his mohawk is just a touch shorter than it used to be and his physique is that of a soldier recently back from active duty rather than a pre-war reservist. He’s maintained that physique despite the many moons that have passed since the war’s end, and I suspect that being married to Rainbow Dash might have something to do with that. Before he can even get a greeting off, she zips up to plant an energetic kiss on his lips. When she releases him, he’s just dazed enough to yield the first word to her. “Race you home, Thunder?” The stallion smirks knowingly. “Oh, yes, and we all know that will be a fair race.” He flaps around to her flank and swats at her stump leg with his tail. “I couldn’t beat you even before you lost a few pounds.” She swipes at him with one hoof and he only barely manages to dodge. “Jerk!” she laughs. “Howsabout I carry all my guns as a handicap?” “Or we could just fly back like normal ponies,” he replies mildly. Rainbow appears to give this due consideration, then says, “Naw! See ya all later!” and zips off. Thunderlane sighs, waves to the others, then follows the blue dot rapidly disappearing into the distance. Big Mac… Big Mac stands out. He always has, really. Polite, deferential, square-jawed, honest, and with a body many stallions would kill for, he’s always made quite an impression on the mares of Ponyville. Applejack used to joke, not without merit, that if a group of mares was around she could always tell when Big Mac came to town because the conversation petered out and the ambient temperature rose. In a lot of ways, it’s only gotten worse since the war. His already impressive musculature is now so sculped that he looks like the subject of a Roanan statue. He’s grown his coat out a little to cover the web of scars crisscrossing his body (burns, bullet holes, the cuts of talons and blades), which gives him a sort of ‘rugged adventurer’ look. It’s menacing, but in a reassuring ‘if anyone insults my marefriend I’ll break him in half’ sort of way. And, as if that weren’t all enough to make him a heartthrob, he had the absolute gall to grow out a perfectly masculine beard. Honestly, if I were the sort of base, pathetic, classless mare who couldn’t control her affections and went after other mares’ special someponies, the only thing that would keep Big Mac safe from my advances would be the fear of reprisal from our friends. Fortunately, I’m a big girl who learned long ago how to be able to admire beauty without lusting after it. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said of certain other mares in Ponyville, and I don’t envy the stick that Big Mac must need to lug around to fend them all off. Then again, I suspect he just ignores them. After all, he only has eyes for one mare. “Big Mac!” cries Twilight in delight as she rolls towards him. She approaches him eagerly, but there is the barest hint of hesitation, and the wheels of her chair drag just a touch. Her eyes dance in excitement at his presence, but I know her well enough to detect a lingering fear in them; a disbelief that haunts her happiness, questioning how he could truly love her when, in her mind, he’s so perfect and she’s so broken. But Big Mac doesn’t see a broken mare in a wheelchair. He sees Twilight, the mare he loves, who just happens to be differently-abled than the rest of us. When he looks at her, he sees the most beautiful thing in the world. “Hiya, sweetheart,” he says, his basso rumbling with warmth as he crosses the distance to kiss her gently on the forehead. “Ya have fun?” “I did! I really do enjoy these outings. I’m surprised to see you, though. I thought Spike was going to pick me up.” His smile turns teasing. “Ah told him Ah’d walk ya home. Not disappointed Ah hope.” She nuzzles him. “Not at all.” The two of them depart together, the big warhorse walking at a gentle pace for her sake. Both forget to bid farewell, but I don’t mind. Truthfully, it almost brings a tear to my eye to see our precious little Twilight with the stallion she deserves. “You did a good job helping them along,” whispers Fluttershy to me with a smile. Once upon a time, I would have replied with false modesty. To Tartarus with that. Helping a stallion who’s not known for talking and a mare who didn’t know the first thing about romance to build a relationship via letter during a war was bloody difficult. “Yes, I did, didn’t I?” I reply, preening just a little. Don’t look at me like that. I earned this! I hear Applejack snort and I turn to see the farm mare staring up at the sky in mock accusation. “Okay, so where’s mah stallion?” she demands of the heavens. Fluttershy and I giggle. “I’m sure Arinze is just caught up in his work, Applejack,” Fluttershy assures her. I can’t resist. “That or he’s out drinking because he heard you were cheating on him with a rifle.” The remark earns me a censorious glance from Fluttershy and a laugh from Applejack. “Heh! Yeah, Ah’ve brought this on mahself, Ah reckon.” “Indeed. Such a tragedy.” Not seeming impressed by the joke, Fluttershy checks her watch. “Well, I’d better get back to my animals. I’ll see you girls later.” “Bye, Fluttershy.” “Ta ta, darling!” After she leaves, I cast a glance at Applejack. “Well, I’m hardly a dashing zebra stallion, but I’d be happy to walk back with you.” “Mighty kind o’ ya.” We amble in the direction of Sweet Apple Acres, not in any particular hurry. “Arinze really has taken well to the farm life, hasn’t he,” I observe. “He sure as sugar has,” admits Applejack. “Honestly, Ah think he’s happier here than he ever was back in the palace.” I elbow her. “I’m sure that has more to do with you than anything.” She blushes. It’s a good shade on her. “Well, yer right about that, but Ah think he’d enjoy the farm life anyway. He loves his family and his country, but he never was much fer courtly living.” “And what about Nkea?” I ask, referring to Arinze’s bodyguard and aide-de-camp. “Is he still frosty about the entire affair?” Applejack chuckles. “Oh, he makes all sorts of hooded scathing remarks about the rustic life, but he’s secretly warmed up to it. Doesn’t hurt that he and Grannie get on like a house on fire. Not that you’d guess from all the insults.” I can’t help but laugh at that. The thought of Nkea (dry, patrician, coldly refined) and Grannie Smith (boisterous, rustic, unrepentantly irreverent) verbally jousting with barbs and slights always brings a smile to my face. In spite of my laughter, though, I feel an unwelcome pang of jealousy. It’s not right of me, and I know that, but I can’t help but think of Applejack, Pinkie Pie, Twilight, and even Rainbow Dash having special someponies while I— No! That’s enough of that! My friends all deserve their happiness and, besides, I’m still a young mare. Plenty of time for me to find somepony. Fluttershy is single and she seems perfectly happy that way. I don’t need a stallion in my life. It’s just… I would like a stallion in my life. “Gunneh!” calls out a voice behind us. “Gunneh!” We turn to see a lanky mail-carrier stallion flapping towards us. Applejack pulls a wry face and glances up at the sky. “Okay, one, yer too late, an’ two, that’s the wrong stallion.” I pat her on the withers. “It’s a step in the right direction, darling.” The stallion lands in front of us, dipping his cap to me and throwing Applejack a salute. “Glad Ah caught ya, Gunneh,” he says in a Atlantail drawl so thick that I can barely make out that he’s calling her ‘Gunny.’ He reaches into his mailbag and pulls out an envelope. “Got a lettah for yah, Gunneh. A telegrahm ta be precise.” “Thanks, Buckeye,” she replies, returning his salute before taking the telegram. “How’s the ole thumper treatin’ ya?” “Oh, Ah get bah, Gunneh, thanks fah askin’,” he replies with a laconic smile. “Naw if you fine mares will excuse me, Ah gotta finish mah rounds if Ah wanna be home fah suppah.” Saluting and doffing his cap once more, he flaps off. Once he’s out of earshot, I turn to Applejack, one eyebrow raised. “The ‘ole thumper?’” I ask. “His heart,” replies Applejack with a deliberate shrug, her voice a touch forced. “War souvenir.” She doesn’t elaborate, and I get the impression there’s more to it than that, but I don’t feel inclined to pry in case it’s a sensitive topic. Instead I ask, “He called you ‘Gunny.’ Was he a member of your old unit?” “Naw, he just happened ta settle in Ponyville,” answers the farm mare, ripping open the envelope with her teeth. “He ain’t even a Marine, though he’s a nice enough feller for an Army puke.” I roll my eyes. Her tone is good-natured, but it would appear that the inter-branch ‘slagging’ persists even when the other party isn’t present. “How do you know him then?” Applejack starts to skim the letter. “A group Ah run down at the Ponyville Veterans…” she trails off with a frown, her eyes becoming more intent as the skim of the letter turns into a thorough read. The longer she spends on it, the deeper her frown becomes. My concern mounts when a curse escapes her lips. Applejack may have picked up some uncouth habits in the Service, but swearing has never been one of them. By the time she’s done reading, she’s muttering half-formed expletives to herself and stomping one hoof to the ground repeatedly. I’m about to ask what’s gotten her so angry, but then I see the pain and frustration in her eyes and I realize that she’s not angry. She’s upset. “Darling,” I interject gently, “what’s wrong?” “It’s Shoddy!” she half-shouts, half-cries, almost crushing the letter in the crook of her hoof. “It’s always Shoddy!” “What’s shoddy, darling?” What could possibly have been so shoddily made as to make Applejack of all ponies visibly upset? “Not what, Rares, who,” she explains, stuffing the letter in her jacket before she can damage it any further. “Corporal Iron Shod. ‘Shoddy.’ He’s a stallion from my old unit.” Immediately I fear the worst. “Oh dear, has something happened to him?” “You could say that!” snaps Applejack. “He got fired. Again.” She sits with a heavy sigh, running a hoof back over her head and half-pushing her hat off. More quietly, she adds, “An’ Ah really thought this job was gonna take, too.” Ordinarily I’d enjoy sussing out what exactly she meant clue by clue in the style of Shadow Spade, but, given the obviously serious nature of the matter at hoof, I elect to take the more direct approach. Sitting next to her I lay a hoof across her back. “Why don’t you start at the beginning, darling,” I suggest in a calming tone. My Marine friend hesitates, never being one for gossip. But this is different. Really, it is. Whatever has transpired with the unfortunately nicknamed Shoddy is no small matter, else she’d never get so worked up, and, as her friend, I want to help her. “Applejack, you know I’ll get the truth out of you eventually,” I remark, a touch stern. “And, besides, I only want to help, even if it’s simply to provide a shoulder to cry on.” She hesitates, then gives a reluctant nod. “Come, then. What’s the matter?” Heaving a deep sigh, Applejack begins. “War changes ponies, Rares. You know that. Course, life changes ponies in general, so change don’t mean ya can’t come home and pick yer life back up. It won’t ever be the same as when you left, but then that ain’t always a bad thing.” She digs one hoof into the soil of the acreage. “Most ponies are like me or Dash or Pinkie. We come home and get on with our lives. We get married, raise kids, have jobs, yap with our neighbors… normal stuff, ya know?” She’s not looking at me when she talks; more just looking past me. “Ah ain’t gonna act like it ain’t an adjustment comin’ home. It is.” She chuckles. “It sure as sugar is. Goin’ from gettin’ shot at day-in and day-out an’ having ta trust yer life to the ponies around you every second o’ the day, ta comin’ home an’ just,” she gestures down the road, “walkin’ down the street without a care in the world?” She shakes her head. “Ain’t no good way to describe what that feels like to ponies what ain’t experienced it. They can never understand.” I know she doesn’t mean to, but the statement still hurts. I want to understand, I want to share this with my friends, but… I keep a straight face and hide it, because I shouldn’t be feeling sorry for myself right now. Fortunately, she’s too intent on her story to notice. “But, for all that, it’s possible ta get back into the civilian swing of things. It’s hard, sure, but for most it ain’t so bad, and, like Ah said, fer some it’s an improvement. They’ve grown up thanks to the war; gotten a confidence and maturity and gratitude they ain’t never had before.” I nod, feeling that I at least partially understand. Observing my friends these many moons they’ve been back… things are different to be sure, but it’s still… them. Applejack is still a farmer at heart, Dash is still an exuberant hotshot, Fluttershy is still gentle and quiet, and Pinkie Pie is still, well, Pinkie Pie. Even if she does have a much darker sense of humor than she used to. What differences there are would mostly fall under the heading of ‘positive changes,’ I should think. Pinkie matured in ways I never would have expected, and Fluttershy no longer has any trace of her old timidity; she’s still shy with other ponies, yes, but no longer frightened of little things. They’ve all grown in some way; all have this sort of sober wisdom that must come from seeing death laid bare before you daily. It’s easy upon reflection to see how they were able to adjust to civilian life once more. But, given the nature of the telegram, it sounds as though this is not the case with Shoddy. “And the other soldiers?” I prompt. “The ones for whom it is not an easy adjustment?” Applejack sighs deeply and takes off her stetson, holding it to her barrel with one hoof. “Some guys… some guys can’t leave the battle behind, and if they don’t stay in the Service it eats ‘em up inside. Some guys, they come back with the battle still stuck in their heads, and they’re scared o’ the world, or angry at it, or just… confused. Shattered. Cracked. They got this look in their eyes, this thousand-yard stare, where they ain’t lookin’ at the world in front of ‘em; they’re lookin’ at the war.” She glances off into the trees. “Easy to see why, after what we saw over there,” she adds quietly. Shaking her head, she resumes. “Others well, they come home to an Equestria they don’t recognize and that don’t recognize them. Nothin’ makes sense anymore, nopony understands them, and nopony’s giving ‘em directions what to do anymore. They go off as colts and fillies ta fight fer their country, an’ when they get back as stallions and mares they find their country’s got nothin’ waiting for ‘em. They’ve got a stack of combat ribbons, a few scars, a lifetime o’ killin’ under their belts, and no jobs.” I feel a chill go down my spine. In hindsight, it’s obvious that returning home would be a trying experience for many, but it never occurred to me just how difficult it must be for thousands of young soldiers. I can’t help but give a guilty wince as I realize how blind to their struggles I’ve been. “And I take it this Shoddy is one such stallion?” “Sure shootin’,” nods Applejack, who now looks more tired than upset. “His home town’s tinier even than Appaloosa; he had no job prospects there, so he went to Manehatten. Ah had a vague idea he was tryin’ for factory work, but it wasn’t till a few months ago when Ah got a letter from one o’ my other devil dogs that Ah found out he was couch-surfing on account o’ bein’ homeless.” “My word!” “Ah had some words ta say at the time, Ah’ll tell you what,” she says with a bitter chuckle. “Arinze got an ejication in old-fashioned Apple cussin’ that day.” Standing, she stretches, her hindlegs popping in a way that always makes me gag. “Sorry, Ah need to be walking; get stiff bein’ one place too long these days.” Once I’ve risen, we resume our journey to the Acres. “Anyway, Ah looked into it an’ found out Shoddy’d taken and lost a string of jobs. Couldn’t seem to hold anything, and that don’t look good on no fancy résumé. So, Ah called in some favors, even got a hold o’ the Manehatten Oranges to see if they could find anythin’ for him.” I blink in shock. “And with all that you couldn’t find anything?” “Oh, we found plenty of gigs,” she clarifies, “just nothin’ he could hold down. He always says or does something that gets ‘im fired, an’ then we’re back to square one.” She pats her breast pocket where the letter is stowed. “This last job was the last lead we found for ‘im.” Letting out a long breath, she shakes her head. “Ah don’t know what else ta do, if Ah’m honest,” she admits. “Ah don’t believe in lost causes, but Ah don’t see a way out of this.” It’s frankly disturbing to see Applejack so dejected and fatalistic. She’s never been one to back down from a fight, not on any of the adventures we used to share in, not with any professional hardship, and not in any personal crisis. For her to feel this way, even unwillingly is just… unnatural. Fortunately for her, I happen to have a knack for business, so perhaps I can see something that she and her family have missed. First, though, I need a little more context. “Well, what’s he good at?” Applejack gives a snide laugh. “Well, he’s darn good at knockin’ heads together, at doin’ fancy mathematics in ‘is head ta pull off a running shot on a flying target at three hundred yards with ironsights, at clearin’ pillboxes and snapping necks and crushin’ skulls.” Her voice rises in volume and bitter intensity. “He’s good at bein’ a brave son of a mule, and at picking out enemy patrols in dense fog by their wingbeats alone, and at dragging wounded kids through the mud ta safety under heavy fire, and generally at being a scary bucking Marine, but unfortunately, that ain’t exactly a skillset that lends itself to reputable work in the civilian bucking workforce, is it?!” “Applejack!” I exclaim, horrified at the fire in her eyes. The fire cools and she rubs her eyes with one hoof. “Sorry, Rares. Ah’m just a mite sick o’ seein’ all these good soldiers getting’ screwed because they’re good at soldiering and nothin’ else. There’s no shame in flippin’ hayburgers, but a guy with two Wound Badges and a Bronze Star shouldn’t have to flip burgers because he’s got no other options, an’ he darn well shouldn’t be unable ta do even that.” “Well,” I prod, “surely he must have some marketable skill.” She shakes her head. “Not as near as Ah’ve found. He ain’t got no ejication like Big Mac, so any job takin’ book learnin’ is out. He ain’t got any trainin’ fer somethin’ like sales, and Manehatten’s too cutthroat for him to have time to learn. He’s not even a skilled laborer.” The farmer glances sidelong at me. “Turn me loose on a farm, ranch, construction site, plumbin’ job, anythin’ that involves working with my hooves, an’ Ah can git ’er done. Shoddy can’t do none of that.” I’m beginning to see how the situation has become so apparently hopeless. “Well there must be something. What of his special talent?” Applejack shrugs. “No idea. His mark’s an iron horseshoe, but he swears up an’ down he ain’t no cobbler or blacksmith. He never told me what his talent is, and if he told any of his buddies it never got back to me.” Why she can’t simply ask them now is a mystery to me, but Applejack is a smart mare, so I assume there’s a valid reason. I must say, though, I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated the length of the walk from the shooting range to Sweet Apple Acres more than this very moment. It gives me time to try and put a positive spin on the whole debacle. “So, essentially, we have a stout young stallion who’s devoted, knows how to follow orders well, and is willing to put his nose to the grindstone, making him ideal for being—” “—a blunt instrument,” finishes Applejack. I stammer in shock at the harsh pronouncement, but the retired Marine is unfazed. “That ain’t an insult, Rarity, it’s a fact. In fact, in our line of work it’s a compliment. He’s an uncomplicated and reliable stallion who gets the job done. We needed good blunt instruments, and he’s a darn fine blunt instrument.” “Well,” I reply, trying to banish my annoyance at the blunt terminology, “surely there are civilian professions where such virtues are equally valued.” “Oh, there are,” agrees Applejack. “Only problem is, Shoddy has a tendency ta say the wrong thing in front of the wrong pony. That and he… fergets himself sometimes, and, well,” she bites her lip and shoots me a sidelong glance, back to her ‘not-wanting-to-gossip-but-needing-to-talk’ stage. I patiently wait for her to resume. “Remember how I said that some guys don’t really understand civilian life when they get back?” “Yes. Why?” “Well, Shoddy’s one o’ those. He just…” she waves a hoof in the air, as though trying to grab the right words from the ether. “He just says stuff, does stuff that wouldn’t be that weird in the Service, but makes him look crazy anywhere else. Makes ponies uncomfortable. And, when ponies see something that makes ‘em uncomfortable, they tend to…” she trails off meaningfully. “I see,” I say soberly. “Look, it’s not that he’s a bad guy. He ain’t. He’s even kind of a sweetheart once you get to know him.” I nod. “But nopony gets to know him because they push him away before they can get used to his…quirks.” Applejack smirks. “Got it in one.” “Well,” I sigh, “that is quite a pickle, isn’t it?” In a remarkable impersonation of her brother, she gives a rumbling “Eeyup.” Our walk lapses into silence after that as we both turn over the problem in our heads. I now understand why Applejack was so upset by the letter. It’s enough to move a pony to tears to consider the plight of such a brave servicepony. I feel my guilt afresh as I consider all the privations he endured for my country, for me and my family, while I sat safe at home, miles from bloodshed and death. I ran shops and lived in a castle and helped a princess write love letters while he got shot at, wounded, and starved, saw the most horrific things and doubtless lost friends, and when he returned he was treated as so much surplus— “That’s it!” I exclaim, seizing Applejack with excitement and shaking her as inspiration strikes me with the force of a lightning bolt. “That’s it that’s it that’s it!” “Wha~a~aa~a~aat’s~i~i~it?” she manages, her voice distorted by the vigorous shaking. Too caught up in the moment to stop myself, I cease shaking her only to grasp the sides of her head, pulling her snout-to-snout so that I can see the reflection of my sparkling eyes in hers. “He can work for me!” Applejack extricates herself from my grip, seeming much less taken with the idea than me. “Rarity, aincha been listenin’ to what Ah been saying? The boy ain’t got no talent fer the finer things. Ah think if you had him makin’ dresses for you he’d manage ta burn down the shop.” “Oh, pshaw, darling! I don’t mean dresses!” As though I’d trust an untrained stallion with that! What a laugh! “I mean with the Quill and Sofa!” “The Quill and Sofa?” she asks, raising one eyebrow in confusion. “Ah thought you were done closin’ that place out.” My smile is prim. “Not quite. There’s still a lot of surplus inventory left from repairs and returns, and I’ve been opening the store two days a week to sell it off.” Davenport, the original proprietor of the Quill and Sofa, joined the Army the first year of the war, one of scores of Ponyville residents to do so after what happened to dear Twilight. I agreed to help his wife run the shop while he was gone; it seemed to be the least I could do. Tragically, Davenport was killed in action four months before the war ended. His widow elected to sell the place off, and I, in my assumed role as the surrogate proprietress, have been managing the entire affair. Applejack scratches her head. “Ah don’t think he’d exactly help ya sell furniture, Rares. He ain’t the salespony type.” “Oh, pish tosh, darling. I don’t mean as a salespony, I mean as a movingpony. I have plenty of clients who aren’t quite strong enough to move furniture on their own, and I can’t do it and run the store at the same time. On top of which, I have to rearrange inventory every time something sells.” Strictly speaking I don’t need to, but an artist has her principles, and a good floor plan helps shift merchandise. “True, I can move things with levitation but,” I tap my horn, “my magic is not infinite.” “Ain’t Sweetie Belle helping?” “Well of course, she is, darling, but the dear girl will be leaving for the Academy in a few months and then what shall I do?” Since Applejack doesn’t seem keen on the idea, I leave off mentioning that the Quill and Sofa will probably be sold out by the time Sweetie Belle leaves and, even if I did need movers after she left, Ponyville has no shortage of strapping young stallions looking to earn a few bits. I’ll have other options, but Applejack doesn’t need to know that. “Besides, I don’t want to take advantage of her, and she and Scootaloo and Applebloom need all the free time they can get before they ship off to OCS.” Yes. I brought up Applebloom to win my stubborn friend over. I’m not ashamed. It’s a legitimate tactic. Applejack shakes her head. “Ah don’t know… it still sounds an awful lot like busy work to me.” I roll my eyes. “It’s a job, Applejack. And it will give me ample time help him work on his interpersonal skills, as that seems to be his biggest problem anyway.” We round the last bend of the path and see the homestead lying before us, nestled amidst the Acres. A long walk to ponder matters, and Applejack is still skeptical. “Ah don’t think you quite understand what a mess he is,” she protests. “It’s not just that his filter comes off when he’s drunk or something. He don’t have a filter to begin with! On top o’ which,” she taps the side of her head with a hoof, “Ah ain’t sure he’s got his head on straight after the war if’n ya take my meaning.” “Well, all the more reason I should help him,” I declare, undeterred. “Rarity, ya don’t know what yer gettin’ into!” Oh that is it. I stop abruptly and turn, startling her with a glare. Applejack can be a stubborn nag, if you’ll pardon my Prench, but so can I! “Applejack, I am your friend, I am a loyal citizen of Equestria, I am a darned fine businessmare, and I am the blinking Element of Generosity!” I exclaim, jabbing a hoof against her chest. “When I tell you I can handle this, I can handle this.” While she stands blinking in shock, I put my usual charming smile back on and put a hoof to her shoulder. “You just have to trust me, darling. And, to be blunt,” I add with a half-hearted laugh, “what other prospects do you have?” Applejack shuts her eyes and sucks in a double-lungful of air, holding it for several heartbeats before letting it out slowly. When she opens her eyes again, her expression is a mixture of resignation and gratitude. “Yer right. Ah trust ya. I’ve gotta.” “Applejack!” calls out an accented voice from the homestead. We turn to see a muscular zebra stallion standing in the doorway waiting, a toothy grin on his lips. “Your supper is going to go into the dog if you do not come quickly!” He takes great care to enunciate each consonant and syllable, with ‘i’s becoming like ‘ee’s in the fashion of Zebras from his kingdom. My friend glances up at the heavens. “So he don’t show up at the range, you send the wrong guy late, and now he’s threatenin’ to give my supper to ole Winona? Ain’t that a kick in the teeth!” Addressing the stallion she calls out something in his own tongue that I wouldn’t know how to transcribe into Ponish if I wanted to. He replies in the same manner and ducks inside, the sound of his merry laughter drifting across the open air. Tilting my head in curiosity, I ask, “What did you two just say to each other, if I may ask?” She shrugs. “Basically means ‘beloved’ or ‘dearest.’ Ah can’t manage anythin’ fancier.” “So, you can’t learn Zwahili and you’re cheating on him with a rifle?” I tease. “My, you are a terrible wife.” Applejack gives me a frosty look. “It ain’t my fault! Ah get all tongue-tied whenever Ah try to speak it, an’ then he just laughs and laughs and laughs—” “—which you find quite attractive, as I recall.” I interject. “Which makes it all that much more insufferable!” she retorts. I titter and she huffs. “Look, we were plannin’ on Big Mac eatin’ with us, so we got plenty o’ food, but he’ll probably have dinner at Twi’s tonight. You hungry?” “If you’re still offering after all the teasing,” I joke. Applejack gives me a solemn look. “Rarity, if you can really help Shoddy, Ah’ll make you dinner till we’re both greyer than Grannie Smith.” “Deal!” I reply, starting down the path to the house. “Though only if your husband cooks.” She sputters in outrage and hastens after me. “What for? Ah’m a great cook!” “Of course you are, darling,” I assure her. Then I give a sly wink. “He’s just better.” Author's Note Princess Celestia and her cabinet had long feared the rise of the Unified Griffon Dominion and sought to dissuade them through diplomacy and the threat of Equestria’s superior military power. However, those threats began to lose their weight as the Dominion gradually came to surpass Equestria’s peacetime arsenal. Celestia and her ministers sought to modernize the military, but could not gain Parliamentary approval for anything that resembled “foreign adventurism” or a violation of Equestria’s long-standing peace. It was only with the near catastrophe of Tirek’s rise to power that the reigning princesses and their allies finally gained the support to pass the EUP Guard Modernization Act and begin a policy of firm opposition to Dominion expansion. The diplomatic efforts to dissuade Dominion expansion were spearheaded by Equestria’s newest alicorn, Twilight Sparkle. In her capacity as the Princess of Friendship, Twilight sought to build an alliance of nations into a unified defensive front to intimidate the Dominion into slowing its advance while the government deliberated how best to deal with the problem in the long-term. She focused her efforts on shoring up the support of friendly powers like Zebrica, Konikland, Maretonia, and Saddle Arabia against the common threat of the Dominion while also building a network of mutual defense amongst the griffon nation-states that had not yet fallen under Dominion control. Many of these nations had once been part of the now defunct Austail-Griffonian Empire and were populated by both ponies and griffons. It was here that Twilight attempted to create a first line of defense against the Dominion. The hope was to stop the war with a show of solidarity along the Dominion border. Diplomatic talks were proceeding well when the Hoofenberg Incident occurred. Most citizens of the former Austail-Griffonian region had learned to live in relative harmony, or at least tolerance, with the other races. However, there was enough bad blood for the Dominion’s primary paramilitary force, the feared Talon Detachment, to exploit. Though unable to gain control of the governments, but they were able to form terrorist cells. On the day of the Summit, when leaders were preparing to make a unified statement of opposition to Dominion expansion, sixty-three Talon operatives and local recruits attacked the Royal Carriage, nearly killing Princess Twilight and launching a brutal six-year war. Historians debate whether or not Twilight’s proposed defensive front would actually have succeeded in dissuading Dominion aggression long-term. The princess herself is purported to have become skeptical of the plausibility of such a success in hindsight. However, most agree that, had the Summit succeeded in unifying the nations directly along the border in a formalized defensive treaty prior to the Dominion’s invasion, their armed forces would have been better organized for mutual protection. As it was, the initiative in the early days of the war was ceded to the Dominion, who swiftly overran the disunified defenders and pushed into Equestrian territory, leaving thousands dead in their wake. —Excerpt from Spark Notes’ A Brief History of the Great War. ShoddyHave you ever had that experience where you only come to realize the gravitas of the decision you’ve made once it’s much too late to change your mind? Where you have that horrifying moment of dawning comprehension and finally appreciate, ‘You know, I thought I knew what I was doing, but I really didn’t!’ I recall one incident a year or two before the Great War wherein Rainbow Dash and Applejack invited me to go on a Summer backpacking trip with them to Zenith Heights. For their part, it was simply another step in their ongoing efforts to push me out of my comfort zone and become more comfortable ‘roughing it.’ For my part, it was an opportunity to see the legendary Zenith Heights for myself and hopefully be inspired for a new line of dresses (my Fall line proved to be stellar that year, for the record). Our sisters wanted to come along, of course, but we elected not to bring them because, unlike our regular camping spots, Zenith Heights is deep in timberwolf country. Now, they told me about the timberwolves up front. They said, “Rarity, you know that’s timberwolf country, right?” Well, yes, darlings. I am aware. I trust we shall be packing appropriate defensive measures. When the others heard about our planned trip, they asked the same question. “Rarity, you know that’s timberwolf country, right?” Certainly. Rest assured we are taking adequate precautions. Soon the word spread to the town. “Rarity, you know that’s timberwolf country, right?” I am quite aware, and it’s not as though we haven’t faced down horrid monsters before; and those were generally without time to prepare. We shall be fine. When we’d buy supplies, the outfitters would ask. “Rarity, you know that’s timberwolf country, right?” By this point I had become rather irritated with the repeated questioning. After all, I am an intellectually capable and reasonably fit mare with some martial ability and a longer-than-average list of run-ins with monsters. I was certain we would be quite safe. It wasn’t until we’d packed our way into the mountains, set up camp, bedded down for the night, and I had gotten up to use the little filly’s room (by which I mean crouched over an undignified hole in the ground out in the open like some animal) that I finally realized, “Rarity, we’re in timberwolf country.” Nothing untoward happened, and, as I said, my Fall line was smashing that year (not to mention the excursion being enjoyable overall), but it was still a sobering insight. Until then, I hadn’t realized how easy it was to think oneself to be wholly prepared, only to discover in the moment that the magnitude of the situation hadn’t truly sunk in. Why do I bring this up? Well, because as Applejack and I wait down at the train station for Mr. Iron Shod to arrive, I can’t quite shake the sensation that I am once more crouched over that blasted hole on Zenith. Fortunately, I am quite adept at hiding my worries, and give no outward sign of tension. Applejack, on the other hoof, is pacing and muttering like a madpony. “Applejack, darling, are you trying to wear a groove in the platform?” I chide with a smile. “With all that pacing, one might mistake you for Twilight.” It’s an instinctive joke, but my grin turns sour as soon as it leaves my mouth. Twilight certainly can’t pace anymore, which is more bitter a pill to swallow than one might think. Imagine this: from the time you were a filly, your primary physical outlet to relieve stress has been to pace… and now you are invalid. Watching Twilight unable to burn stress in her preferred manner those first few years was unexpectedly painful. Applejack gives me a dry smirk and I wince, expecting a rebuke. “Well, Ah guess somepony’s gotta pick up the slack now that she can’t no more.” Ah. So not a rebuke, but a Marine’s dark humor. I suppose she knows I didn’t mean anything by it. Or perhaps to her it’s no different than calling Dash ‘Tripod.’ At least she stops pacing. Sighing, Applejack turns to look down the tracks. “It’s a heck of a thing yer doin’, Rares,” she says. “Ah just hope his uncouth behavior don’t drive ya batty.” I snort. “Oh please, Applejack. If I’ve endured you and Rainbow Dash and a host of difficult customers all these years, I think I can manage one rough stallion.” She opens her mouth as though to contradict me, then clamps her jaw shut and grunts noncommittally. I try not to take offense. The fact that my own nerves are playing up helps. By some unspoken agreement we limit ourselves to smalltalk after that. We maintain that tacitly enforced ban on serious conversation even when the distant whistle of the train announces the coming of my new project. Hopefully Applejack doesn’t see the emerging tremor in my hooves. I’d like to tell you what we talked about until the train pulled in but, honestly, I haven’t the foggiest idea. We could have fallen silent for all I remember. All I recall is the train pulling into the station and disgorging its passengers. I scan the faces for a time, looking for Iron Shod, until I remember that I don’t know what he looks like. That question is soon answered for me when Applejack perks up and barks, “Yo! Shoddy!” Commuters cast her censorious glances for her outburst, but she ignores them, trotting down the platform towards the back of the train. “Over here, devil dog!” Her pace forces me to cut in behind her to avoid getting swallowed in the crowd. At first, I can’t tell who she’s addressing, but once I get a clear line of sight through the press of bodies, I spot a likely candidate. He’s an earth pony. Grey, scruffy, slightly bigger than Applejack, with a crew-cut blonde mane, short tail, blue eyes, and battered features. He wears a green field jacket even more tattered than Applejack’s ‘Lucky,’ and looks to be carrying all his worldly possessions in two worn duffel bags that appear ready to burst at the seams. It gives me pause to realize that he probably is carrying all his worldly possessions in those duffel bags. He wears a sort of bemused smile on his face that brightens into a full grin when he finally catches site of Applejack. “Gunny!” he greets her, hastening forward while dragging his belongings behind him. “Wait one, I’ll come ta you.” His accent is a drawl similar Applejack’s, though much fainter. Applejack doesn’t bother waiting and the two meet in the middle with a fierce hug involving a considerable amount of hearty backslapping. I’d probably get a bruise if Applejack ever greeted me like that. They pull back, laughing, and Applejack ruffles his short mane. “Criminy, Shoddy, it’s great ta see ya again.” “Good ta see you too, boss. I’ll tell ya, it ain’t been the same without you around ta chew my stupid ass out.” I wince at the rather low-brow reference to donkeys and thank the heavens that Cranky isn’t in earshot. “Still, ya can’t seem to help takin’ care of yer dumb grunts from afar, else you wouldn’ta gotten me this here job. Mighty kind o’ ya, Gunny.” She slugs him in the foreleg. “You know Momma AJ’s gonna take care o’ her boys. Didn’t Ah teach ya that?” “Ya sure did, Gunny,” he smiles. Whenever Applejack is blessed with foals, I have no doubt she’ll be an outstanding mother. “Speaking o’ teaching ya,” says Applejack, turning her attention to me. “This here’s yer new boss. Say hi to my good friend, Rarity.” Despite his scruffy appearance, Shoddy seems to keep himself clean, or at least he cleaned himself up before the train ride. He trots up and politely holds his hoof out for shaking, his smile broad as he makes eye contact with me. All of these are promising signs. “How d’ya do, Miss Rarity,” he says as he takes my hoof. “It’s a right pleasure ta meet you.” His grip is a little too tight, but we’ll work on that. Perhaps he’s just nervous. “The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Iron Shod. Applejack speaks very highly of you.” Chuckling, he replies, “Oh, you can call me ‘Shoddy,’ Miss Rarity. Everypony else does.” Glancing at Applejack, he adds, “If Gunnery Sergeant Honesty here had much nice ta say about me, she’s breakin’ with her Element.” Applejack rolls her eyes. “Oh, not at all, Shoddy,” I insist. “She told me you were one of the finest Marines she ever had the pleasure of serving with.” Rather than being moved by the complement, Shoddy becomes uncomfortable, rubbing the back of his neck with one hoof and avoiding eye contact. “Yeah, well, I guess I was good at one thing.” An awkward silence follows. Clearing my throat, I change the subject. “Why don’t we head into town and I’ll show you the ‘lay of the land’ as Applejack says.” He nods smartly and almost salutes before he remembers himself. “Yes, ma’am.” Applejack tries to take one of his bags, but he flatly refuses, citing that he “don’t wanna be a bother.” With that, we head take the road for Ponyville proper. On the way I point out some of the features of the town: preferred shops, favored restaurants, and pleasant areas to relax. Shoddy takes in his new surroundings… I’d say eagerly, and that would be an accurate statement, but there’s an undercurrent of something else in his awareness that I can’t quite put my hoof on. Maybe I’m just reading too much into it. Stranger things have happened. As we pass the town hall, Shoddy stops and stares at the structure for a moment, seeming to mull something over. His face brightens with realization after a moment. “Aha! That’s what it reminds me of! Say, Gunny, don’t this place look like that observatory in that little town northwest Viennhoof? What was it called… Griffzing? Somethin’ like that?” He chuckles and turns to me. “Kinda a small town, but I remember the tower on account o’ it’s weird shape. Plus we shot the place to Tartarus and it lit up like a bucking Hearthswarmin’ Tree on account o’ the gunpowder the Buzzards had inside. Pitched one bird clear across the road and landed splat in front o’ me. Had a heckuva time cleanin’ my coat out after that.” He shakes his head, still smiling. “Boy, that was a crazy day. Anyway, sorry for the delay. Where to next, boss?” He says it so blithely that I just end up staring at him in shock, unable to form a coherent response. The other girls have talked some about the war, but usually in a more private place and often after a few hard ciders or the like. They don’t just drop some graphic story out on a busy street with no leadup because they saw a building. Applejack catches my eye and gives me a long look as though to say ‘Ah told’ja so,’ before clearing her throat. “Just a few more blocks left o’ here and we’ll be at the shop. You’ll even get a decent view o’ Twilight’s castle from there.” “That’s swell. Shall we?” Still in shock, it takes me longer than it should to realize that he’s waiting politely for me. “Er, quite,” I say, regaining some measure of composure. “This way.” Mercifully, we manage to make it to the Quill and Sofa without Shoddy making some other graphic remark about war, though he does make several disparaging remarks about the Army soldiers we pass, a rather loud question about why a stallion would wear perfume directly after passing a Canterlot noble, and, after seeing the Castle of Friendship, something about architecture and the dangers of ‘Good Idea Fairies’. Whatever that means. The last one made Applejack snort with laughter, but that’s hardly a clue as to the quality of the joke; the mare’s taste in humor is not exactly refined. Whatever the case, by the time we reach our destination I have a pretty clear picture of the things we’ll need to work on for customer service. There’s no trouble with being a largely filterless chatterbox while off the clock, but a certain degree of tact is required for steady employment with most client-facing professions. The Quill and Sofa is closed today by design so that I’ll have time to acquaint Shoddy with his duties before putting him to work. “Wow. That mare is wearing so much eye shadow she looks like she’s got two black eyes. I just about asked her if she needed me to clobber some prick of a stallion for her. That or see where the underground fights are.” I mentally tack an extra three days onto the interpersonal skills training regimen while I pull out my keys. Applejack chuckles and leans against the door frame next to me. “See what Ah mean?” she says softly. Her ‘I told you so’ tone isn’t exactly welcome. “What is it you military types say?” I ask curtly. “I’m working the problem.” The farmer smiles. “Well, Ah’m proud o’ ya for—” “Applejack,” interrupts a new voice. We turn to see Nurse Redheart standing nearby, harnessed to a supply cart for the hospital. “Well howdy, Red,” says Applejack, tilting her hat back to see the mare better. “Ah see the hip must be better if’n they’re lettin’ ya make the supply runs yerself.” Redheart flexes a scarred foreleg. “Physical therapy helps.” “Uh huh. And bein’ married to a stallion who knows how ta massage the joints probably don’t hurt either, does it,” says Applejack with a wink. “True enough,” smiles the nurse. She glances at Shoddy and I with one eye while the other remains immobile. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” her gaze flicks back to Applejack, “but I wanted to tell you we had a cancellation. We can actually get you in this afternoon.” Applejack blinks in surprise, glancing nervously in my direction for some reason. “Oh! Well that’s great! What time?” “Now. One of the orderlies called your house, but Arinze said you’d be here. Since I had to make a supply run anyway, I thought I’d swing by and grab you.” She winks with her good eye. “Sorry for the short notice, but I figured it beat waiting another few days.” I glance at Applejack, raising one eyebrow. I haven’t heard anything about this, and after certain events I’m rather… invested in knowing why one of my closest friends will be heading to the hospital, even for a scheduled appointment. Applejack licks her lips, her face anxious. “Uh… well…” How best to ask, however? She plainly does not want to speak about it, and tact must be maintained out of respect— “Hospital?” cuts in Shoddy. “You ain’t sick, are ya, boss?” —or I could just let Shoddy brazenly go where I hesitate to wander. “Well,” says Applejack, looking bashful, “The thing is, it’s well, Ah…” she perks up with inspiration. “Mare problems!” she blurts out, probably louder than strictly necessary. “Hehe. Yeah, that’s it. Mare stuff. But if’n ya really wanna know—” “I don’t,” says Shoddy quickly. “Have fun, Gunny. Miss Rarity and I got work to do.” Applejack gives a triumphant smirk. I say nothing, but mentally note that she won’t be escaping me that easily. Judging by the fact that she gulps when she meets my gaze, I think she knows that we’ll be having a serious mare-to-mare chat later. In the present, however, all she says is, “Ya’ll gonna be okay if Ah go?” Much as I would love to have Applejack’s help, I’m not going to keep her from an obviously important doctor’s appointment, whatever it is. “We’ll manage without you, darling.” After bidding us farewell and admonishing Shoddy to behave, Applejack and Redheart depart, leaving me alone with my new employee. I unlock the door and push into the shop, ready to give a little prepared introduction to the establishment before Shoddy cuts me off with an abrupt question. “Am I goin’ crazy, or was one o’ that mare’s eyes not moving?” I suppose that’s a fair question. “You were not imagining things,” I reply. “Nurse Redheart has a glass eye. She was a combat medic during the war. While treating an injured stallion the blood bottle she was holding was hit by a stray bullet, sending shards of glass into her eye.” Even telling the story makes me shudder. “She finished treating the soldier and got him back to friendly lines before having her own wound seen to. I understand she earned the Distinguished Service Medal.” Shoddy shakes his head. “Shoulda been the Star of Valor. Soldiering on through glass in the eye?” He shudders. “I don’t mind tellin’ ya, getting my eyes jacked up is one o’ my recurring fears.” For some reason the fact that an eye injury gives him the chills makes me feel a little bit more comfortable about this entire affair. I suppose it’s reassuring to know that even hardened veterans have some things which make them squeamish. I’m about to begin my introduction to the shop when he asks, “What about her leg?” Hard to fault him for being curious about the injuries of a fellow veteran. “I’m not sure of the story there. Only that she received a Wound Badge for it. Now, if you’ll turn your attention to the inventory,” I continue before he can get a word in edgewise, “I’m not sure how much Applejack told you in her letter, but the situation is as follows…” I fill him in on the story behind the Quill and Sofa and what the work will look like going forward. He pays excellent attention, to the point that I have the eerie sense of what it must feel like to be an officer… right up until I mention Davenport’s death. Then he gets off-track asking about the widow, what unit the deceased was with, what rotten luck it was that he got killed so close to the end of the war, and so forth. When I point out how far afield we’ve gone, he’s immediately apologetic and goes back to paying very close attention. I’ve just started walking him through some of the cataloguing and furniture maintenance in the back when Sweetie Belle walks in, resplendent in JROTC uniform. “Hey, sis,” she says, waving jauntily to me before trotting up to Shoddy. “You must be Iron Shod. Rarity told me you’d be coming by today. My name’s Sweetie Belle.” “Pleasure ta meet you, Miss,” says Shoddy, giving her hoof a hearty shake that makes me fear for Sweetie’s shoulder. “And like I told yer sister, ya can just call this old devil dog ‘Shoddy’.” “Well, good to meet you, Shoddy. I know Rarity’s been excited to have you come onboard. She’s been talking about it for days.” Shoddy blushes at that. I just smile. Sweetie might be better at sweet-talking ponies than me. …which now that I think about it makes a lot of sense given her name… “I’m a little surprised to see you, Sweetie,” I say. “I thought you were in class all day.” Sweetie shakes her head. “The speaker they had lined up today came down with the feather flu, so Master Sergeant Thrasher let us go early.” She shrugs. “He usually isn’t that lenient, but I’m not complaining. Next week looks like it’ll be heavier, so maybe he just figures he’ll get us then.” Shoddy chuckles. “Only a fool complains when the sergeant decides to ease up.” His eyes narrow and he gives Sweetie a searching look. “You goin’ off ta OCS soon?” Sweetie nods. “Uh huh. And what sort o’ officer you fixin’ ta be?” Sweetie smiles. “Don’t worry, Corporal. I’ll be the kind of officer who listens to her senior enlisted ponies, because they know what they’re doing and do all the hard work for green second lieutenants anyway.” The retired Marine breaks into a broad smile and he touches a hoof to his brow. “Now that’s an officer worth saluting! Glad ta see you got a brain between those ears. Nothing’s more dangerous than a fresh young officer with a good idea he didn’t run by his sergeants first.” His statement gets a musical chortle out of Sweetie. “Corporal, five of my sister’s best friends, all of whom might as well be family, are military, and all of them but Dash are senior NCOs. I’m not dumb enough to become a Cake Eater with them around.” Her answer sends Shoddy into a fit of laughter and leaves me thoroughly mystified. Before I can ask what ‘Cake Eaters’ are and why they are to be deplored, the Marine says, “Dumbest Cake Eater we ever had was this little snot from Manehatten. Most Manehattenites I know are tough, loyal, and devious fighters, but this pissant couldn’ta found his dock with both forehooves and a map. So naturally he thought he was Celestia’s personal gift to the Marine Corps. If he had been a gift I woulda returned him, I can tell ya that!. Why I thought Gunny was gonna blow as gasket the day he…” The war stories last for some time after that. It doesn’t help that Sweetie is so interested in them, or that I find myself fascinated in spite of the delay. If it weren’t for the fact that we’re ‘on the clock,’ so to speak, I would have happily listened to him for the insights into my friends’ six years of bloodshed. Unfortunately, we are on the clock, so I have to rein him in, which is easier said than done. It takes half an hour to really get him out of the stories and focused on the next task, mostly because each new topic or sight seems to trigger a different story. Each time I point this out, he bashfully apologizes and gets back to work, seeming more irritated with himself each time it happens. For my part, my irritation actually lessens, as it quickly becomes clear that he’s genuinely unaware of his distraction when it’s happening. Sweetie, ever quick to pick up on such things, manages to tactfully use the conversations to steer him back to work more than once. Between the two of us, we manage to give him the basics of what’s required at the store. One of the first tasks that needs to be done is repairing merchandise that was returned or traded in so that it can be resold. Conveniently, there’s a couch in need of basic repairs up on the work bench right now. Once he’s found something of a groove, I leave him working on the couch while I head into the office with Sweetie, ostensibly to review the books. In actuality, we need to compare notes. “The two of you hit it off rather well,” I remark. “What’s your initial impression of him?” “He seems like a nice guy,” says Sweetie. “Hard worker; clearly wants to do a good job and pay attention but…” she nibbles he lip, “… his mind is elsewhere. He has a hard time keeping himself in the moment.” “That was my thinking,” I agree. “He doesn’t appear aware of his distractions, either, which is good in the sense that he’s not deliberately slacking off, but bad in that it will require an adjustment of his awareness.” Nodding, Sweetie adds, “No matter the branch, soldiers are trained to be present in the moment. Problem is, he seems to be present in a different moment. The trick will be to get him to be present in this one.” I hadn’t considered it in quite those terms, but it seems quite reasonable. The other girls have certainly seemed a lot more focused since coming home. Shoddy must have the same skill; he just needs to learn to apply it in his civilian life. “Well, it sounds like it will simply be a matter of mental exercises to maintain organization and attentiveness to the present. Between that and some lessons on tact, I don’t see this being too complicated.” Sweetie cocks an eyebrow. “When has life ever been that easy?” “Let me enjoy my delusion for a moment, darling.” She chuckles. “Well, while you’re enjoying your delusion, I need to go meet Applebloom and Scootaloo for a study session. I wasn’t kidding when I said Thrasher’s gonna hit us hard to make up for letting us go early today.” I give her a quick peck on the cheek. “Thanks for dropping by, my dear. I appreciate the help.” Sweetie departs while I head to the back room. “Well, Shoddy, how are things coming in…?” I trail off as I see that Shoddy is still hard at work on the couch… … which he has now shifted from the bench onto the floor. “Erm, Shoddy,” I say delicately. Shoddy’s head pops up from behind the sofa. “Why, pray tell, have you seen fit to shift the couch off the bench, where it was conveniently situated at a comfortable height for work, and onto the floor, where you have to lie down and strain to get into the right position to work?” Shoddy blinks, not seeming to understand the question. Craning his neck around, he looks at the storage room’s exterior doors, large loading-dock-style fixtures which also happen to provide the room’s only natural illumination through high-set windows. He points to those windows, then turns back to me and says, “To be out of view.” I wait for him to explain why that’s relevant. He doesn’t. “And that’s important because…?” Once more, he blinks, this time looking at me as though I’ve grown a second head. “Snipers,” comes the matter-of-fact reply. A chill settles on my spine. Oh, sweet Celestia, does he really think there are snipers? What the hay am I supposed to do if— “Um, Shoddy,” I say gently, “You do know there are no snipers in Ponyville, right?” Shoddy snorts. “Of course I do, Miss Rarity. I’m not crazy.” With that, he goes back to working on the couch. “I… I see,” I reply, biting my lip. “Well… carry on then.” I leave the room at a brisk trot, heading for the back office. Opening up the safe, I pull out a bottle of Red Tail Whiskey and pour myself a dram. Being that we picked Shoddy up from the train station in the mid-afternoon, it’s now technically after ‘Miller Time,’ and so not inappropriate to drink. Even if it had been earlier, though, I’m not certain I would much care. I’m not typically one to need a little libation to steady my nerves, but that… … I’m not sure what that was. He knows there are no snipers, he knows he’s safe, so why—? An inner voice interrupts my thoughts, this nagging little thing that takes root in my head, giving words to the fear that has been growing since the train station. It speaks insistently; gloatingly. It says to me, “Rarity, we’re in timberwolf country.” Snipers. Of course, Miss Rarity. I’m not crazy. Bloody Tartarus. “Yes, Rarity” I say aloud as I sip my whisky. “We’re in timberwolf country indeed.” Author's Note Before getting into the chapterly lore bit at the bottom, a word on the two real-world stories which were almost verbatim applied to this chapter. The funny one is that the "Rarity, we're in timberwolf country" is pretty directly from an incident in my own life three years ago. Replace the ponies with myself and two old friends, Zenith with the great American backwoods, and timberwolves with bears, and you've got pretty much the same story. "Hey, you know that's bear country, right?" was heard ad nauseum for a month leading up to the trip. Given that I'd backpacked with bears before, I wasn't worried. But this was bear country, with a season for extra bears in bear country. That fact sank in when I was crouched over the privy (hole) in the middle of the night in freezing rain, when I very distinctly heard an inner voice say, "Hey, we're in bear country." The serious one is that the story about the couch and the snipers is also from my life. At the time I was a manager at a charity warehouse. One of our new volunteers was a certain couch-surfing Army veteran who unwittingly inspired a certain pony Marine (don't tell him I changed branches on him). The guy was, like Shoddy, super pleasant, a very hard worker, a genuinely moral man... and he had a tendency to get distracted and say things he probably shouldn't say in public. When I first met him, I never would have guessed he was having a hard time after the Global War on Terror, but the more I interacted with him the more I noticed things. He never had his back to doors and windows. He perpetually checked his surroundings. He tended to move near cover. That sort of thing. Talking to him, I found out he'd been ambushed a lot. The conversation between Shoddy and Rarity about the couch is almost word-for-word how the real conversation happened with this Army veteran and the warehouse manager. I saw a lot of sobering things in that job (I worked with people in pretty abject poverty, after all), but I don't think anything really compared to that moment. If there were any one thing that inspired Homecoming, it was that. *** Given the predatory nature of the species, it is hardly surprising that griffon martial tradition has always included a strong emphasis on ambush tactics. As the war dragged on and regular Dominion Army units were shattered, they compensated by shifting increasingly to guerrilla tactics. While inflicting casualties on Allied units and disrupting supply lines were strategically important to these hit-and-run methods, the psychological damage was more debilitating still. The exhaustion and fear brought on by the constant threat of raids wore heavily on Allied soldiers and forced their commanders to expend additional time and resources on setting up defenses each time they made camp, even when they were well back from the front lines. While the Dominion’s tactics were not enough to halt the Allied advance or break their morale, they doubtless added many brutal months to the war and inflicted great injury upon the soldiers who faced them. —From the abstract of Dr. Serene Spring’s “Restless Rest: A Treatise on the Psychological Damage of Ambush Tactics in the Great War” NormalI decide it’ll be a few days before Shoddy is ready to face actual customer service. During that time, I receive a crash course in Retired Marine 101: An Introduction to Iron Shod. To start with, Shoddy appears to have a nigh pathological fear of putting anypony out. Several little moments throughout that first day hinted at the depth of his fear, but what really drove it home was when Applejack returned at around six to take him back to the Apple homestead and put him up in the guest room… and he flatly refused. “Oh no, Gunny! I ain’t gonna take no charity from ya. Besides, a bed’s too good for the likes of me.” And what was his plan in lieu of a bed? Well, as it happens, he was fully prepared to sleep in the back room of the Quill and Sofa on the hardwood floor or else set up camp in the woods near town. He assumed this. Which leads into the second lesson: Shoddy is perhaps even more stubborn than Applejack. Hard to believe, I know. Their disparate ideas on his housing situation led to a rather frank exchange of opinions (by which I mean they balled each other out). When I became fearful that the situation would devolve into blows being exchanged, I announced rather spur-of-the-moment that I would be putting him up at my residence. That at least stopped them arguing with each other so they could argue with me instead. I won that fight by pointing out that employees of small shop owners often live under the same roof as their employers, and that I had leased the basement of my house out as a single-resident flat throughout much of the war. (I made some modifications to the interior: doors between the upstairs, main floor, and basement; adding a bathroom and shower to the basement flat; putting in a back stairwell to give said flat access to the kitchen and rear exit, thus allowing the resident to come and go without passing through the shop floor. I now own a miniature apartment complex which just happens to include my residence and boutique). As soon as Applejack realized what I was doing, she threw her weight behind me and we sold him on the idea as a matter of ‘business propriety.’ He works for me, so I house him. I even managed to convince him that I was taking his room and board out of his salary, which is technically true. I just left out the fact that I’d mentally increased his salary to the point that subtracting his room and board would bring him back down to what I’d been planning on paying him in the first place. Deceptive? Perhaps, but in a rather benign way, and it satisfied his sense of honor. This, in turn, sparked the third lesson, which is that Shoddy is always up well before I am. Not exactly a surprise, given his martial background, but it was a surprise on the first morning to come downstairs to the common area and find somepony other than Sweetie Belle cooking. Apparently, Shoddy is the sort to thank people with actions, and he took it upon himself to prepare breakfast for Sweetie and I. It was a wonderful gesture, marred somewhat by the fact that Shoddy is a terrible cook. To spare Sweetie and I the results of his rather stubborn generosity in the future, I once again played the landlady card and convinced him that it is my responsibility to cook (again, technically true according to the terms I arbitrarily set) and thus is included in his ‘rent.’ I even apologized for not making that clear the night before and letting him do all the work. Then I put on a brave face and did my best to choke down the breakfast without hurling. The lessons continued to come fast and thick after that. From a practical standpoint the results are… mixed. On one hoof, Shoddy is polite, eager to please, and deferential to a fault. For all his uncouth mannerisms, he is extremely friendly and truly seems to desire to benefit other ponies. Many of his questions have been to the effect of ‘would the customer like it if we did X’ or ‘maybe I could help out by doing Y’ or ‘I could take care of Z for you if you wanted to leave early.’ In another stallion, such behavior might be mistaken for ingratiating, but I don’t think Shoddy is capable of the subtlety that would require. He’s possessed of a sort of face-value frankness which almost guarantees that, whether you like what he’s saying or not, he’s being genuine. Thus, I find his suggestions, even the impractical ones, to be an encouraging sign. He also gets on famously with Sweetie Belle, which bodes rather well. My sister is possessed of sound judgment when it comes to the character of ponies. If she thinks he’s a good pony beneath the rough exterior, then I see no reason to disbelieve her. Shoddy’s desire to be a good worker is apparent to anypony who interacts with him for more than two minutes. He’s desperate to make himself useful and listens intently to instructions. His demeanor makes it plain that he wants to get the job right, and he is very careful and deliberate about his actions… when he’s not distracted. Which brings us to the dreaded ‘on the other hoof’ portion of this description, because ‘when he’s not distracted’ is a rather significant caveat. Shoddy’s attention issues, so apparent from the start, persist throughout the week. It doesn’t take much to get him going on some anecdote or another. Now, in fairness, the anecdotes are not all gritty war stories or crass observations as I had originally feared. But there are still a lot of them, and even his most innocent ones get him off topic and waste both his time and mine. Now, I’ve certainly been guilty of being ‘that one pony’ who will talk your leg off if I get going, but I take care to not allow my verbosity to impact work, whether mine or another’s. Shoddy, however, is distracting – to me, to Sweetie Belle when she’s around, and, above all, to himself. This problem is exacerbated by his forgetfulness; he may pay close attention when hearing instructions, but he has a tendency to forget basic things when performing his tasks. Thus, even when he is being productive, he’s still underperforming. In his defense, these shortcomings do not appear to be the result of any deliberate laxity on his part. Quite the opposite, in fact. Whenever I point out that he’s let something slip or gotten off topic, he is… rather hard on himself. Too hard. His self-deprecating humor is the sort displayed by many children who are victims of bullying. He calls himself ‘stupid’ before anypony else can, more viciously than anypony else can, because he seems to expect to be called stupid; or perhaps he truly believes that he is. Either way, it’s worrying on both a professional and a personal level (the latter far more than the former). I’ll have to ask Applejack if she knows where this detrimental behavior came from. Speaking of Applejack, she’s been noticeably difficult to pin down the last few days. I had rather anticipated her haunting my every step, fearful that I might ‘put my hoof in it’, so to speak, and I looked forward to her interference with resignation, annoyance, and (if I’m being truly honest) gratitude. I confess I’d come to count on her input, even as I dreaded it. With her failing to put in more than the occasional experience, I’m not sure if I’m more relieved or disappointed. Actually, given the still-mysterious nature of her doctor’s visit, ‘worried’ might be the appropriate emotion. That mare is definitely hiding something – evasive when asked directly, careful to avoid any topic remotely relating to heath, and generally too ‘busy’ to be around for any period of time. And it’s not just me she’s giving the runaround either, it’s— “Yeah, Rarity, I get it,” sighs Rainbow, her wings fidgeting as I use her like a mannequin to mark patterns. With a number of amputees asking for dresses, it’s helpful to have one around I can call on to model for me; makes it easier to get the cut of the fabric right. “AJ’s being cagey and you want the scoop. You’ve been going on about this for three days.” I huff. “Well, I’ll stop going on about it just as soon as I get some answers!” Rainbow chuckles. “Same old Rarity.” “Wh-whatever do you mean by that darling?” I sputter. “Seriously?” she asks, cocking an eyebrow. “Come on, Rarity, you’ve always been kinda nosey about this sort of thing.” Frowning, I tug my measuring tape just a little too tight around her middle, eliciting a grunt of discomfort from my model. “And you’ve always lacked any sort of tact. Is it a crime to be curious about your friends’ lives? To care for their wellbeing?” She rolls her eyes. “Calm down, Rarity. You know that’s not what I meant. It’s just… you know… you can be kinda gossipy.” “Yes, well,” I sigh, “while I recognize that I struggle with that particular vice, you needn’t rub it in my face.” “Hey,” she shoots me a lopsided grin, “you know we still love you. Gossip or not.” I blush a little at the genuine sentiment, but it’s quickly replaced by irritation when she keeps speaking. “All I’m saying is that that you overreact to this kind of thing so often that I’m kinda numb to it.” “I am not overreacting,” I practically snarl through clenched teeth. “Frankly, I’m a little horrified that you don’t seem to care that Applejack is keeping secrets about her health.” Rainbow shrugs. “Mare likes her privacy. You know how she is. But,” her voice turns sober and she looks me in the eye, “one thing you gotta keep in mind is it could be something from the war. If she got banged up over there some way that isn’t showing up ’til now, it could be she doesn’t want anypony to worry.” Which will only make us worry more. Honestly, if Applejack wants to spare our feelings, she should start by not sparing them! Still, the idea that it’s a souvenir from the war striking her now… “It would be typical of her to keep quiet about that,” I admit as I lay out additional layers of pattern and pin them into place. “Though I’m surprised she wouldn’t say anything to you. After all, you two share all sorts of athletic hobbies; an injury would affect those.” That gets a hearty laugh from Rainbow. “Are you kidding? Those hobbies make us rivals! Sure, AJ might open up to me about a lot of things she doesn’t tell the rest of you, but I’m the last pony she’d talk to about something that messed up her body! She can’t stand to show weakness to anypony, least of all me!” “I suppose that makes sense,” I say with a sigh. Though it does make me curious what secrets she keeps with Dash and not the rest of us. Trying not to dwell on it, I continue, “I just wish I knew… something, anything about it!” My marker pen runs dry and I look over to my desk to summon a fresh one with my magic. When I turn back, Rainbow is staring at me with a thoughtful expression on her face. “You’re really worried about her, aren’t you?” “Whatever gave you that impression?” I ask dryly. Rather than retorting with some smart remark, she holds my gaze. “Rarity,” she says with uncharacteristic gentleness, “not everything that takes a friend to the hospital is gonna be some near-death thing.” The abrupt statement makes me go weak-kneed. “I-I- I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Raising an eyebrow, she keeps staring. “Rarity, I read your letters for the whole war, remember? All the ones talking about how often Twi was in the hospital that first year? How you stayed with her? How scared you were each time something went wrong that maybe this time she’d finally…” She trails off, and I’m grateful, because I’ve started trembling and, dear Celestia am I sweating? I don’t know where this emotion is coming from! It’s been years, and I’ve come to grips with it! Twilight is healthy now, or at least healthy enough! Surelyafter all this time— “Hey,” she interrupts my train of thought by stretching out a wing and brushing a tear from my eye, all without disturbing the patterns on her barrel. So very considerate of her. Good heavens, I didn’t even realize I was crying… “Rarity, look at me,” she orders. I meet her gaze obediently. Her crimson eyes say just as much as her words. “Applejack is fine. Twilight is fine. We’re all fine. You’re a good friend for caring, but you can relax. Okay?” With a shuddering sigh I swallow my worry, letting her words wash over me like a cleansing rain. “Okay,” I reply, allowing a shaky smile to come to my lips. “You’re right. Applejack is fine. I’m just getting worried for nothing.” “Yup,” she smiles. “We’ll probably have a good laugh when we hear how piddling it ends up being.” I snort as I get back to work. “I don’t know that I’d go quite that far. If it’s so piddling, why is her family guarding the secret like they’re under oath not to reveal classified information.” “Why don’t you just see if Twi get it out of Big Mac or something? That sort of gumshoe-spy-mystery thing is right up your alley.” “Yes, well,” I jot down some notes about the hemline on the side where her back leg used to be, “I actually did try that. I suggested Twilight use her ‘feminine wiles’ to tease it out of him.” “Oh yeah? How’d that go?” My chuckle is equal parts amused and pained. “Terrible,” I reply. “Watching that mare attempt to flirt the story out of her coltfriend over dinner was like watching a somepony make a dress using a sword for a sewing needle. It resulted in nothing but a good laugh for Big Mac and a migraine for me.” I glance up. “Don’t tell her I said that.” Rainbow struggles to hold still while she’s laughing so hard. “D-don’t worry! Your s-secret’s sa-ha-hafe with me-he!” “The other Apples are just as tight-lipped,” I continue in answer to the question she didn’t ask. “Grannie Smith is playing up her senility to avoid answering the question, which might be a convincing smoke screen if I didn’t know darn well she’s sharper than most ponies a quarter her age!” You don’t fool me, Grannie Smith. I’ve heard you debate Nkea about obscure Equestrian MPs over Appaloosan Hold’em and win both the argument and the game! “Maybe you should just ask Arinze. You know, her husband.” “Get it straight from the zebra’s mouth, as it were?” I reply. “Thought of that. No luck. Arinze just gets a funny look on his face and something cryptic like ‘Springtime is beautiful, yes?’ or ‘Applejack’s mane gives her a sort of glow, does it not?’ as though that’s supposed to answer my question!” Rainbow snickers. “Meanwhile, Nkea acts even more aloof than usual, and I’m convinced he’s exaggerating his accent to avoid conversation.” Rainbow rolls her eyes. “That actually might be more insulting than Grannie playing senile. He speaks plenty good Ponish.” “Indeed. Better than many teenagers.” And you, some days, I don’t add. “Well, what about Applebloom? Maybe you can have Sweetie ask her.” I scoff. “I’m a little offended you think I didn’t try that immediately. Again, no luck. She won’t tell Sweetie Belle or Scootaloo a thing!” Rainbow’s eyebrows shoot up at that. “Okay, I admit, that’s a little weird.” “Indeed,” I sigh as I finish my markings and begin removing the pattern. “But do you know what the strangest thing is?” “No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.” “Pinkie Pie and Fluttershy. Neither of them seem to know what’s going on, but I think they both suspect something specific. When I asked Pinkie about it, she muttered some gibberish about Pinkie Sense, timing, surprise parties, and not ruining things, then scurried off to go buy pickles and honey.” Rainbow smirks. “So, typical Pinkie Pie stuff?” “That’s what I would have assumed, except that when I went to ask Fluttershy about it, she just narrowed her eyes in thought, like she’d figured out the puzzle.” “Did she say anything?” My lips make a sour smile. “‘We’ll just have to wait and see,’” I quote. “Yeah, that figures,” chuckles Dash. “Well, maybe she’s got a point; don’t wanna get worked up over something you can’t control.” “I suppose,” I grumble as I remove the last of the pattern. Now free to move around, Rainbow, unsurprisingly, flaps into a low hover. “Let’s talk about something you can control. How’re things with Shoddy?” Checking to make sure the door is firmly shut, I update her on the situation. Perhaps, in lieu of Applejack, Rainbow will be able to provide a soldier’s perspective. She listens to my description of the last few days, along with a few examples, before giving her opinion. “Sounds pretty normal to me.” “‘Pretty normal?’” I repeat, raising one eyebrow “His inability to hold focus in a simple job hardly seems ‘normal.’” Rainbow shakes her head. “Not that part. I mean the fixation on the war.” I tilt my head. “I don’t suppose you’d care to elaborate.” “Well, it’s like…” she trails off, looking around the room for inspiration, then flaps over to land by my record-book. “It’s like you running a business, right?” She taps the book. “You have different things you have to do each day, some of which hold priority over others. You’re pretty organized – I mean, not Twilight organized, but who is?” I can’t help but chuckle at that. “I’ll bet you wake up in the morning, check your to-do list, figure out what’s most important, and put things in order. You end up with a sort of ‘hierarchy of tasks,’ right?” “Yes, I suppose,” I reply, more than a little surprised by her analysis. And her knowledge of the word ‘hierarchy.’ “That hierarchy determines what’s important, what’s critical, and what can be ignored,” she continues. “I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess you probably had a much heavier hierarchy of tasks during the war, yeah?” Let’s see here, taking care of Twilight, coordinating her appointments with everypony from doctors to diplomats, running my own business, managing Sweet Apple Acres’ finances and hired workers with Grannie Smith, jointly managing the Quill and Sofa… “You could say that, darling.” “And I bet it was quite an adjustment when you no longer had all those responsibilities, right? You felt like you were missing something? Like if you didn’t take care of it right away something would go seriously wrong and it’d be your fault?” Ah. “I think I see what you’re driving at.” “Good,” smiles Rainbow. “Saves me some time. Point is, combat is like that, but a million times worse. Coming back off that adrenalin high is a serious adjustment, and some ponies handle it better than others. You might not remember this, but I was pretty jumpy that first month or so back before things quieted down. Thunderlane was the same way.” She shrugs. “Shoddy’s just stuck doing threat assessment, that’s all.” I nod, understanding. For the record, I actually do remember Rainbow being ‘jumpy’ as she puts it, but I think it was partially cabin fever from being hospitalized with an amputation so close to the end of the war. “Right,” I agree. “That makes sense. One slight problem though.” I tilt my head. “What do I do about it?” “Search me,” she says with a crooked smile. “I’m an aviator, not a shrink.” I give her a sour look, and she adds, “But, based on what I’ve seen with other vets, I think doing what you’re doing is probably the way to go. Soldiers live on routine – if you establish a peacetime job as his new routine, a lot of the problems will probably fix themselves.” It sounds like good advice, and I’ll certainly be taking it, but even as I nod in satisfaction that I’m apparently already doing what I should be doing, I can’t help but marvel at the mare standing before me. “You’ve certainly grown up, Rainbow Dash,” I tease. “When did you get to be so wise?” My question was lighthearted, but Rainbow’s eyes turn to some distant place and her face falls. “Probably when I had to clean Fleetfoot’s blood off a rookie when she took a bullet for him.” My blood runs cold. “I- I’m so sorry, Rainbow Dash, I didn’t mean to—” She waves me off, blushing. “Nah, that wasn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have dropped that on you.” Chuckling humorlessly, she adds, “See? Shoddy’s not the only one who lets slip sometimes.” “You’re confiding in a friend, Rainbow,” I retort. “That’s hardly the same thing as blurting that out to a random civilian.” Rainbow opens her mouth as though to say something, then glances away. “Yeah. I guess.” What was she going to… oh my… does she feel that she can’t tell me? Is she embarrassed or afraid to… or is it because… because I wouldn’t understand… because I’m just a civilian who can never understand what one of her oldest friends— “What’s Shoddy up to, anyway?” she asks, unaware of the effect her words had on me. I swallow my emotion and turn away so she doesn’t see the dampness in my eyes. “Last I saw, he was reading a comic book in the kitchen. Applejack told me he’s sort of a comic junkie, and Spike was kind enough to donate his duplicate copies to the cause. I’m hoping the two of them will bond over the shared interest.” “Can’t hurt to have a few friends, right?” replies Rainbow. Then, chuckling, “Maybe Spike can teach him to cook.” I can’t help but chortle at that. “Having tasted Shoddy’s attempt at cooking, I can’t say I’m optimistic. But then, Sweetie Belle managed to learn the art, so I suppose anything is possible.” My eyes now properly clear, I turn to face her once more. “I just wish he didn’t try so stubbornly to be helpful. True, his generosity is admirable, but when his ‘help’ isn’t helpful, I find myself preferring that he just—" The doorbell jingles downstairs. There’s a thunder of hooves and a shout of “I’ll get it!” from Shoddy. I freeze, my eyes widening in horror. Downstairs, the door swings open, and I hear the muted sound of voices below. Rainbow gives me a quizzical look. “Um, Rarity? He’s answering the door for you.” I stare blankly at the wall. Internally, I scream. Externally, I calmly reply, “Yes, I know, darling.” More muted talking. My internal screaming jumps up an octave. “And… you’re okay with a stallion not known for tact talking to clients?” The internal screaming becomes more of a ‘shriek.’ “No, not in the slightest.” “Uh huh,” says Rainbow. “And you aren’t doing anything about it because…” More talking, followed by the sound of hoofsteps ascending the stairs. My internal shrieking reaches fever pitch. “Well you see, darling, it seems my brain has fused into an inert blob of useless flesh from the horror of it all.” “Ah,” she replies. “Fair enough.” A cavalcade of fears charge through my psyche in the eon it takes for fifteen seconds to pass before there’s a knock at the door. “Miss Rarity?” asks Shoddy. Rainbow glances at me. “Want me to get a thundercloud and jumpstart you?” Finally shaking off my stupor, I trot to the door. “Thank you, darling. Perhaps later.” After I find out he’s scared off a wealthy client or some such catastrophe. I open the door and wince at the sight of the stallion. It’s not that he’s unkempt or anything (actually, he keeps himself quite clean and shaven). No, it’s the fact that the door to a couturier’s shop was answered by a stallion wearing a loose collection of green rags laughingly called a ‘jacket.’ I force a sweet smile and ask, “What is it, Iron Shod?” I was hoping that maybe he’d pick up on the fact that using his full name signaled that I was displeased about something. Judging by the guileless look on his face, it went right over his head. “There’s a couple zebs at the door askin’ for ya,” he replies. ‘Zebs’? Seriously? Sighing, I shut my eyes. “Shoddy, you can’t just call zebras ‘zebs.’ It’s not polite.” He seems genuinely mystified by this. “But we called ‘em that all the time during the war. An’ they called us feather-brains, cone-heads, grounders, pones—" “Yes, well,” I cut him off, my grin tight, “what creatures call each other within a close circle of trusted intimates is different than what you call a complete stranger, particularly in a professional setting. You wouldn’t use the same familiar tone you take with Applejack to address a mare you don’t know, would you?” The blank look I get in response tells me everything I need to know. I cover my eyes with one hoof. “We’ll talk about it later. What do they want?” “You as a matter of fact. Well,” he amends, “all three of us, actually.” All three of us? But why— “Why all three of us?” I say aloud, abandoning speculation for speed. He rubs the back of his head sheepishly. “I forgot ta mention, but these boys are kitted out like King’s Own. As in the Zebra King’s Own.” My eyes widen as the implication sinks in. There’s only one zebra of royal blood in Ponyville, which means— Shoddy shrugs. “Seems they want us out at Sweet Apple Acres.” Author's Note “It makes a lot of sense when you stop to think about it. First off, the buzzards hated us. I mean, sure, they hated all ponies, but they really hated pegasi. We ‘violated their sacred airspace’ or some crap. Worse yet, they also saw the other races as beneath contempt (no wings, you know), meaning we were the only ones ‘worth their time.’ So they hated us and thought we were the biggest threat. With that kind of double-think, it’s no wonder we caught it coming and going. As specialized fliers, Air Corps ponies were at the top of their Must Screw List, which meant we got targeted in a way that other units just weren’t. Percentage-wise, we had higher casualties than any other branch of the Service for half the war. Second, attrition. Like pegasi, griffons have always split their soldiers between combat squadrons and infantry. Unlike us, though, their entire military is made up of fliers. So, when they took squadron casualties, they could backfill pretty easily with top fliers from their infantry, at least until we had them on the ropes. Us, though? When we took casualties, Squadron Command had to pull pegasi from the limited number of them in ground units or train fresh replacements from, again, a more limited civilian population. With the casualties we were taking, there just weren’t enough qualified fliers to go around. Most days we were fighting short-hooved with green replacements. What do you think that does to a pony’s chances of survival? I hated it, we all did, but, heaven help us, we had no better options. Third, and this is the one most ponies don’t think about, is demographics. The Air Corps’ physical benchmarks are more based on speed and agility than brute strength, so it’s always attracted proportionally more mares than any other branch of the Service. Meaning a disproportionate number of soldier mares of childbearing age wound up in the branch with the highest casualty rates. I’ll let you do the math. Bottom line, a full generation of young pegasi got put through the grinder, and there just weren’t enough of us who came out in one piece to make up the difference in numbers this decade.” —Brigadier General Spitfire, Equestrian Air Corps, in an interview with Canterlot Chronicle regarding the deficit in pegasus births following the Great War AssumptionsI knew it, I knew it, I bucking well knew it! Just when everything seems to be going fine, some catastrophe comes along and bucks your life right in the teeth! ‘Oh, Rarity, Applejack is just peachy, no need to worry, Rarity. Don’t get so worked up, Rarity. Don’t freak out, Rarity.’ Well, buck you all, because she’s not fine, I’m not overreacting, and ponies should listen to me when I tell them something’s wrong! Why don’t these blasted guards move any faster? Honestly, I know I’m not the athletic type, but I could have run to the Acreage and back by now! At the pace we’re moving, I feel like Rainbow Dash could fly to Canterlot to summon Celestia and still get there before Shoddy and I! As it is, she’s only got her husband to collect, so she’s surely there by now! Oh, yes. Rainbow left us to fetch Thunderlane. Did I mention that? She gets to fly off at full speed while Shoddyand I mosey through the town like we’re on the way to a flipping cotillion. Sorry, I’m just… I’m having some feelings about this. Between Applejack’s mysterious hospital visit, her family’s evasive behavior, and now this – King’s Own Guards from Zebrica showing up to ‘invite’ Applejack’s intimates to the Acreage? I’m so worried that I haven’t even taken the time to examine the King’s Own uniforms, with their crimson color, ornate gold brocade, and intricate multi-colored patterns woven in swirling designs whose meaning I can only guess at but which complement the zebras’ black-and-white in a way that most ponies couldn’t manage— Okay, so maybe I examined them a little… but that in no way diminishes my fears for Applejack! “Miss Rarity, are you okay?” asks Shoddy as we trot down the road to the Acres. “Am I ok—” With a self-control born of many years as an older sister, I choke down my rather, ahem, snippy reply. “No, Shoddy. I am not okay. I am worried for Applejack.” “Why?” I actually trip there, almost face-planting into the dirt before I recover. “Why?” I repeat, incredulous at the blithe expression on his face. “Shoddy, can you honestly tell me that all this,” I gesture to the silent guards, “doesn’t have you the slightest bit worried for her health?” “Yup,” he says bluntly. “And what’s more, I’ll tell ya why.” That’s a wise choice on his part. If he hadn’t told me, I might have throttled him. “I saw Arinze just the other day, and he looked as happy as I’ve ever seen him.” Shoddy winks. “If something was wrong with Applejack, His Royal Stripy-ness would be crawlin’ the walls.” It’s a fair point to consider, but before I can, the younger of the two zebra guards snaps into place in front of Shoddy, barring the stallion’s path and glaring at him. “You will refrain from calling Prince Arinze ‘His Royal Stripy-ness!’” Shoddy blinks, surprised by the guard’s ire, then smiles, unconcerned. “No disrespect, buddy. I shared a trench with the stallion and we used to call him that to his face. He thought it was funny. Just ask him.” “It is not proper to address a prince that way!” “Look, pal, I got nothing but respect for the guy. Not just anypony gets ta marry the Gunny.” The guard looks like he’s about to give Shoddy an earful, but the older zebra addresses him in his own tongue. I don’t speak a word of Zwahili, but I know a rebuke when I hear one. The younger guard gives Shoddy one final glare before backing off. The argument averted (or at least ended), we resume walking. The older guard smiles at Shoddy and I, saying, “Please forgive my young compatriot’s enthusiasm. He did not have the privilege of serving the Prince in our homeland, and he is unused to how familiar he can be with commoners. To those who have not served the young lord before, his behavior may seem… odd.” “Eh,” shrugs Shoddy. “No worries. If I were in your shoes, I would think it odd that Arinze was buddy-buddy with a guy like me too.” “He is a magnanimous stallion, our prince,” says the guard proudly. “I am glad he has chosen to make his home with as fine a mare as Lady Applejack.” Shoddy chuckles. “You’d best get used ta callin’ her plain ‘Applejack.’ I don’t think Gunny’d take well to bein’ called ‘Her Ladyship.’” With a glance at his compatriot, the guard replies. “I imagine there will be an adjustment period for us all. Ah, but where are our manners.” Without slowing his pace, he dips his head to myself and Shoddy in a slight bow. “We know your names, but have not given ours. I am Kafil. This is Mwamba. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” I mentally kick myself. Worried out of my mind or not, there’s no excuse for being discourteous. “The pleasure is ours, good sirs,” I say, making a little bow of my own. More pointedly I add, “I only wish I understood the circumstances behind our meeting.” Kafil gives an enigmatic look that’s so like the one favored by Zecora, Arinze, and Nkea that I wonder if perhaps it’s just a Zebrican trait. “All will be revealed in due time, I assure you.” Typical. Shoddy picks that moment to strike up a conversation with Kafil about his sidearm, leading to a spirited discussion about the merits of Equestrian and Zebrican service revolvers. After a while, Mwamba is grudgingly drawn into the conversation. Ordinarily, I’d be celebrating that Shoddy seems to be making connections without prompting or direction, but as much as I’d like to pay attention, I can’t. My mind is too busy reviewing all that I know about Applejack. Firstly, it’s certainly nothing life-threatening. Shoddy is correct in noting that Arinze wouldn’t be so cheerful if it was. Secondly, the Apples are equally content, suggesting that they think that whatever is happening is good for Applejack. Thirdly, Applejack herself seems happy (which, upon reflection, is probably genuine rather than simply her putting on a brave face), yet she seems nervous and evasive as well, indicating that perhaps she fears telling the rest of us what is happening. Fourthly, zebras from the King’s Own are here, which is rather… abrupt. From what Applejack has told me, Arinze is far enough down the line of succession that he is permitted to reduce his personal guard to only three soldiers. Nkea is the first and, through some rather complicated backroom legal maneuverings, Applejack and Big MacIntosh are (on paper) retired reservists of the Zebrican military personally asked by King Ammon to assume the duties of honorary members of the King’s Own attached to the personal retinue of Arinze while holding no further duties to the Zebrican Crown— Honestly, the explanation went over my head. I’m fairly certain Twilight is the only one of us to understand. The point is, it’s odd that these guards are here. Something has to have changed. As I wrack my brain to figure out what it might be, my attention is drawn back to the conversation. “… thought about visiting Zebrica after the war,” Shoddy is saying. “Was too broke to afford it, though. Not because o’ the tickets, ya see, but the doctor’s visits.” Suddenly, he has my full attention. “I had no idea customs would be so picky,” he’s lamenting. “Who knew you’d have to get so much medical clearance just to change countries? They wanted to stick me so full o’ needles I woulda looked like a pincushion.” Medical clearance to change countries… that would explain… Kafil shrugs. “One cannot be too careful when travelling.” Travelling… or moving! Shoddy snorts. “Shoot, I was in Buzzard-land for years an’ the only shots I got were lead, know what I mean?” I don’t hear the rest of what he says, because I’m too busy telling myself that I have to be wrong. Arinze loves it at Sweet Apple Acres. Applejack said so the other day. But then, she also said that he loves his homeland, and it could be that he’s been called back. No, Rarity, they could just be travelling. That’s probably all there is to it. But if so, why are all the Apples so seemingly happy about it? Happy like something has changed. That’s ridiculous! They’d be devastated if she left! Then again… Big Mac may well be proposing to Twilight soon, and there’d be more than one Royal in the family. Perhaps he’d appreciate having a friend amongst the Zebrican Court… and he is fiercely proud of his sister. He might consider it her due. Grannie Smith certainly would, and for all I know she’d accompany them. As for Applebloom, well, she’s always had a bad case of hero worship where her sister is concerned, and she’s leaving for OCS soon, so she’ll be bidding farewell anyway. At least this way Applebloom sees her sister becoming the Great Lady she always thought she was. B-but what of the rest of us? What of her friends? She wouldn’t just… … she’s been so evasive, so afraid to talk to us… … she left for all those years, she wouldn’t just… she couldn’t just leave us to… ‘Make his home with as fine a mare as Lady Applejack.’ That was what Kafil said. Which means that she, she— I break into a gallop. This can’t happen! Not again! Behind me, Shoddy cries in alarm. “Miss Rarity, where are you going?” “Rarity, where are you going?” I turn to see Applejack standing there, resplendent in her Equestrian Marine Corps uniform. Behind her the sending off party rages on, alight with pride, passion, and patriotism – three things that fill me with self-loathing because I can’t feel them tonight. “I’m just… stepping away for some quiet, Applejack,” I reply. “No need to fuss.” “Yer steppin’ out on a sendoff party fer all the Ponyville ponies who’re enlisting,” says Applejack, unconvinced. “Ah think maybe a little fussin’ is called for.” “Tch!” I snort. “Yes, heaven forbid I take a little breather from a party for all my friends who are going off to war because it might be a tad overwhelming! Might feel a little sick after Twilight was sh—” I shudder, unable to finish the word. “I just need some quiet. Is that so wrong?” Applejack cocks an eyebrow. “So yer leaving?” “You’re the one who’s leaving, Applejack!” I snap before I can stop myself. “You and the other girls, running off to fight your cacked-up war, leaving me here with—” Tears choke off the rest of my rant and I look away, ashamed. Behind me, Applejack sighs. She plods over and throws a hoof over my withers, pulling me into a hug that’s both gruff and gentle. “It ain’t like we wanna leave, sugarcube,” she says. “Just thinkin’ about leavin’ you an’ Spike an’ Applebloom an’ Grannie…” her voice breaks a little, “…and Twilight… well… Ah don’t rightly know how Ah’m gonna manage.” I sit down so I can wipe at my tears. “I’m sorry, darling, I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I just… I just wish you didn’t have to go.” Applejack sits next to me and strokes my back. “Me too, sugarcube. Me too.” We sit wordlessly for a moment, listening to the wake-like revelry behind us. “Celestia!” I exclaim, half-shout, half-sob. “I feel like such a coward.” “Hey!” chides Applejack prodding me gently. “None o’ that! We asked you ta stay, remember? Ain’t nopony else can take care o’ our families and Twilight by her lonesome! Spike may be mature for his age, but he’s still a kid. Twilight needs you here more than we need another trigger-puller.” ‘Trigger-puller,’ eh? Already she speaks a different tongue. “Besides,” she continues, her tone somber, “If anypony’s the coward here, it’s me.” “What?! Applejack, you’re joining the Marines, not a sewing circle! I fail to see how you could possibly be a coward!” She gives me a wan smile. “Gettin’ shot at don’t scare me none, Rarity. Danger never has. But being here with Twilight? Seeing her like this? Ah’ll be honest with you, Rares,” tears well in her eyes, “that terrifies me.” I don’t know what to say to that. The idea of Applejack being scared of anything is just, well, ridiculous. Maddening even. But then, the world has gone mad, by all accounts. Perhaps this is the new normal. What else will change before this blasted war is over? “Applejack,” I swallow the bile rising in my throat, “you will come back, won’t you? You and the girls? I… I can’t imagine Ponyville without you.” She gives me one of her patented Big Sister Applejack smiles. “Course Ah will, sugarcube. We’ll all come back ta Ponyville, safe and sound. And don’t you worry – when we get here, Ah don’t plan on leavin’ ever again.” She can’t be leaving! She promised! “Miss Rarity, slow down!” shouts Shoddy, galloping up next to me, the zebras flanking us. In spite of the exertion, I somehow manage to snarl, “You’re all fit young military stallions! Keep up!” Shoddy looks helplessly at the guards. Kafil chuckles, “The female of the species, my friend.” “Darn right!” I pant. The last couple miles to Sweet Apple Acres pass in a blur. I barely register my straining muscles, or the lather I’ve worked up, or the bemused looks of the pair of King’s Own lingering at the entrance. All I can think about is finding Applejack and hearing her tell me that it isn’t true – that I won’t have to say goodbye again. Following the sound of voices, I rush to the living room. Bursting through the doorway, I see Applejack and Arinze sharing their favorite loveseat. Arrayed around them are the Apple family, along with Nkea, Spike, Bud, Thunderlane, and the girls. Not surprisingly, Shoddy and I are the last to arrive. Those present were conversing when I entered, but they stop abruptly upon seeing me. Applejack gives a surprised laugh. “Rarity, are you okay, girl? You look like you sprinted the whole way here.” My attempt to reply is impeded by the fact that I am panting too hard to speak. In my defense, it’s been a few years since we adventured regularly. Shoddy makes himself ‘helpful’ by remarking, “Yeah, she just sorta took off and sprinted the whole last leg o’ the journey. Ain’t sure what got into her. Is that a lady problem thing?” If I weren’t so out of breath, I would slap the crap out of him for that. Fortunately for him, I’m too busy sucking down air to kill him, and most of the other ponies in the room either react with laughter or exclamations of concern for his health when I recover. Blinking, he tilts his head and asks, “What’d I say?” While a bewildered Shoddy receives a brief lesson in etiquette from the husbands in the room, Fluttershy quietly passes me a glass of water. “Thank you, darling,” I manage before guzzling the refreshingly cool contents. As I rehydrate, I keep watching Applejack over the top of the glass. My embarrassing entrance and Shoddy’s subsequent blunder served to distract me briefly, but now that I’ve had a moment to catch my breath and quench my thirst, my thirst for answers has returned. Apparently sensing my scrutiny, Applejack addresses me with a half-smile. “Rares, why’d ya sprint all this way?” Her brow furrows in concern. “And why d’ya look so worried?” I choke on the water, half-gagging myself to avoid spraying it everywhere. Ignoring the pain, I croak, “Why do I look so worried?” Massaging my throat with a hoof, I indicate the zebras with a tilt of my head. “These stallions show up out of nowhere, your family says nothing about what’s going on, you refuse to say a thing about your doctor’s visit… Applejack, why wouldn’t I be worried?!” The farm mare recoils slightly, a guilty look on her face. There – she knows what she has to say will hurt! Oh, Celestia, how I hate being right! The others are staring – her family with the same guilty look as Applejack; our friends with horror. They’ll be more horrified yet when they hear the inevitable news! “Just get it over with, Applejack!” I cry. “You can’t spare us the news, so out with it! However much it hurts!” Total silence greets me as everypony and dragon stares at me open-mouthed. Applejack and Arinze in particular seem dumbfounded. They share a long look, and I bite my lip, dreading what their response will be when they eventually reply. … Roaring gales of laughter were not what I expected. Now it’s my turn to be dumbfounded as the couple practically fall off their loveseat. Perhaps the others are reacting in some way as well, but I’m too caught up watching the pair to notice. Eventually, Applejack regains enough control of herself to speak. “Rarity, Ah don’t know where you got the idea that we had bad news,” she chortles through tears of mirth, “and Ah’m mighty sorry if’n we got ya worked up fer nothin’, but there ain’t no great catastrophe to tell ya’ll about.” I taste copper in the back of my throat. “There… isn’t?” “No, silly filly,” the farmer laughs. More soberly she adds, “In fact,” Arinze loops a foreleg over her shoulders and the two share a soulful look, “it’s somethin’ real beautiful we’ve got to share.” Some distant part of me is aware of Pinkie making a giddy ‘eeee!’ sound like she’s about to burst, and that Applebloom is practically prancing in place, but my mind is so adrift that whatever else is happening in the room barely registers. “Oh?” I breathe. “Yup,” smiles Applejack, her smile the warmest I’ve ever seen it. She and Arinze share a kiss, then turn to us and chorus, “We’re pregnant.” To say that Applejack and Arinze’s announcement was greeted with much excitement would be something of an understatement. Between Pinkie Pie, Fluttershy, myself, Pinkie Pie, Applebloom, Twilight, and Pinkie Pie, I’m frankly surprised we didn’t shatter any windows with our collective ‘squee.’ Big Mac is still rubbing his ears when he thinks no one else is watching. Poor boy always had sharp ears. On the upside, we confirmed that old Winona isn’t entirely deaf, as she began yelping when we hit top pitch. Not to be outdone, Shoddy and Thunderlane gave war whoops while Bud rattled off something that sounded like it was part of the Marine’s Creed. The Apples already knew, of course. Grannie Smith looked like the cat that ate the canary, Applebloom was bouncing around like a puppy, and Big Mac… well… the big softie was bawling his eyes out. Nkea who, like the Apples, had already known, was grinning ear-to-ear – the first such smile I’ve ever seen on his face. It’s frankly a miracle Applejack and Arinze didn’t get smothered beneath all the hugs. They themselves started crying pretty quick after the happy news was out. Then Pinkie Pie started in, Big Mac was already well underway, and pretty soon there wasn’t a dry eye in the room. Not even Nkea’s. I’d try to repeat all the beautiful things that were said – all the many ways we told them how proud we are, how thrilled we are, what a marvelous blessing this is – but, in truth, I couldn’t do it justice. Mere words, even direct quotes, do not convey the depth of what was said. Just as what we said could never capture the beauty of the miracle in our midst. Applejack and Arinze are parents. How magnificent that is! No artistry in the world can compare to what love creates! Once the tears have been (mostly) dried and the excitement has (relatively) quieted, we get a bit of an explanation about the extra guards. “It’s Zebrican law,” admits Applejack sourly, though Arinze just looks amused. “Before Ah was pregnant, some loopholes let me call myself one o’ Arinze’s bodyguards. Once Ah became pregnant, though, Ah became part o’ the Royal Bloodline, meanin’ that not only does he get another guard, but Ah need three for me, and the baby needs another three.” Arinze nuzzles her. “It is well that we were already planning on additional construction around the farm. We shall need more room.” She rests her head against his barrel. “And room ta grow.” “That is also why we could not tell any of you sooner,” explains Arinze. “Until enough members of the King’s Own were present, we were not permitted to tell any outside the immediate family. I apologize for any distress this may have caused.” “May have caused?” laughs Rainbow, pointing at me. “Uh, dude? I think you mean did cause.” I flush red. “Yeah,” chimes in Applebloom. “What was all that about anyway?” Clearing my throat nervously, I attempt to explain. “In my defense, darlings, I had a lot of circumstantial evidence…” One rather embarrassing explanation later, I am greeted with a mixture of sympathy and amusement. To the credit of the latter, they at least try to smother their laughter. Applejack and Arinze chuckled here and there, but for the most part they just looked sorry for me. Applejack in particular. “Oh, Rarity,” she says gently, “we’d never make a big decision like that without telling ya’ll about it long before deciding anything. Ah’m mighty sorry you were so worried.” I wave her off, hoping I look convincing. “It’s perfectly all right, Applejack. Not your fault I worked myself into a tizzy over nothing.” Twilight gives a weak laugh and scratches the back of her neck. “Yeah, that might be my fault.” In response to my quizzical look, she explains, “You lived with me for six years, Rarity. I think you might have picked up some bad habits from me.” The suggestion sends a chill down my spine because, while she’s right, she’s also wrong. Unable to say as much aloud, I force an amused smile. Spike flies up to perch on the back of Twilight’s chair, his deepening voice amused as he quips, “At least she hasn’t started singing freakout arias yet.” “Hah!” guffaws Pinkie Pie. “Imagine Twilight and Rarity both Twilighting at the same time! They’d break into a duet that’d put Bridleway to shame!” Everypony laughs at that; even I manage a weak chuckle. Twilight laughs with them until the statement registers. “Hahaha, that’s… wait, ‘Twilighting?’ You made me a verb?” “Of course, silly filly,” says Pinkie, poinking Twilight on the nose. “Did the rest of you know about this?” Ponies suddenly find fascinating parts of the rustic decor to contemplate. “How long have you all been doing this?!” While the others attempt to explain the origin of ‘Twilighting’ and its companion term ‘Twilinanas’ to the mare herself, I excuse myself to the kitchen, ostensibly to get a drink. In truth, I just need a moment to compose myself. I flip on the tap and watch the water flow. Twilight is right; I did come to my present capacity for panic thanks to her, but not in the way she thinks. I can trace the exact moment it started. I can still see her blood spray when I close my eyes. “You alright, Miss Rarity?” I nearly jump out of my skin. “Shoddy!” I shout, wheeling to see him standing in the doorway. “I didn’t hear you come in!” The retired Marine stares intently. “Miss Rarity, if you don’t mind my saying, I didn’t expect you ta be the sort ta lose yer cool.” Oh wonderful. Now the stallion who’s come to me for stability is realizing that I have issues of my own, though nothing so dramatic as to be unmanageable. “It’s nothing, darling,” I lie. Realizing I’ve left the water running, I shut it off with a twist of my magic. “I just have a tendency to assume the worst these days.” Shoddy nods, sympathetic. “I can understand that. ‘cept I’ve always been that way. Likely ’cause that’s usually been my lot in life, I s’pose. But you shouldn’t feel that way, Miss Rarity.” He gives a rueful smile. “Unlike an ol’ plodder like me, you’ve actually got something going for ya. Don’t go throwin’ away all the good things ya got just because some things ’ave gone wrong for ya.” His statement leaves me wordless. It would seem there are hidden depths to the stallion; it’s a pity he doesn’t seem to see his own qualities. “You’ve got something of the sage in you, Shoddy,” I remark. “You’re right, of course.” Glancing out the window, I take in the Acreage beyond; or, more accurately, I stare past it, off in the direction of the way things used to be. “There was a time I was an optimist, you know. I suppose, somewhere along the line, that started to slip away.” I turn back to him with a smile. “I guess I’ll just have to start counting my blessings more often.” Reaching up to prod him once in the chest, I add, “As for you thinking you’ve got nothing going for you, I think you’ll find there’s more to you than you think. We’ll just have to bring it to the foreground.” At first, he doesn’t seem sold on the idea, and he glances away like he always does whenever somepony says something complimentary of him. This time, though, inspiration seems to brighten his eyes, and he turns back to me, saying, “Well, if’n you can help me, maybe it’ll help you too.” I can’t help but smile. “Indeed.” In fact, I’d say we’ve already started. “We should probably get back before they miss us,” he suggests, tilting his head to the doorway. “Quite right. Lead on, my good sir.” We re-enter to see the explanation of ‘Twilinanas’ and ‘Twilighting’ winding down. Fluttershy is comfortingly rubbing Twilight’s back while the alicorn buries her face in Big Mac’s fur to hide her embarrassment. I must say, her blush matches his coat rather nicely. Then Pinkie, changing conversational gears without prelude, zips over to Arinze and presses a box containing jars of pickles and honey into his hooves, charging him, in no uncertain terms, to open them for Applejack in precisely three months, twenty-one days, and forty-seven minutes. At first the zebra laughs, but the laughter swiftly dies under Pinkie’s piercing gaze, and he humbly promises to follow her directions. Bud remarks that this is a wise course of action. Applejack watches with a chuckle, then turns to me with a kindly gaze and winks. I smile as her message comes through loud and clear: Don’t worry. Everything’s gonna be okay. Author's Note Just a friendly reminder that not everything in this story is dark. Just complicated. Like life. Also, I didn't have as much time to edit as I usually do, so please point out any mistakes. *** “King Ammon’s decision to enter the war came as a complete shock to most every creature when it happened. After all, Zebrica had been a famously reclusive nation, largely keeping their own counsel and staying removed from the affairs of the world, to the point that zebras were largely unknown in the less travelled parts of Equestria. However, the politically and historically savvy would not have missed the long, quiet friendship between Princess Celestia and the Kings of Zebrica. The two realms had a long-standing practice of mutual defense in times of war and aid in times of peace, most often accomplished through subtle means and direct action on the part of the ruling bodies. Royal Expeditionary Force soldiers operating directly on Celestia’s orders to intervene in Kudanda, Zebrican Mwindaji troopers rescuing Equestrian nationals captured by extremists, REF and Zebrican soldiers cooperating on joint operations to combat sentient trafficking, these are but a few examples. The history of friendship between Equestria and Zebrica is as old as it is subtle. This practice of discretion was a deliberate choice on the part of both countries – a lack of publicity meant a lack of red tape. The attempted assassination of Princess Twilight Sparkle and the resulting war put an end to any hope for subtlety. Recognizing the threat that the Unified Griffon Dominion would pose to all free nations and angered by the attack on one of his oldest allies, King Ammon broke with centuries of tradition and boldly brought Zebrica to the aid of the Allies, with some of his own sons leading the charge. The influx of Zebrican troops under Prince Arinze in support of the Equestrian 4th Marine Brigade at the Battle of Keselyű led to the success of the Allied September Offensive, which emphatically claimed strategic initiative for the Allies on the Southern Front.” —Lieutenant General Poneshing, reflecting on the partnership between ponies and zebras in the Great War. The VisitorBuoyed up by Applejack and Arinze’s happy news and by Shoddy’s and my little kitchen chat at the Acreage, I threw myself into preparing Shoddy to face customers for the first time. Already this project is taking longer than I might have hoped, but then, worthwhile things often do. When I finally opened the doors of the Quill and Sofa the Monday following our visit to the Acreage, I was tentatively confident of his ability to not completely shoot his mouth off or ramble on about the war. The day was… tentatively successful. “If you don’t mind my saying, ma’am, I think this here couch would serve you even better,” he observes to a stoutly built mare. “And why is that?” she replies. For whatever reason, I feel a chill down my spine. “Well, ma’am,” he says with a genuine intent to be helpful. “It has a much heavier frame.” Ah. That’s the reason for the chill down my spine. The mare’s eyes narrow. “And just why do you think that would be helpful?” she inquires. Blissfully unaware of the danger and guileless of any offense, he opens his mouth to reply. Depending on one’s definition of ‘shoot his mouth off.’ I never quite mastered Twilight’s teleportation, despite having spent many an hour with her attempting to learn it in an attempt to distract her from the pain and depression those first couple years. All the same, I manage to appear beside the mare and Shoddy before he can send the conversation from the current dangerous waters into the approaching hurricane. “Why, to keep it from being knocked about, of course,” I finish for him. “Don’t you just find it aggravating when you have guests over and every time one sits down the couch gets pushed back a few inches? Terrible for the floorboards and it throws off the entire room’s symmetry.” Admittedly, I sometimes had to smooth over his, shall we say, rough patches. “Shoddy,” I begin after the customer had gone, looking him dead in the eye, “You never, ever, ever, comment on a mare’s weight. Ever. For any reason.” He shuffles one hoof. “I was just trying to be helpful.” Celestia, he looks pitiful. I pat him on the shoulder. “I know you were, darling, but it’s a touchy subject for many mares.” At least it provided the opportunity for object lessons. He brightens up with sudden inspiration. “Would it help if I said that I like mares with some meat on their bones?” A lot of opportunity for object lessons. “What? Why the face? I do! Really! Scrawny mares always make me want ta feed ’em a sandwich. They just gotta be hungry all the time. Naw, I think heftier gals are much prettier. They look healthier.” I’m torn between finding his perspective refreshing and finding his gaucheness horrifying. “Shoddy, while I’m sure many a mare would appreciate being told you find her genuinely pretty, it’s not generally appropriate for work conversation. And when you do have such conversations you should, ahem, perhaps consider some slight adjustments to your delivery.” He managed to maintain focus on what he was doing… “Shoddy, darling?” “Mm?” “You’ve been staring out the window for the past five minutes.” “Ah, bu— er, I mean, shucky-darns. I’m sorry, Miss Rarity.” … mostly… “Horseapples, have I really been sweeping this same spot that long?” “I’m afraid so, Shoddy.” “Son of a mule.” “Language, Shoddy.” “Right, um, gun. Son of a gun. Yeah. That.” And he kept a lid on his war talk. “So, anyway, I that’s how I got this scar here and… what was that, Miss Rarity? Oh! Crap— crud, I mean. Sorry, sir, I’ll load yer table out right now.” Except when he didn’t. “… is part of why I think this’s a nice pick on the couch. You know, the print on this thing also sorta reminds me o’ one me an’ my buddy Sure Shot got pinned behind in Budapone. Boy, wasn’t that day one Charlie Foxtrot after another! See, the cook had made us fried beets for breakfast that morning, which was bad enough since, you know, beets, plus Rocky couldn’t cook for jack. Seriously, he’d burn a salad. Literally – he burnt an actual friggin’ salad. And another time he made this puke-colored daffodil and bean casserole that gave us all the muddy muss if know what I mean, so…” Still and all, a day has passed since then and I haven’t gotten any complaints from the customers. He made the work go faster than if I had to shift the furniture myself or hire outside movers, validating my statement to Applejack that he wouldn’t be a burden. And, when one of the King’s Own zebras came in today to buy a couch for the guard quarters they’re building at the Acreage (still strange to think about that), he managed to help the chap all by himself. What’s more, he managed to do it without calling the young fellow a ‘zeb’ or any other such less-than-polite term. Celestia help me, he came close, but he caught himself in time and I don’t think Corporal Adla noticed. Granted, it probably wouldn’t have mattered anyway, since I gather that Arinze and Kafil already had a word with the other zebras; something to the effect that Shoddy doesn’t mean anything by it when he utters what might be a slur in other contexts. The fact that he and Arinze are plainly friends who engage in a fair amount of good-natured ‘slagging’ probably helps. For all that, it’s gratifying to see Shoddy remembering his manners. Maybe I ought to ask Spike if one of the superheroes in those comics he gave Shoddy is particularly genteel and personable. Or if they ever took a classical debonair character like the Crimson Pimpernel and transcribed him into one of those… oh, what were they called again? ‘Picture novels’ or somesuch? ‘Illustrated tales?’ ‘Graphic stories?’ Ah, well, I’ll just ask Spike next time I see him. I fear it must assuredly lose something in the transcription, but even a watered-down version might prove useful. Anything to help Shoddy think through personal interactions. The front bell of the Quill and Sofa jingles. Looking through the back-office window, I spy Applejack. “Darling,” I greet her, rising from my desk and entering the main room. “Your timing is impeccable. I just finished the last of the bookkeeping.” “That’s swell, Rares,” she says with a smile. “Shoddy in the back?” I shake my head as I cross the floor to her. “He’s helping one of your guards cart a couch back to the Acreage.” We exit the store and I lock the door behind us. Nearby, I see Kafil lingering unobtrusively; he gives me a genial wink that the other guards would never break character to deliver. I nod back and continue filling Applejack in. “Honestly, Adla probably didn’t need the help, but Shoddy insisted. I’m surprised you didn’t pass them on the way in.” Applejack snorts unhappily as we start walking. “Maybe Ah would’ve a few years ago, but this town has got so flippin’ big that Ah still get turned around now an’ then. Ah woulda been early otherwise.” I feel oddly comforted that there’s something that she finds jarring and unfamiliar after all these years. It makes me feel less left out when I feel that way constantly. Then I feel guilty because her discomfort shouldn’t be comforting, even to validate my own discomfort with how things have changed. “Certainly not the Ponyville we grew up in,” I remark as we sidestep a pair of colts from JROTC. “No, it ain’t,” she says with a melancholic sigh. Then a smile warms her face as she swishes her tail against her pregnant belly. “Lot o’ the changes are good, though.” Her cheer is infectious. “True enough.” Changing the subject, I ask, “So, where are we dining this evening?” “Well, Ah was thinkin—” Whatever Applejack was thinking is cut off by an imperious challenge from behind us. “You thought you could escape my notice, Applejack?” With inequine speed, Kafil has turned to face the challenger, his face flat, his hoof gripping the revolver in his holster. He hasn’t drawn, because like a good professional he’s still assessing the threat, but I’m frozen in place. I know that mare’s voice. It’s burned into my memory – a tale of pettiness and deceit. Judging from the frozen expression on Applejack’s face, she remembers too. “You thought you could simply return home to family and farm and leave me behind?” Wrenching my head free of my stupor, I turn to see a familiar hat and cloak mantling her – that arrogant antagonist, that spiteful nag. I’d thought her repentant, but her challenge suggests otherwise. My eyes widen in horror, but her eyes are fixed entirely on Applejack. She approaches imperiously, a triumphant smirk twisting her features. “So foolish you were,” continues the mare in her trademark sing-song stage voice as her steps bring her to us, “to think you could escape the Grrrreat and Powerful Trix—” Before she can finish, she is cut off by a mighty grapple. In a trice, Applejack has pinned the interloper in a grip that leaves her immobilized and at the earth pony’s mercy. Even so, I move to intervene, terrified that the baby might be injured if the mare is foolish enough to fight back. Applejack has pinned her in a way that keeps her well clear of the child, but if she uses her magic— —wait… …wait, why are they laughing? “Trixie, you crazy fuse head!” cries Applejack, roaring with mirth as she embraces the unicorn, “You scared the living daylights outta me! Come ’ere, you!” she laughs, maneuvering her into a friendly headlock and administering a fierce noogie. Trixie protests with equal ferocity, though her own laughter diminishes the effect somewhat. “Unhoof Trixie you uncouth jarhead! If this is how you treat your friends, it’s a wonder you became a Bearer of Harmony! I’ll have you clapped in irons for assaulting an officer!” Beg pardon? Friend? Officer? Applejack maintains her noogie offensive. “Sorry, Trix, but Ah’m a princess now. Ah think ‘royalty’ beats ‘colonel’ any day.” Royalty beats whatnow? Trixie snorts. “So, the hillbilly becomes royalty and the Great and Powerful Trixie continues to waste away in the squalor of the army.” She throws a dramatic hoof up as though swooning. “Will the injustices against Trixie never cease?” Then, all humor fading, she says, “Seriously, though, get off. You’ll muss Trixie’s uniform.” Muss her whaaa? “Whoops, sorry,” says Applejack contritely as she releases Trixie. “Still, serves ya right fer always wearin’ yer mess dress under that stupid hat and cape.” The unicorn brushes the dust off her cape. “Trixie must maintain a certain standard, Applejack,” she replies frostily. “Still, I suppose with so many troopers around it would be proper to reveal myself so they may properly salute the Great and Powerful Colonel Lulamoon.” With a flourish, she throws off her cape, revealing an army mess dress uniform bristling with decorations, including the Distinguished Service Cross, the Imperial Bloodstripe, and two Wound Badges. Gabawhuhuuuh? Kafil clears his throat meaningfully. “Can I assume this mare is a friend?” he asks with metered calm, tapping one hoof on the grip of his pistol. Applejack glances over and blushes. “Oops. Sorry, Kaf. Still not used to the whole ‘bodyguard’ business. Sorta forgot ta warn ya.” “Trixie did sneak up on you,” interjects the mare herself. Applejack gestures to the unicorn. “Rarity already knows her, but Ah’ll introduce you. Kafil, this here’s Trixie. One o’ my best friends from the war.” Oh is she now?! “You have bodyguards now?” asks Trixie, her voice at once mocking and jealous. “Well, haven’t we moved up in the world. A princess proper now, and not just a prince’s consort.” She clicks her tongue. “Typical. Who next among you shall rise where Trixie cannot? Uncouth Rainbow Dash? That madmare Pinkie Pie?” “Well, they both married commoners, so Ah doubt it,” chuckles Applejack. “Still, that leaves Fluttershy and Rarity on the table. Rarity always did mean to marry up in the world.” She winks at me as she says this, as though expecting me to weigh in. Sorry, Applejack, I’m still too busy not comprehending what’s happening in front of me. Trixie glances in my direction and nods thoughtfully. “A fair assessment, Trixie supposes. Fluttershy is the darling of the Armed Forces, and, as for Rarity, there is certain to be many a fit young lord who would seek the heart of Princess Twilight Sparkle’s right-hoof mare.” I’d be flattered if I understood what I was seeing. Applejack smirks. “Of course, Dash or Pinkie could always become alicorn princesses.” “Ugh! Don’t even joke about that!” says the unicorn sourly. “Though, if it does happen, Trixie’s money is on Pinkie Pie. It would be in keeping with her flagrant defiance of the laws of reality.” True enough, Trixie, and I’d love to say as much, but all I can think is what the buck is going on?! “Trixie?!” exclaims a raspy voice from overhead. Finally, somepony who sounds as surprised as I feel! Please, Rainbow Dash, come and save me from the madness that has engulfed my life! My cyan savior flaps down and stares open-mouthed at Trixie. Yes! That’s it, Rainbow! Demand an explanation on my behalf! You know you want to! The horned menace to my sanity smiles and waves. “Trixie greets you, Rainbow Dash? Have you heard Trixie’s joke about the three-legged squirrel?” I fully expect Rainbow Dash to demolish Trixie for that slight about her amputation. Instead, she demolishes my fragile grip on reality by bursting out laughing. “Same ol’ Trixie! Tongue’s still sharper than your wit, I see.” Trixie smirks. “An adequate retort, Rainbow. Did Twilight help you come up with it?” Rainbow’s laughter intensifies as she lands and grips Trixie in a comradely hug. “You jerk! Come here!” “Watch Trixie’s uniform, please!” Pulling out of the embrace, Rainbow’s face is lit with inspiration. “I gotta go tell the others you’re here! They’ll be stoked!” “You’ll find my husband at the Acres,” says Applejack, looping a hoof over Trixie’s withers. “Shoddy too. Gad, it’s been so long since we all seen each other! We oughta celebrate!” “Trixie agrees,” agrees Trixie. “She also proposes a grrrreat and powerful feast, perhaps…” her eyes light up with pleading eagerness, like a filly begging for sweets, “at the castle?” “Pff!” scoffs Rainbow. “What, the Great and Powerful Trixie couldn’t get an invite?” “It must have been lost in the mail,” sniffs Trixie. “You just want to sample the royal kitchens,” teases Rainbow. “Don’t take this from Trixie! Unlike you, she’s still on barracks food!” Applejack chuckles. “Ah think we can swing that. Heh! This’ll be an interesting conversation for more than one reason, but,” there’s a twinkle in her eyes, “Ah think it’ll be worth it.” Trixie smiles demurely and starts towards Twilight’s castle with Applejack. “Trixie happily concurs with Princess Applejack’s wisdom.” “Oh, so now Ah’m wise Princess Applejack and not a country bumpkin? That’s some change o’ tune there, Trix.” “Trixie is not above begging to get quality food in a refined setting.” “Ah’m well aware. Ah seem to remember a little incident in Saddlehurst—” “Trixie thought we had agreed never to speak of that again…” Their voices trail off as they round the corner out of sight. Kafil follows, his head shaking with the barest hint of visible annoyance. Rainbow lingers a moment, still smiling at the prospect of seeing her war buddy again. A war buddy named Trixie. Trixie. Trixie. “Criminy, it’s good to see Trixie again,” gushes Rainbow. “I mean, sure, Twilight’s gonna have a conniption fit when she shows up unannounced, especially with guests, but, eh, what can you do?” She turns to me, her face becoming concerned. “You okay, Rarity? You seem a little… um… slack-jawed.” A little slack-jawed. Yes. Just a little. I pour years of schooled etiquette into my features, putting on a refined smile, an air of studied calm, and a careful measure of mild interest, all to show that even such a remarkable turn of events cannot erode my composure. “Well, Rainbow Dash,” I say with regal tranquility, “I must confess that I do have one little question.” “Yeah? What?” I take in a ladylike breath before asking, with utmost equanimity, “WHAT IN SWEET CELESTIA’S BEER-BATTERED SUNDAY TEACAKES IS GOING ON?!” Author's Note "I'm not sure whether to have that mare promoted or shot." —Lieutenant General Poneshing, remarking on then-Captain Trixie Lulamoon after the Second Battle of Trotter's Hill Baggage of TricksIt would seem that after her brief Reign of Error in Ponyville, Trixie saw fit to join the Army, become a war hero, save my friends’ lives, and generally make a name for herself as fearsome, if eccentric, paragon of Equestrian martial virtue. That’s the gist of what I extract from Rainbow before she decides discretion is the better part of valor and takes her leave of the ground, zipping off through the sky to gather the others. Personally, I believe her hasty exit has more to do with avoiding my wrath than any sense of eagerness to accomplish her task, but it’s hard to say. She is genuinely excited to see her friend Trixie. The war hero. Celestia, that’s going to take some getting used to. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like for Twilight when she first heard… … wait… “Merciful Luna, she’s going to have a stroke!” Ponies spring to get out of my way as I sprint after Applejack and Trixie. The chase makes it clear that it’s high time I start exercising again. I never realized how much I took my adventuring physique for granted back in the glory days. It’s unseemly to be panting like this. It takes me a few twists and turns to find them, but once I get the right street they’re easy to spot. Between Kafil’s garb and coloration, Applejack’s stetson, and Trixie’s blasted wizard hat, the trio is not exactly subtle. “Applejack!” I cry out, trying to ignore the hoarseness in my voice, “Hold on a moment please!” They obligingly wait for me to come trotting up. Applejack raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Sheesh, Rares, you been sprintin’ again? Twi’s castle ain’t goin’ nowhere. You gotta slow down, girl.” “Believe me, Applejack,” I pant, “I’d love to. But I had to catch you before you reached the castle in order to clarify something.” She tilts her head. “Okay. What?” I just about ask, “When exactly were you planning on telling me that Trixie flipping Lulamoon became Captain barking Equestria?” but that would be neither polite nor politic. Instead, I opt for a much more measured, “Trixie, plainly, has rendered noble service unto Equestria and unto you and our friends, yes?” Applejack frowns confused. “Yes…” she replies uncertainly. “I see. And, perchance, were you under the impression that you had informed myself, and Twilight for that matter, of this heroism she has displayed?” Trixie snorts. “Trixie should hope the jarhead told you.” “Of course Ah did!” exclaims Applejack. “Ah wrote to ya right when it happened during the Balcant—” her eyes widen with sudden realization, “—Campaign.” Shock grows into horror, “Which is when they put the stop on the mail, and half the mail got mixed up afterwards, so that means… oooooh no.” “‘Oh no?’” repeats Trixie, paling. “Applejack, do you mean to tell Trixie that Twilight doesn’t know about me? As it, at all?!” Applejack sits heavily and pulls down the sides of her hat. “Sweet apple cider, Ah almost took Trixie right ta Twi’s door without so much of a howdee do.” “Indeed,” I reply with a smirk. “Quite a trick to pull on a mare with only one functioning lung.” I expect Trixie to rail against Applejack for daring to give her lèse-majesté, but, to my surprise, the magician seems to grow even paler. She glances nervously in the direction of the castle and takes a step away from it. “You know, Applejack,” she says with false unconcern, “it occurs to Trixie that it is somewhat less than polite to simply drop in on a mare unannounced.” Another step back. “W-why don’t we convene at your house instead.” She pivots away from the castle and starts to walk away. “Trixie will generously spare the p-princess the responsibility of hosting the magnificence of her Great and Powerful self—” “Now hang on a minute, Trix,” interrupts Applejack. “—out of consideration for her condition of course—" “Trixie…” “—wouldn’t want to impose—” “Trixie,” snaps Applejack. The mare obediently stops, but doesn’t turn. She just stands with her back to the castle and, my word, is she shaking? She is! Trixie Lulamoon, grand Ego of Equestria, war hero, legend, is shaking and stammering at the prospect of seeing crippled, half-invalid Twilight Sparkle. I… I’m not quite sure how to take this. Applejack steps up beside the showmare, dipping her head to look her in the eye. “Trix, what’s gotten into ya?” The magician takes several steadying breaths. Then, barely above a whisper, she replies, “I hadn’t counted on her not knowing.” She just said ‘I.’ Trixie just said ‘I.’ Applejack nods slowly, then loops a leg over Trixie’s withers. “Sorry, sugarcube. Ah… Ah didn’t know. Ah thought she knew, but… Ah’m sorry.” “It’s not your fault, Applejack,” replies Trixie gently. “Just… could… could we maybe not do this today?” Her voice is so soft. So vulnerable. In that moment, something in me shifts. Ever since Trixie blew into town, I’ve been struggling to reconcile what I’ve been seeing with the mare I knew. The last I saw Trixie, she was an egotistical, vain little showmare with a petty streak longer than the Equestrian border and the humility of a diamond-encrusted peacock. She insulted and put down everypony she saw. When that caught up with her, she hunted down a magical artifact of dangerous power for no reason other than to punish Twilight for daring to be better than her. Yes, the Alicorn Amulet was warping her actions, but it was still her. She still chose to put it on. I saw a brief moment of decency in her when she apologized to Twilight after the Amulet, but that was quickly followed by yet more self-aggrandizing. While I firmly approved of Twilight’s magnanimity towards Trixie, the fact remains that the experience of being ousted from her home left a mark on Twilight. She once confided to me that being cast out was a recurring fear of hers. Spike even let slip that it had been what Sombra showed her. Trixie made that fear a reality. Twilight, virtuous mare that she is, forgave Trixie, in spite of the pain. Because it’s the right thing to do. Because that’s who Twilight is. But not me. I lacked Twilight’s charity, and was never a big enough mare to forgive Trixie for that. It was shameful of me. I should have forgiven her years ago and moved on, whether she was truly repentant or not, but I was never willing to look past her ego and see the mare beneath. Even when Applejack and Rainbow Dash told me of her qualities, even with Equestria herself stamping Trixie with marks of heroism on the field of battle, I couldn’t see her. I see her now. “We don’t have to see Twi today,” Applejack is telling her. “We can do it when you’re ready—” “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” I interrupt. Both mares look at me, one in confusion, one in fear. “Rainbow Dash is already rounding up the others to go to the castle, and none of us can possibly hope to intercept her, especially once she finds Pinkie Pie.” Applejack’s brow furrows and Trixie sags. “But not to worry,” I add with a warm smile, walking over to stand in front of them, “because Twilight is going to be delighted to see you.” Trixie is stunned. “Sh-she is?” “Yes,” I reply firmly. “And do you know why?” Trixie shakes her head, and I smile. “Because Twilight is the best of us. She forgave you when she had no earthly reason to, back when you were still a conceited, selfish pony who cared only for herself.” I reach up and prod her in the chest, my hoof brushing against her Distinguished Service Cross. “You are not that mare anymore, and if it’s one thing Twilight loves, it’s a good redemption story. And making new friends, of course.” Trixie stands silent, too stunned to speak, but a hopeful light fills her eyes and a smile tugs at her lips. “Plus,” I chuckle, “from what Rainbow Dash tells me you saved our friends’ lives, so, you know, bonus points.” The showmare-turned-colonel stares, her jaw flapping open and shut as she struggles to find the words. “That’s…” She glances to the side, a suspicious moisture appearing in her eyes. “That’s really… I’m…” Trixie blinks and rubs at her eyes, then meets my gaze openly, her stage smile back. “What Trixie means is, of course the princess will be happy to see the Great and Powerful Colonel Lulamoon!” I can’t help but smile at the irrepressible mare. “Of course she will.” Reaching out a hoof for shaking, I say, “It’s a pleasure to meet the new you, Trixie Lulamoon.” “Likewise,” she replies, her voice thick with emotion. Leaning in to whisper in her ear, I add, “You should still probably let me warn our infirm princess first, just to be safe.” “Agreed,” she chortles. Trixie’s usual aplomb has returned by the time we reach the castle. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that such a lapse of confidence as she displayed earlier would be impossible for her. Since I do know better, I find myself wondering how she will react when she sees Twilight. Ah well, as Pinkie always says, we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it. We reach the perimeter defenses to the Castle of Friendship. Armed guards in the purple livery and ceremonial (but highly functional) armor of the Harmonic Guard check Trixie’s and Kafil’s papers, then wave us through. Another pair check their papers at the door itself, but make no further move to dissuade our passage. I knock on the door and wait. For all the changes that have happened to the castle over the years, Twilight has still tried to keep it as much of a ‘home’ and as little of a ‘palace’ as possible. Thus, there’s no formal doorkeeper laid on to answer. The few castle staff do their best to respect this and, odds are, Spike will answer, just as he always has. Twilight almost certainly won’t unless she happens to be passing by, though it does occur to me that perhaps I should have told Trixie to hide in the bushes just in case. My fears prove to be groundless, as the door is answered neither by Spike nor by Twilight, but by a massive, scarred, bearded stallion with legs as big around as my barrel. “Big MacIntosh,” I greet him. “A pleasure to find you here. Been well?” “Eeyup,” he replies. The huge stallion nods warmly to myself and Applejack, then catches sight of Trixie. At this his stoic face becomes sorely perplexed. I must admit that I smile at that. Finally, somepony else is confused! Trixie, for her part, regards the stallion before her with great interest. Great interest. Great interest in the large, handsome stallion, whom she probably only saw once or twice in passing many years ago and thus probably doesn’t know that he’s— Oh dear. Unaware of the look Trixie is giving her brother, Applejack introduces them. “Big Mac, this is Trixie. Trixie, this is Big Mac.” “It is a pleasure,” says Trixie demurely, taking a slow step forward as she gazes deeply into his eyes. “If Trixie had known Ponyville held such interesting stallions, she might have stuck around.” Big Mac’s eyes widen. “Um…” I move to stop this trainwreck before it can start, but Applejack is already on top of it, hauling Trixie back with a laugh as she starts to creep forward. “Woah there, missy! Before ya go an’ say somethin’ you’ll regret later, the big lug’s spoken for.” Trixie visibly deflates. “Oh, phooey” she pouts. “A shame. Trixie is sorry.” “Sorry he’s taken, or sorry for flirtin’ with him?” “Eh. Little of column A, little of column B.” Applejack chuckles. “Mare, we gotta find you a husband.” “Trixie concurs.” Still shaking with amusement, Applejack turns back to her brother. “Anyhoo, Big Mac, we’re here to see Twilight. The others will be along soon as Rainbow can round ’em up. Since Ah assume you didn’t get my letters, the short version is Trixie turned a new leaf, saved my life, became a war hero. You know the bit.” Big Mac blinks. “Um… eeyup?” I chuckle. “Don’t worry, Big Mac, I had much the same reaction.” Except, you know, more enthusiastically. “We’d like to all have dinner, compare notes, catch up, that sort of thing, but I think it wise if I, shall we say, soften the news for Twilight first?” He nods sagely. “Eeyup.” “Capital. Could you please point me to her and then inform the Chef to anticipate a crowd?” “Eeyup.” “Thank you, darling.” In other contexts, I would not have dared invite myself into another pony’s home and declare “you’re having company and here’s what your staff is doing.” However, this was my home for the duration; I know how things work. Chef loves his job and thrives on such challenges (mostly he enjoys cussing and carrying on about how ‘impossible’ it will be while he effortlessly does it). As for Twilight, I know her well enough to know that she will want to make a Friendship Event out of this when all becomes clear. Like a good Stewardess of the Castle (which, in a way, I was), I’m anticipating her desires. And giving Chef more time to moan and cuss. He’ll probably come chew me out later, in keeping with our long-established dance. But, as Spike would put it, “That’s future Rarity’s problem.” Present Rarity’s problem is how to tell Twilight about our unexpected guest without giving the poor dear a heart attack. Not surprisingly, Twilight is in the library. The walk there is spent pondering how best to broach the topic. Thankfully, it is a long walk, giving me plenty of time to consider my options and oh look we’re here. Hm. That walk is not nearly as long as I remember it. Applejack and I exchange a glance at the door. “So… do you want to or should Ah?” “Darling, please! I have this well and truly in hoof.” “Ya’ll have no idea what yer gonna say, do ya.” “Not in the slightest.” Taking a deep breath, I push into the room, leaving Applejack, Kafil, and the mare, the myth, the Great and Powerful Trixie outside. Twilight, to the surprise of exactly zero ponies, has her muzzle buried in a book. “Hello, darling,” I half sing as I enter. “What are you reading today?” Twilight looks up from the tome as I enter. “Hi, Rarity. I was wondering who was at the door.” She holds up the book for me to see. Not that it helps much – the title is in a language that looks like it dates back to Old Pegasopolis. “The complete works of Aristotail,” she announces happily. Then, with a shy blush, “Big Mac and I are reading it to each other.” “Aw, that is so precious,” I gush. Hopelessly nerdy and oh so precious. “Well, I regret to interrupt such a romantic evening, but I’ve come to you with something rather… unexpected.” “Oh?” inquires Twilight, setting the book down. “Nothing bad, I hope.” “Not bad, no. Just, as I said, unexpected. To put it mildly.” I purse my lips. How the blazes did I manage to walk here without a script in mind? “Darling, allow me to propose to you the following hypothetical question.” She claps her forehooves together. “Ooh, I love hypotheticals. Hit me.” Yes, this will hit you all right. “Well, darling, it’s like this,” I begin. “Suppose you were to have a guest one day. Say, a pony who once wronged you.” Twilight rubs her chin thoughtfully. “Okay. Somepony specific, or just a generic hypothetical.” “Specific,” I say. With the affectation of an afterthought, I add, “In fact, for the sake of argument, let us suppose that this hypothetical pony is, oh, I don’t know, Trixie.” The princess raises a regal eyebrow. “That’s some hypothetical.” “Yes, well, it’s just something that’s been on my mind lately,” comes my flippant (though technically factual) reply. “Now, for the sake of this hypothetical, let us suppose that Trixie is somewhat different than when you last saw her.” “Different, like, ‘personality change’, or different, like ‘grew a second horn’?” Wouldn’t that have been a sight! “The first one,” I reply. “Now, let us suppose that her personality shift is rather dramatic.” Twilight giggles. “You mean like she stopped using the third person?” She did use the first person once earlier, so maybe. “Erm, not quite, darling. I was thinking more along the lines of, well, that is to say…” My restraint evaporates and the worlds tumble out, “Let us suppose she found her patriotic spirit and became a great and legendary war hero who saved our friends’ lives on the battlefield.” For a moment, Twilight simply regards me with a blank expression. Then she almost falls out of her wheelchair laughing. And we’re talking long, hard laughter, complete with snorts. It is amazing how much volume that one lung is generating, truly. Several times she tries to get words out, only to dissolve into snorting hilarity. I am really, really glad Twilight put soundproofing spells on the library walls. The lavender laugher finally gets her guffaws under control and grins at me, wiping a tear from one eye. “That was a good one, Rarity. Hoo boy! I was laughing so hard I thought you were gonna have to call the doctor. Trixie? A war hero? Serving with the girls on the front line to defend the free world from the Dominion menace? That would be something to see!” She giggles another few times. All things considered, I think this is going rather well. Once her giggles die down, she turns thoughtful. “Though, when I stop to think about it, perhaps it’s not charitable of me to laugh. After all, any pony can be a hero – all it takes is a willingness to do the right thing when the decision requires great sacrifice or risk. I could see Trixie making that choice. Sure, she’s a selfish mare, last I saw anyway, and heroism requires selflessness. But, hey, ponies change. If she saw an evil she couldn’t ignore and did something selfless once, maybe she caught the bug. Maybe she realized how much happier she could be if she started looking to something higher than herself to find happiness…” Twilight shrugs. “When you consider it in those terms, it doesn’t seem so farfetched. And, as to saving our friends, there was a lot of overlap with the different theaters of war, and transfers weren’t unheard of. Several years of fighting means she gets moved on occasion, winds up with each of the girls at one time or another. Given that serendipity follows the six of us around, well, it might play havoc with statistics but the chances of it happening are probably decent. So, yeah, I could hypothetically see that.” I raise an eyebrow, finding myself wondering how much of Twilight’s educated guessing lines up with the path the real Trixie took. “Interesting analysis,” I say. “Interesting hypothetical,” replies Twilight. “I have to ask, though, what spawned the question? You see an ad for one of her shows in the paper or something?” “Not… exactly. Twilight, darling,” I run my tongue over the back of my teeth while I choose my words, “let us consider another hypothetical… one wherein the first hypothetical… was… not… hypothetical.” Twilight tilts her head curiously. “Wouldn’t that just bring us back to the original question? I mean, if the you’re asking if, hypothetically, the first hypothetical isn’t a hypothetical, then it’s still hypothetical because…” she trails off, her eyes widening, “wait… unless…” her stare fixes on me, “unless this is your way of cuing me in that this isn’t hypothetical at all, which means that…” her hooves fly to her cheeks, “oh, Celestia, this is real.” I clear my throat. “Well, darling—” “A-and Big Mac hasn’t come back yet, which means you probably asked him to do something first, and you’re here with the hypothetical instead of heading to dinner with Applejack like you’d been planning for days, which means that she really became friends with our friends, which suggests you probably bumped into her which means,” her bulging eyes lock on the door, “war hero Trixie Lulamoon is right outside my door, isn’t she.” My gaze moves from Twilight to the door and back to Twilight. I click my tongue and rock on my hooves. “Hypothetically yes.” Twilight falls utterly silent. She just sits there, staring at the door with mouth agape and eyes wide. Honestly, she’s silent for so long that I’m starting to consider actually calling the doctor when she blurts out, “I really flipping hope I remembered to renew the soundproofing spell on the library this month.” Once Twilight’s had a few moments to collect herself, her thoughts, and her tattered sense of reality, I explain the mailing mixup that led to our present predicament. When I’ve finished, she snorts in irritation. “Never would have happened if Ditzy Doo hadn’t gotten embroiled in that whole business with Daring Do, Caballeron, and the Goblet of Infinite Possibilities.” “And that business with the Talon operatives that followed,” I add. “What with the Casque of Forlorn Dreams and all. I shudder to think what the Dominion would have done if they’d gotten their claws on it.” Twilight shudders. “Then there was Blue Falcon Incident in Stalliongrad. I understand the griffons not knowing better, but the ponies should have known to leave that artifact buried. If Daring and Ditzy hadn’t fulfilled the Prophecy of the Doers…” “Not to mention Budapone.” “We never mention Budapone.” “Right. Sorry.” Twilight massages her eyes. “Even with a war on, there’s still no end to the crazy adventures. I guess we should just consider ourselves lucky Ditzy proved to be unnaturally suited to the task.” I nod. “Agreed. If I hadn’t been convinced of destiny and Providence long ago, that mare would have won me over.” Looking up, Twilight notes, “She’s still on the Crown payroll, you know. From what I hear, she and Daring have made quite the name for themselves in Intelligence circles.” Shrugging her one remaining wing, she remarks, “Ah, well. All things considered, having the mail be late was probably worth it to not have to worry about, you know, magical catastrophe. Even if it meant having,” she gestures to the door, “this sprung on me.” “Agreed. Though at least this is a pleasant surprise.” “And, if it’s one thing Ditzy taught me, it’s that heroes can spring from anywhere,” says Twilight with surety, nodding in confirmation to her own words. “Okay. I’m ready. Let’s do this.” I make my way to the door admit the others. Kafil, unsurprisingly, is standing at attention with a bland expression of professional disinterest on his face. Applejack is sitting, twirling her stetson on one hoof while she watches Trixie. The mare of the hour is pacing nervously back and forth. At least, she appears nervous for the split second between when the door opens and when she rears to her stage pose. “Well? Is the princess ready to receive the Greeeeat and Powerful Colonel Lulamoon?” Is anypony ever truly ready? “Right this way,” I say with a gesture. As she falls in next to me, I ask, “So, did you hear anything out here?” “Trixie did not. Why?” “Oh, no reason.” We reenter the room and Twilight starts to pull her wheelchair around the table, a cheerful smile on her face as she prepares to greet Trixie casually. She doesn’t get the chance. Trixie marches to a precise position on the floor, one she seems to know by instinct, and snaps to full attention, right hoof raised in salute. “Colonel Trixie Lulamoon, 35th Field Artillery Regiment reporting, your Serene Highness.” Twilight blinks rapidly, rearing back in surprise. She’s gotten much more comfortable in her royal duties over the last few years, but at heart I think she’ll always be a town librarian. “Erm, thank you, Colonel Lulamoon. As you were.” Trixie relaxes into parade rest. Twilight pulls her chair back to her previous position and gestures to one of the other chairs. “Please, sit.” Trixie does as she’s bade, and Applejack and I find seats of our own; Kafil opts to stand. Even sitting, Trixie looks like she’s at attention. Despite knowing why, it’s still rather bizarre. Borderline unsettling. Twilight seems to agree. “At ease, Trixie,” she says. “And permission to speak freely while I’m at it.” With a wry grin, she adds, “Something tells me we’ve got a few things to discuss.” Trixie relaxes, answering with a wry grin of her own. “You would be correct in that assumption, Princess Twilight Sparkle. Congratulations on that, by the way. You’ve earned it.” “Thank you, Trixie. It’s…” she chuckles, “I’ll be honest, it’s a little odd to hear you say that so genuinely, but thank you.” “It is odd, Trixie will grant you that,” concurs the showmare with a smirk. Then, more soberly, “Or perhaps it is simply odd that it took so long.” Twilight cocks her head and Trixie looks down, the brim of her non-regulation hat obscuring her eyes. “This conversation has been a long time coming, Twilight Sparkle. The fact that it almost didn’t happen only makes that more apparent.” She looks up, an intense light in her eyes. “But we have to have it out, Sparkle. We have to clear the air. Trixie needs to. Before the others arrive, before we sit around and tell war stories and you are regaled with the tales of the Great and Powerful Trixie, you need to hear some things.” “O-okay,” stammers Twilight, paling at the intensity of the stare. “If you think that’s necessary.” “It is,” sighs Trixie, reaching up a hoof to take off her hat. “It really is.” She sets the hat down and toys with the point, a thousand-yard-stare in her eyes. “What Trixie has to say is not something that comes readily to her, Twilight Sparkle. Even after all this time. She’ll have to admit some rather… ugly things about herself.” Her eyes flick upwards. “Promise Trixie you will let her finish before you interject. Either of you,” she adds, fixing me with a firm look. “Applejack already knows this story, but Trixie can’t be interrupted with words or hugs or songs or anything until she is finished.” Twilight nods. “I promise.” “I promise,” I echo. “Thank you,” she says, before letting her eyes drift back into the distance. “Trixie never liked you, Twilight Sparkle,” begins the mare. “You were smarter than her, more powerful than her, greater than her in every respect.” Dryly, she continues, “You were also a much better pony than Trixie, but she didn’t really care to think about that at the time. It was hard enough looking at all the other ways you were better. Hard enough knowing that you were a superior magician without considering that you were better at heart.” Trixie snorts. “But hiding from your vices forever is difficult to do. The blasted Amulet made that painfully clear. Such petty vengeance to wreak against a mare whose only crime had been to save me from my own arrogance.” She shakes her head. “It’s a terrible thing, Twilight Sparkle, to think the world revolves around you. Every imposition is an insult, every reversal a blasphemy. To play at being the Creator is to make your own pathetic, flawed self the center of the universe.” I can see her muscles tensing and untensing. “And what a miserable universe it is.” Trixie brushes an imaginary speck of dust from her hat, then regards Twilight with a level gaze. “When you forgave Trixie for what she did to you and your friends, you showed a far greater mercy than merely that of the law.” Her eyes flash. “You showed her the mercy of ripping away the veil, so that she might see her vices in all their nakedness.” She leans forward, her eyes locked on Twilight’s. “Do you have any idea how many years it was since Trixie last examined her actions in the light of any morality other than her own crude selfishness?” Twilight mutely shakes her head. “Neither is Trixie,” admits the mare frankly. “It had been so long. And she didn’t take it gracefully, oh no,” she chuckles, leaning back. “Trixie still tried to blame it all on you, on your friends, on bad luck, on the cruel whim of fate, anything but herself. She couldn’t bear to look in the mirror and see such ugliness. So,” shrugs Trixie, “she didn’t. Trixie poured herself into restarting her career, branding herself as penitent and humble, but still unchanged, except in one respect.” Her lips curl in a bitter smile. “Now, the lies she told herself haunted her in the loneliness of the night.” Trixie closes her eyes. “Jealousy had been there from when Trixie first saw your power, Twilight. Petty hate, too, after the Ursa. Now, though, the hate was deeper yet – a complex hate, born of debt and guilt and the brutal knowledge that the hate was wrong, that Trixie was wrong.” She swallows. “That she had been wrong for a long time.” Opening her eyes, her gaze traces the lines in the ceiling. “Trixie hated feeling like she did. She hated you, and hated that she hated you. So she got this crazy idea: return to Ponyville with some great show, some magnificent act that even the legendary Twilight Sparkle would be impressed by. Then, when Trixie finally had some way to say that she was truly better than you, she could stop hating and move on.” The showmare snorts. “Foolproof, eh? No way that could possibly go wrong. Anyway, Trixie threw herself into the scheme, sweating night and day over it, determined to one day return and best the legend. She was actually in Manehatten working on the performance when a special bulletin came over the radio.” Trixie licks her lips. “They… they said there’d been an attack at the Hoofenburg Summit. They said Princess Twilight Sparkle had been shot, and that she probably wouldn’t make it, and that we were now at war, and there was Trixie…” tears form in her eyes, “and there was Trixie…” she half sobs. The mare breaks off and gives a great, shuddering sigh as the first tears fall. “And there I was, sitting on my flank in Manehatten, scheming, plotting to show up the mare who saved me from myself, all because I was too much of a coward to look myself in the mirror.” Trixie Lulamoon hangs her head as the tears fall. Every instinct in my body is screaming at me to go embrace her, to hold her as I would Sweetie Belle and stroke her mane until the crying stops. Twilight is in similar anguish. But a promise is a promise, and Trixie has more to tell us. After a time, she resumes, her voice shaking. “I’m not sure how long I wandered the streets. Minutes? Hours? It could have been days for all I saw of the world around me.” She looks up with tear-stained eyes. “All I could see was you, Twilight. The mare who had shown me a way out of myself, a way to happiness, if only I’d looked, and now… now I’d never get to thank you for that. So, I wandered. I wandered until I found my way into a recruiting station. Signed the papers the same day.” Trixie reaches up a hoof and dries her eyes, her sobs receding. “With my knack for pyrotechnics, they assigned me to the artillery. 977th Battalion. We hit a lot of heavy fighting from the get-go. It was awful and yet…” a fond smile touches her lips as she looks heavenward, “I had the strangest sense of peace. For the first time in heaven knows how long, I was living for something bigger than myself, and it felt good.” She nods in satisfaction. “What’s more, I was good at it! So good that I was a sergeant within a few months. A few months later, they’d given me a field commission. Within a few years, I was commanding the battalion. There were citations, medals, the accolades of my fellow soldiers… I was getting the recognition I’d always craved, and yet,” a beatific smile brightens her face at the memory, “none of that compared to that feeling I got in Basic when they told us you were going to live, when I found out I hadn’t missed my chance to tell you all this.” The colonel brings her gaze back down to earth and rests it on the astonished Twilight. “So, now that we’re here, all I can say is… thank you. Thank you for everything.” Now, she is finished, and the silence that follows is weighty. I’m not surprised to discover that I broke down crying in the midst of that and simply didn’t realize. I try to think of something to say, some profound response to all the profundity our old antagonist has displayed, but I can’t. Twilight, though, knows what to say. Or, rather, what not to say. She wheels her chair over to Trixie, her eyes wet with tears, and embraces her. Twilight, it seems, is still wiser than me, as the Princess of Friendship should be. When the long, sisterly hug finally comes to a close, Twilight can’t help but make a humble admission. “Just so we’re clear, since you really seem to have put me up on a pedestal, I truly did forgive you back then, but I’m not a perfect mare. I harbored plenty uncharitable thoughts about you for years after the fact, and, full disclosure, when Rarity told me you were here, I thought she was joking and cracked up.” Trixie chuckles. “Perfectly understandable, Princess. And oddly comforting in a way. It’s good to remember the saints are sinners too.” Twilight blushes. “Oh, I’m not a saint.” “Then how do you explain your role in saving my soul?” retorts Trixie. Blushing even more furiously, Twilight wheels back. “Look, can we drop this, please? I’ll make it an order if I have to, Colonel.” “Cheater!” accuses Trixie, sticking her tongue out. “I’ll lodge a protest!” “And for Celestia’s sake,” laughs Twilight, “now that we’ve had the heart to heart, can you please drop the first-person thing? It’s freaking me out.” “Trixie happily obliges. It freaks her out too. Also,” she licks her lips, “Trixie was promised fine castle fare in lieu of Army food, and believes it should be approaching dinnertime.” “Oh, certainly,” replies Twilight, deadpan. “I’m sure Chef has whipped up some incredible barracks gruel.” Applejack snorts with laughter and I can’t help but titter at the imperious frown on Trixie’s face. “You are a low and evil mare, Twilight Sparkle.” The princess cackles and starts wheeling towards the door. “Come on, Great and Powerful. Chef’s about to knock you clean out of your hat.” “Trixie looks forward to it.” With that, the pair set off down the hall, the rest of us trailing behind. Murmuring so as not to be heard by the vanguard, Applejack remarks, “Mercy’s a heck of a thing, ain’t it?” “A blessed thing,” agrees Kafil. Watching the two former foes chat amiably, I can’t help but smile. “Well, darlings, you know what they say: Friendship is Magic.” Author's Note I can’t help but smile at the irrepressible mare. “Of course she will.” Reaching out a hoof for shaking, I say, “It’s a pleasure to meet the new you, Trixie Lulamoon.” “Likewise,” she replies, her voice thick with emotion. Leaning in to whisper in her ear, I add, “Hail Harmony.” I wound up listening to House of Glass a goodly number of times for this chapter, both the 4everfreebrony version and the Aviators version. Next chapter: war stories and a little more insight into Shoddy's troubles. The Equestrian military was woefully understrength before the war. Generations of peace led to fewer and fewer resources being allocated to national defense. This created the joint problems of, firstly, limited personnel and funds and, secondly, the fact that what few personnel and funds they had were spread too thin, with substandard equipment, green units, and poor logistics. When Celestia and the sitting Government finally managed to ram the EUP Guard Modernization Act through over the intense objects of the Opposition, they began to solve the problems of outdated equipment and neglected logistical infrastructure. Unfortunately, the greatest problem of all went unresolved: personnel. Even as the Guard finally received modern weapons and proper funding for the coming war, they lacked the numbers to use them. Despite numerous recruitment campaigns championed by all four princesses and each branch of the Service, the numbers remained low in most provinces. This changed abruptly with the assassination attempt on Twilight Sparkle. Outraged ponies flocked to recruitment stations across both Equestria and the Crystal Empire. Soon the EUP had more applicants than it could process. However, training these ponies still took time, and in the early days of the war the mostly green Equestrian units suffered massive casualties at the claws of veteran Dominion soldiers. This created a desperate personnel shortage even with the windfall of new recruits, which led to a lowering of standards at the recruiting offices. Common jokes of the time included, “Eye tests? We don’t check ’em, only count ’em,” “Live ponies pass,” and “If you can carry a tune, you can carry a gun.” —Excerpt from Victor Hoofsen’s Casualties of Peace Missing the MarkThe rest of the dinner party passes in a blur for me. I have a vague notion that the conversation winds back to more pleasant topics, but they could be talking about tapdancing penguins for all I know. To be honest, I’m not certain I say anything beyond rote responses. Even Chef appearing with my favorite tiramisu is not enough to reclaim my focus. Sloppy on my part; now he’ll worry and feel obliged to check in on me later, and we both know how much he hates dropping our façade of mutual antagonism. I’ll have to slip him a bottle of Doublewood Scotch with a backhooved compliment on the attached note to forestall his concern and save us both the trouble. I’m not sure who among the others notices my distraction – with such a large and exuberant gathering it’s possible that my quietude has gone largely unnoticed, or at least been relegated to the status of unremarkable. I’d prefer that, honestly. The last thing I want is one of my friends asking about what’s bothering me when what’s bothering me is… well… them. Well, not them per se, it’s just… … after all the pain, all the misery… … I simply don’t understand. Maybe I can’t understand. I’m not sure if that makes the situation better or worse. Fluttershy probably notices my silence. On top of the fact that she’s sitting next to me, she also spends most such gatherings quietly observing others. Out of all of them, it would bother me least if she asked what the problem is. After all, Fluttershy was not in the practice of… well, it was never her job to… as a medic her role was not… Oh, the hay with it! There’s no nice way of framing this: Fluttershy never killed anyone. All she did in the war was save lives, and I find the fact that she can miss the war a little easier to swallow than the notion that my other friends… … I mean, I can understand the reasoning, even appreciate it to a degree, and I know that none of them miss the killing and death, but… It’s a lot to process is all. The notion that such kind, gentle, noble souls as my friends could miss something so terrible for any reason is a lot to fathom. And with Shoddy, especially with Shoddy, coming home with his mind so in pieces that he can’t hold down the most basic of grunt work… how could any rational being miss something that hurt so much? Yes, I can see the logic that one would miss the comradery and the clear sense of purpose and the familial love. Celestia knows I’ve missed our adventuring days for the same reason! Thus, I can accept, at least at an intellectual level, that my friends could miss war. But to accept it at an emotional level, especially to accept that Shoddy of all ponies misses it, that is a bridge too far! Or perhaps I just feel that way because it’s still fresh. Not an everyday occurrence to have your worldview upended, after all. Maybe it will make sense in a week or two. Or maybe I’ll be left on the sidelines wondering. Again. I try to focus on enjoying my tiramisu (Chef is a culinary artist) and rejoining the conversation, but inevitably my thoughts return to the rut of my unfathomable quandary. It’s exhausting. By the time the dinner finally winds down, I feel ready to sleep for a week. When Twilight suggests that the group adjourn to the library to continue the evening’s festivities, I spy my chance to escape. Citing several poor nights of sleep (I’ve struggled with periodic bouts of insomnia ever since the attempt on Twilight’s life), I beg leave of the merrymakers to depart early. My polite exit is greeted with urgings to tough it out and stay, mostly from Applejack and Rainbow Dash, whose teasing tone suggests they’re distracted enough to miss my discomfort. In fact, only Fluttershy seems to pick up on my ulterior motive, though, true to form, she stays quiet about it. (Big Mac and Bud might see through my façade as well, but it’s hard to tell with strong silent types). Then, as I’m leaving, Shoddy offers to walk me home. The genteel offer takes me off-guard. Shoddy’s standard lack of any filter sometimes makes it hard to remember that he has a courteous heart. He may lack certain social graces (okay, he lacks many social graces), but that’s more down to him not being able to judge time and place than it is to any lack of respect for others. I’ve known plenty of ponies with much technical politeness but precious little regard for courtesy. Shoddy, with his offer, reminds me that he’s practically the opposite. At first, I try to refuse – I don’t really want company right now and, in any case, it’s been good to see him really enjoying himself for a change. But he’s insistent and, given that this is one of those rare times where his courteous instincts line up with a technically polite action, I accept his generosity on the condition that he return to the castle to enjoy himself after seeing me home. The long walk back to the boutique is quiet at first, but that doesn’t last long. “Miss Rarity, what’s wrong with—” Shoddy begins to ask with his usual brashness, “—er, what I mean ta say is, can I ask what’s botherin’ ya?” Sweet Luna, he actually changed what he was going to say to be more appropriate! Magnifique! I mean, terrible time for it, since I don’t want to talk about this, but magnifique all the same! “Shoddy, I’m…” I stop short of denying that anything’s wrong. On top of the fact that I’m trying to be better about not using even little fibs, I don’t think it would work anyway. “It’s not something I’d like to discuss in public,” I say instead. The stallion raises an eyebrow and looks around at the streets, lit by the rising moon and the lamp posts. Empty streets. Looking back to me, he says, “If ya don’t mind my sayin’, we ain’t exactly out in public right now.” Yes, well, I suppose that Ponyville is still a country town, recent and rapid wartime expansion notwithstanding. Ordinarily I like the small-town feel, but right now the lack of busyness is decidedly inconvenient. I heave a sigh, weighing whether or not to ask him to drop it. He probably would, but something tells me it would come up later in ways he no doubt thought were subtle but would, in fact, be about as subtle as Trixie and Pinkie juggling fireworks. While on fire. Ultimately, I decide that it’s better to lance the boil now. “I truly haven’t slept well lately, but you’re right; something is bothering me. I—” “Yer wonderin’ how we can miss the war, aincha?” “Well… yes,” I admit, biting back a correction about him interrupting me because now isn’t the time. “Intellectually, I can accept missing comrades and cause, but to miss something so terrible as war, I don’t…” I look up at him. “I don’t understand it, Shoddy! How can you miss war when it—?” I chop the question off before I finish it with an overly blunt question, but Shoddy seems to hear it anyway. “How can I miss war when it left me bucked in the head?” he asks. “Not quite how I would have put it,” wincing at my mistake as much as his coarse language, “but I suppose that’s the gist of my question, yes.” Shoddy shrugs, showing no offense. “Fair question. I’d ask it in your shoes.” He’s quiet a moment, showing unusual thought before speaking. “Miss Rarity, when did ya find out what you were good at? Yer special talent and whatnot?” Not the direction I expected this conversation to go, but let it never be said that Rarity cannot adapt. “Well, it started when I was making costumes for a school play. You see, I had made serviceable costumes, but I wanted them to be exquisite. Then, later that night, my horn started glowing…” I tell him the story of how I got my cutie mark. He listens attentively, not getting sidetracked like he usually does, and interrupting only to ask a few clarifying questions. Did my parents understand my aspirations? Well, no, not really. But they supported me anyway? Well, yes, I suppose they did. Was it clear from the start what my special talent entailed? Mostly, I suppose. It became more nuanced with time but, yes, I had a clear idea almost immediately. Have I always been able to pursue my special talent? For the most part, yes. True, it’s been a long and arduous process developing my business, with multiple false starts, failed investments, and botched deals, but Equestria is friendly to entrepreneurs and I’ve always been good at learning from my mistakes. Throughout the conversation, he stays on topic. Ordinarily, I’d rejoice in this, but currently his intensity fills me with disquiet for reasons I can’t put my hoof on. By this point, we’re close to the boutique, but I’m no closer to hearing his explanation. My first instinct is to pry it out of him – I have a certain talent for getting stallions to open up – but in this case I think it’s best to let him tell me when he’s ready. With his final question answered, Shoddy takes a moment to think before saying softly, “Yer a real lucky mare, Miss Rarity. I hope you know that.” I nod. “I am aware, and I am very grateful for my many blessings.” He nods silently, then speaks while staring at some unseen point in the distance. “I grew up in the Middle of Nowhere.” He snorts. “Literally. Some jackass thought ‘Middle of Nowhere’ would be a funny name for a frontier town.” Well, that’s donkey humor for you. “I didn’t get no schoolin’,” he continues, “an’ I didn’t have nopony to learn me a trade. Ma and Pa were farmers, like most o’ the town, but I never had no talent for it. I could kill crops by lookin’ at ’em. Folks used ta say I was a busted earth pony.” I bite back a horrified remark for fear that interrupting him would cause him to clam up. “I tried minin’,” Shoddy says. “Thought maybe if’n I couldn’t make nothin’ grow from the earth, I could at least work rocks, but I couldn’t tell coal from granite. All I was good for was bustin’ rocks, an’ even then I wasn’t as good as ponies with marks for it.” He sighs. “That’s how it was with just about everythin.’ I’d find a job, try it, an’ either screw up big time or just be no better than a dumb grunt who couldn’t do much but hit things or move things. But I had ta find some work, ’specially while my siblings were too little ta work much. Pa often took sick, an’ Ma had ’er hooves full with the others tryin’ ta run what little land we had. We needed the money for medicine, bad harvests, and fixin’ busted equipment. So, I ran all over town findin’ any grunt work I could. When the work ran out, I walked ta other towns and did grunt work there, sent money back.” We’ve reached the boutique by now, but we don’t go inside. I don’t even pull out my keys to unlock the door for fear that if I make any noise I’ll silence him forever. “I can’t tell ya how many miles I walked, how many rocks I broke or carts I pulled. I weren’t good at none of it, but boy howdy I worked. Some places I don’t even remember the names; I wasn’t there long enough, an’ nopony needed me to stay around when the job was done.” He laughs bitterly. “But you know what the craziest part is?” He waits until I shake my head. “Craziest part is, my cutie mark showed up somewhere in that mess.” “‘Somewhere in that mess?’” I can’t help but repeat. “But where? Doing what?” “No buckin’ idea,” comes the bitter chuckle. “Ain’t that just a kick? An iron shoe shows up on my flank one day without so much as a ‘by the by,’ and I got no idea when. Coulda been any one of a dozen er so odd jobs. An’ nopony noticed, ’cause I weren’t never around long enough ta make friends. I tried ta figure out what it meant – a farrier maybe, or a miner? But no matter where I went, what I did, I was no better at it after I got my mark than before.” “Then, one day, my kid siblings weren’t kids anymore. They all got their marks in farmin’ stuff like my folks, and suddenly the farm weren’t strugglin’ no more. They had money, they had workers, they had talents and…” he shrugs and looks away. “They didn’t need me.” “Oh, Celestia,” I breathe, my heart breaking. “When the buzzards almost killed the princess, well, it weren’t hard for me ta enlist. I wasn’t good for anythin’ but gruntwork, so I figured I’d do gruntwork for somethin’ that mattered.” There’s a flash of a patriotic smile on his face. “For my country, for my princess. Plus,” he shrugs, “ain’t like I was worth much at home.” Oh, that is far enough! “Shoddy, surely you must know you’re worth more than—” “But then somethin’ crazy happened!” he says, not seeming to hear me. “I join the Marines an’ I find out… I’m good at something! For the first time in my life, I’m really, honestly good at something! I’m so good that ponies want me around! I got ponies who want me, ponies who need me! I get brothers and sisters and family like I never—” Shoddy stops abruptly and he looks away, swallowing his emotion. In the evening light it’s hard to tell, but I could swear there’s moisture in his eyes. “But I can’t do that no more,” he says, his voice shaky. “The one thing I ever been good at, and I can’t do it no more. An’ the family I made, my brothers, I didn’t…” He blinks and rubs a hoof across his eyes. “So… yeah. That’s why I miss the war, Miss Rarity.” It’s not the first time today I’ve been utterly at a loss for words, but none of the other times left me feeling so devastated as I do right now. Only through sheer force of will and the knowledge that he’d be mortified do I prevent myself from flinging my forelegs around him and crushing him in a Pinkie hug. “Shoddy, I…” tears tug at my eyes, “I don’t know what to say. I’m so terribly sorry.” Shoddy shrugs, and I can tell he’s blushing even without being able to see clearly in this light. “Ain’t yer fault, Miss Rarity. Not like it’s a big loss anyway. Like I said, I’m just a worthless grunt who ain’t never been good for—” “NO!” I shout, jamming my hoof over his lips. “That’s enough Iron Shod!” His eyes are wide as I declare, “I’ll not have you say such lies in my presence. Just because you cannot see your own value does not mean that it isn’t there! You are far from worthless, and I will not tolerate you speaking ill of yourself! Am I understood, Marine?” I take my hoof away from his lips so he can speak. “Yes, Ma’am,” he manages in shell-shocked voice. “Good,” I say. Hard to judge how deeply that lesson actually sank in, but it’s a start. “You’re lucky you said that to me and not to Applejack. Your old Gunny would have kicked your tail up between your ears for being so down on yourself.” I jab him in the ribs. “So don’t make me have to report you.” He swallows and weakly says, “Yes, Ma’am.” Allowing my voice to soften, I ask, “Shoddy, do you trust me?” “Yes, Miss Rarity,” he replies, some strength returning to his tone. “Then trust me when I say that I will help you see the value that I already see in you.” Even in the dim light I can see the hesitation in Shoddy’s eyes – the inner war between hope and despair. He swallows, shuts his eyes, and takes a deep breath. When he lets it out, he meets my gaze. “Okay, Miss Rarity. I trust you,” he says. There is fear in his eyes, but also trust. Good. I can work with that. Author's Note One thing that I see frequently in my patients, especially those struggling with some form of depression, anxiety, or survivor’s guilt, is that they often have a low sense of self-worth. They say and think horrible things about themselves because they don’t see their own intrinsic value. Often the traumas or hardships they’ve suffered have created this false sense that they are worthless, that they don’t deserve help. This lie must be addressed early on so that they can embrace the healing process. In these cases, one thing I often do is ask them about someone else in their lives – ideally someone they deeply care about, or else some hypothetical innocent who has suffered a trauma or endured a hard life. I bring up a fellow soldier, or a sibling who suffered abuse, or a child who was traumatized. I ask my patients how they would feel if I were to say horrible, uncaring things about that friend, that family member, that innocent who had suffered so much. Almost without fail, my patients immediately become indignant, even furious at the notion that I would treat someone so badly. They tell me in no uncertain terms how wrong it would be to treat anyone like that, especially someone who was struggling. They tell me that people deserve better, and that those who have suffered deserve our patience and support, not our condemnation. I commend my patients for their instincts. They are right to feel so strongly that we ought to treat our fellows with respect. Then I work backwards from that point to help them see that they themselves deserve the same respect. —Dr. Serene Springs, PsyD, speaking on the treatment of veterans and civilians who suffer from a lack of self-worth. Just a friendly reminder that not being able to see your own self-worth doesn't mean you're worthless. We all need reminders of our own value from time to time. If you're having trouble remembering your own worth, please talk to someone who can remind you of it. Your life matters, and the world will be emptier and darker if you are gone. Even if by some twist of fate no one noticed (and it's almost certain someone would know and care), there would still be a phantom pain - an absence that no one would know the source of, but would be felt all the same. We would be diminished by the loss of you. If that wasn't true, then why is it that people willingly choose to spend their days professionally helping complete strangers to realize their own self worth? You matter. Never stop believing that. Suicide Hotline: https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org List of International Suicide Hotlines: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_suicide_crisis_lines The CMCs and the Case of the Missing Mark‘The morning after the dinner party I wake up at the crack of dawn and immediately head over to Sweet Apple Acres at a brisk trot with a clear plan of action to address Shoddy’s difficulties’... is what I would say if that were true. It is not. In truth, it is mid-morning as I take a walk – a slow walk – to Sweet Apple Acres. I did not get much sleep last night, as I spent a good deal of it tossing and turning as my brain wracked itself trying to come up with a solution. To be clear, my brain wracked itself. I did not wish for my brain to wrack itself; I much rather would have put the problem out of my mind until the next day and thus faced it with a conscious consideration made fresh and lively by a rejuvenating sleep. Sadly, this was not to be, as my thoughts very much took on a life of their own and dragged my mind along for the ride, giving no consideration to the fact that my brain is, well, mine, and you’d think that would give me first pick of its activities. The decision of one of my members to act in a fashion detrimental to the whole is lamentable. But then, it is an imperfect world. All of which is to say that I haven’t the faintest notion of a plan, save only a general sense that perhaps Applejack can offer some insight into Shoddy based on her own history with him. This vague idea is complicated by the fact that what he told me last night was, implicitly, told to me in confidence. I do not wish to break his confidence by indulging in the vice of gossip, nor do I wish to break his trust by divulging that which he may not want others to know. On the other hoof, there are times when it is necessary, even morally obligatory, to break confidence so as to keep someone safe. Things (fortunately) are not so bad at this time, but… are they at least bad enough to justify my telling Applejack at least some of what I know? That is a difficult question to answer. It would help if I knew if there were parts of his story she was already aware of. Unfortunately, I have no idea how much of his past Applejack knows. They served together for years, which suggests he probably told her something. Cagey though he may be, in my experience most soldiers will let slip something now and then, even if they don’t mean to, and Applejack is an easy mare to trust. That said, I very much doubt he told her everything he told me. For once, I may well know more about the situation than one of my veteran friends, and I can’t help but find it cruelly ironic that, for once, I wish for them to know more than me. By the time I have reached the Acreage, I have decided that I can tell Applejack some details as it relates to him struggling to find something he’s good at. His vocational struggle, at least, she is aware of in general terms. I think I can safely tell her he’s not sure what his special talent is or where he got it without telling her all the heartache and personal sacrifice which created the situation. Beyond that, I have no idea. Two zebras are visibly on duty as I approach the farmhouse, though it’s entirely possible there are others around whom I simply don’t see. It’s still odd to me seeing so much security around the Acreage, odd in a way that seeing the security around Twilight’s castle never really was. I know it’s still early in the process, but I somehow suspect that this’ll be a longer adjustment, for me at least. After all, Twilight is an alicorn princess who lives in an honest to goodness castle, albeit an architecturally unusual one. Once I got used to the castle, it wasn’t a hard mental jump to think “castle = more security.” Honestly, it was more surprising to me that it required any mental jumping at all. But Applejack is... Applejack. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to her having a royal status comparable to Twilight or Cadence. Though, to be fair, I’m not sure she ever will either. Good heavens, listen to me ramble! I must be more tired than I realized. You’d think after all this time, I would get to the point, even if only in my own mind. I’m as tangential as Shoddy right now. The two guards let me approach the house without incident, and Kafil meets me at the door with such speed that I feel confident he was discretely watching my approach from within the farmstead. He greets me with his typical warmth, and his ready smile and cheerful demeanor are enough to lift my spirits out of the disordered musings of my tired mind. “Lady Rarity, it is a pleasure to see you again,” he says with a courteous dip of his head. “I trust you are feeling better after a night’s rest?” Not hardly, but it’s kind of him to ask. “Oh, I doubt I shall be running any marathons today, but then, I’ve hardly had adventures to keep me quick on my hooves lately,” I reply truthfully. A touch evasive, but I must save some face. “Well, your presence was missed, but none begrudged your wise choice to take a restful evening. After all,” Kafil adds, “they are wise who seek rest when life makes great claim to their energy.” On the surface, that sounds like a platitude, but there’s a deep undercurrent to his words and a subtle gentleness in his tone. It strikes me this is his diplomatic way of checking up on me because he hears the things I’ve left unsaid – a keen judge of character and a true gentlecolt. It’s easy to see why he was picked for this assignment. “I don’t know that I have any tasks which constitute a ‘great claim’ on my energy,” I reply. “It is not as though I’ve been on any world-saving adventures with my friends of late.” Probably just as well, given that two are pregnant, one is an invalid, and they all earned a rest from their labors. But a small, jealous part of me desires some friendship-related crisis which would necessitate our intervention so that we may end some grave threat by making it ‘taste the rainbow,’ as I’ve heard our use of the Elements pithily referred to. For the first time in my life, I sympathize with Twilight’s compulsive desire to ‘make a friendship problem’ all those years ago. “Perhaps you are not galivanting about the countryside on a quest,” Kafil acknowledges, “but then... I have always found physical exhaustion to pale in comparison with other forms of exhaustion. Folk often talk their bodies tiring, yet keep silent over tiredness of mind and spirit. Ironically, it is the latter tends to be the deeper strain.” Once again, I detect a sympathetic undercurrent to his words. Written in text and read in monotone, his words would be rather innocuous. Yet in his kind voice, his open body language, and his inviting gaze, they take on another meaning. He quietly offers me the opportunity to share some of my worries if I wish, while keeping his remarks open-ended to allow me to keep such thoughts to myself if I don’t. It’s... rather touching, really. We met not too long ago, yet he freely offers his time and a listening ear. A kind and generous stallion indeed. With that said, I have no desire to bare my heart right now. Instead, I say, “Well, perhaps I have been burning the midnight oil overmuch of late. Speaking of the midnight oil, how late did the others stay out last night?” Politely following my transition, Kafil replies, “Oh, the festivities lasted another few hours. Colonel Lulamoon, Princess Twilight, and Pinkie Pie wound up delving into a scientifically complex discussion of the chemical components in fireworks, which no one else could really follow—” Sounds about right, I think. “—so the rest of the merrymakers wound up watching Her Royal Highness Applejack engage in a ‘Battle of the Boasts,’ with Rainbow Dash.” “That somehow doesn’t surprise me,” I remark wryly. I guess I didn’t really miss much then. “The truly impressive thing is that Trixie managed to join the Battle of the Boasts… while maintaining her conversation with Princess Twilight and Pinkie Pie.” Okay that I would have liked to see. “What time did Shoddy return to the party?” I ask. In my head, the question was more along the lines of ‘Shoddy better have gone back to the party last night like he told me he would or so help me…’ Fortunately for Shoddy, Kafil answers, “He came back a couple hours later and spent much of the time listening to the Boasts. From what Her Royal Highness Applejack has told me on other occasions, he could easily have joined in himself, but he opted to remain quiet.” Of course he did. Did he stay quiet the whole time, I wonder? Kafil, once again seeming to hear my unspoken question, answers “After the battle ended, Spike bent his ear about some ‘comic books,’ I believe. He seemed to quite enjoy himself.” Oh, bless that little dragon! I have a pile of gems with his name on them! “That would explain today,” I say aloud. “This morning, Shoddy told me he’d made plans with Spike to raid the local comic book shop.” Or rather, he left me a note because I got up so late. Not that I’m about to admit that. “I thought I’d take the opportunity to come out and bend Applejack’s ear, but,” I sigh, “she’s not here, is she.” “She is not,” confirms Kafil, “though, if you’ll forgive my curiosity, how did you know?” I smirk. “Because you said ‘Her Royal Highness Applejack’ twice and didn’t get a bushel of apples hurled at you from the other room by an irate royal redneck.” Kafil chuckles. “Most perceptive of you, and not much of an exaggeration. She will likely not be back for another hour.” “Typical,” I snort. “And after I trudged all the way here. Would it be all right if I waited for her to return? I know I probably should walk back to town – Celestia knows I could use the exercise with the dearth of adventuring in my life – but I’d much rather not exert myself today.” “Make yourself at home,” smiles Kafil. “I think Her Royal Highness would, what’s the expression… ‘box my ears’ if I turned you away.” “And that’s if she was feeling generous,” I confirm as I walk inside. “Thank you kindly, Kafil. Always a pleasure.” Fiddlesticks. I’d rather counted on finding her here. Ah, well, c’est la vie as they say. At least the Apples are known for hospitality. I take my seat on the green couch in the living room. It’s a hideous old thing – threadbare, scratched, faded, stained, and beaten down by generations of farm life. Hardly the sort of furniture one would expect to find in a royal household. Yet, for all its multitude of faults, in defiance of all laws of engineering and entropy… it’s perhaps the single most comfortable piece of furniture I’ve ever sat on in my life. Not even Celestia herself has such splendid sitting comfort at her disposal. It’s like a novel that’s so exceptionally poorly written that it turns into a comedic masterpiece of legendary proportions. Somehow, the Apple Family managed to craft the magnum opus of living room seating, a magnum opus which, in an act of either mastermind-level pranking or supreme irony, happens to be one of the ugliest crimes against living room décor I’ve ever sat on. The fact that I do sit on it, with only the barest hint of a shudder no less, is a profound testament to the magnificence of their accomplishment. It is such a comfortable couch, in fact, that I find myself yawning as I sink into its depths. Not that I plan on napping, of course. It would be rather uncouth to pass out uninvited on a friend’s couch like a vagrant, a slovenly roommate, or Rainbow Dash. “Hiya, Miss Rarity— oops! Sorry! Didn’t realize you were sleepin’.” I categorically deny that Applebloom woke me from a doze. I was merely resting my eyes and most certainly did not jump half a foot in the air at the abrupt sound of her voice disturbing my sleeping mind. Further, I did not let out an unladylike whinny of consternation, and any suggestions to the contrary are simply slanderous. “Not at all, Applebloom,” I manage, keen to make it clear that any perception which contradicts my official statement is merely the result of an overactive imagination. “I was merely resting my eyes.” Applebloom has the grace to show no sign that she doubts the official report. “What brings you out here today, Miss Rarity?” she asks as she wipes some motor grease off her brow with a rag. I belatedly realize she has a fair amount of grease and oil splashed on her coat and a toolbelt around her barrel, suggesting she’s just come from her workshop. “Well, I was hoping to bend your sister’s ear, but it seems she will be out for another hour or so.” Applebloom grins. “And so ya decided to, uh, rest yer eyes a spell?” she suggests innocently. “Quite,” I reply evenly. “Fair enough,” nods Applebloom. “Say, since yer out here anyway, ya wanna see what me an’ the girls ’ave been workin’ on out in the shop? We’ll clean up the space before ya come out,” she hastens to add. “Ah think you’ll be mighty impressed.” I’m just impressed that the three of them have matured to the point that they’ll offer to clean up without being prompted just to spare my cleanliness compulsion from going into overdrive. “That sounds delightful, darling. I’d love to.” “Great,” beams Applebloom. “Give us ’bout ten minutes ta get h’er all cleaned up. Ah’ll come get ya when we’re ready.” As she departs, I am startled to notice that she’s grown to be as big as Applejack was at that age. With the lean muscle and frightful fitness of a farmer and the toned physique of a soldier-in-training, she could easily pass for a mare several years older. Her comportment is likewise one of a mature adult, rather than a young mare still finishing high school. I suppose it should not be any great shock to my system. After all, farmers tend to be matured quickly by the responsibilities of working for a living from a young age. Furthermore, with her older siblings called to the front, Applebloom – and Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo for that matter – had to grow up quickly. As one of the only members of our little friend-group to remain in town throughout the war, I had the distinct privilege of seeing the Cutie Mark Crusaders grow into fine young mares. So, again, you would think that I would not be startled to notice how much they’ve grown, especially since I realized that obvious fact long ago. You would be quite within the realm of sensibility to think that it would not faze me. You would be wrong. It is true that I was there to see them mature. It is true that I got to see them earn their cutie marks. In fact, in an odd twist I was quite literally present for all three marks, despite them coming on separate occasions, and found myself in the role of being a sort of sisterly stand-in for Applejack and Rainbow Dash. That was a welter of emotions, I must say. On one hoof, I was tremendously honored that they granted me that role. On the other hoof, I couldn’t help but feel like a usurper, partaking of moments that belonged to others. Fortunately, Applebloom and Scootaloo both were grateful I was there, and said as much at the time. Getting their marks was bittersweet for both of them. Sweet for the success, and bitter because their siblings were away at war. My presence helped alleviate that sorrow, it seems. For their part, Dash and Applejack both reassured me – repeatedly and emphatically in the face of my worries – that they were thankful that I was there to represent them from afar. Intellectually (and, to an extent, emotionally), I believe them. I know them to be telling the truth. Yet there is that part of me – a small, self-conscious, internally judgmental part of me that feels like I was an outsider trespassing where I had no place – that refuses to go away no matter how much I know it to be a liar and a fraud. Ah, well, at least the gratitude of my friends has helped quiet the wretched little thing. And it was a wonderful experience to see them find their marks. After all those years of searching, they finally succeeded. It didn’t all happen at once – close, but not quite. Each filly earned her mark while doing her part to help out around town during the war. Applebloom had taken to tinkering with mechanization of equipment around the farm. With her older siblings gone and so many farmers going to war, the Apples were making do with inexperienced workers, aging workers, and 4F workers (whose physical limitations had kept them from going to war in the first place). Applebloom found herself doing a lot of the work by herself, assisted by Scootaloo and my own dear sister. To compensate for the dearth of able farmers – and the other Crusaders’ enthusiasm at times *cough* let’s say outstripping their qualifications – she built machines to make the work more efficient, less strenuous, and more foolproof. She took existing tracked vehicles – mostly slow-moving construction vehicles or tractors, such as were occasionally found in Ponyville even before the war – and modified them to be better suited to farming and less temperamental. When her first prototype got up and running, she was so excited that it was helping out around the farm that it took a while for her to even notice her mark – three gears, each with an apple at the center, and each with a color that seems to correspond to… well, I’ll get to that. Sweetie Belle put her musical talents to work singing to cheer up the town. When those newfangled radio stations started being put in, the station manager asked her to lend her beautiful voice to the airwaves to cheer up the countryside. She made quite a name for herself, and found her special talent in the process – three musical notes, representing her talent for reaching ponies with her voice, and also representing another connection. As for being a singer known throughout the country, she remains more anonymous than you might think. Wisely, she used a stage name, so most ponies (including her JROTC classmates) don’t know Sweetie Belle and the famous ‘Serenada’ are one in the same pony. Being a radio personality had the unexpected side-benefit of exposing her to the inner workings of radios. The station managers were only too happy to show her how to operate them, and she proved to have quite the knack for it. As radios become an increasingly important part of the military (and civilian life for that matter), more opportunities for specialized work will be open to her. And – heaven-willing – those opportunities will keep her away from the front lines should conflict flare up again. Scootaloo, for her part, took to tinkering right alongside Applebloom. Except instead of focusing on farming equipment, she’d take cast off, broken equipment and put it through its paces, trying to make speedier contraptions for daredevil stunts and trying to copy some of the ‘autocarriage’ designs that we’re seeing here and there, especially in bigger cities. Personally, I’d be content for such contraptions to stay in the cities and racetracks, and – fortunately – that has been the case in Ponyville so far. The autos remain out on the dirt tracks where they belong, and ponies continue to use their hooves. I’ve heard the mayor and town council are even passing ordinances to ensure that it stays that way, at least in Old Ponyville and other historical sections of the city, which most everypony seems happy with. That said, I’ve also heard that many returning war veterans are interested in the autocarriages and Scootaloo’s… creative interpretation of the designs. I have further heard that there’s some sort of auto sport in Appleoosa. ‘NASCART’ or some such. I can’t say I see the appeal but, well, to each their own. Actually, Sweetie Belle has mentioned to me that she and the Crusaders have been working on some sort of armored autocarriage for the military. Doubtless the military is also working on such things, but the fillies have a mind to throw their own hat in the ring. Applebloom and Scootaloo are handling the engineering and Sweetie is lending her knowledge of radio equipment to try to give it the capability to communicate in the field. Mind you, I have no idea if they’re making any headway, but I prefer the idea of them getting jobs in military R&D to the idea of them serving in a combat regiment, so I’m not objecting. Ah, but I realize now I forgot to mention Scootaloo’s cutie mark. Three wings arranged with their bases meeting at the center and their wingtips outstretched. If you were to draw a line from wingtip to wingtip, it would form a perfect triangle. Now, you may have noticed a pattern: three gears for Applebloom, three notes for Sweetie Belle, and three wings for Scootaloo. This wouldn’t ordinarily be too unusual, as many cutie marks have three component pieces. But this case is a little different, because each young mare’s mark has one other similarity: color. Specifically, a tri-color of orange, purple, and maroon, with each filly having all three in equal measure. It seems evident that their marks are linked somehow. What exactly that means can only be speculated at – and I must say Twilight has done a lot of speculating – but it seems clear that the three are meant to work together. So perhaps their crazy inventions aren’t so crazy after all. I fear in my mental rambling about their accomplishments, their maturation, and their vocational discoveries via cutie mark, I have strayed from my original point. That point is this: Despite being present for all of this, present for their growth, present for their self-discovery, present for their maturation into fine young mares, I still can’t seem to believe it. I still can’t get over how quickly they’ve grown up, how it seemed like only yesterday that the tiny fillies were underfoot, their squeaky voices eager with excitement as they darted about seeking new and inventive ways of turning my mane grey with their madcap schemes. I feel like if you could just turn the clock back a day, Sweetie Belle would still be small enough for me to give her piggyback rides without giving myself a hernia, Applebloom would scarcely be bigger than Big Mac’s hoof, and Scootaloo would still be zipping around on a scooter that the big farm stallion could use as a roller skate. Of course, if we could turn back time that far, I suppose we’d have to go through the last few years of misery again. I, for one, would rather cut off my horn than endure that again. Although… I wonder if perhaps Shoddy wouldn’t mind another pass at it. Applebloom’s return puts a halt on my perhaps unproductive musings on time travel, which is probably just as well. At her invitation I follow her out to the workshop. It might be more accurate to call it a ‘garage’ or ‘machine shop.’ Roughly the size of the old barn (and, thankfully, with a much better track record of remaining intact), the workshop looks like another standard farm building until one goes inside. There, one is greeted by the presence of farming vehicles and related machinery in various states of assembly, repair, and storage. It has been a while since I’ve come out to the Crusaders’ workshop, and I must admit that I’m not quite sure what to expect. All I know is that Applebloom and the others have come a long way from constructing an admittedly impressive semi-motorized parade float and the associated traps they’d meant for Babs Seed. Hm. I wonder how Babs is doing these days? Upon entering the workshop, I am welcomed by the sight of Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle, who are grinning with eager anticipation and standing beside a great… something. I presume it’s a machine of some sort, but with the tarp covering it in its entirety I can’t say for certain. Applebloom trots over to join them in both the anticipatory grin and in the obligatory ‘prepare to see my greatness!’ that comes before the unveiling of one’s masterpiece. “Well, girls, don’t keep me waiting,” I prompt. “Show me what wonders you’ve created!” The CMCs need no further bidding. Sweetie Belle clears her throat and begins dramatically, “Lady Rarity and assorted farming implements,” she begins, addressing her ‘audience.’ She rolls on, unbothered by my eye roll, “Presenting for your viewing pleasure, the latest in Equestrian force-multiplying technology…” she gestures grandly to the veiled invention, “… an advanced machine years in the making…” the other two young mares stand by to fling off the tarp, “… the pinnacle of Ponyville mechanical ingenuity and modern military versatility…” Applebloom and Scootaloo fling back the tarp, “… the PV-1 Landcrawler!” My jaw falls open. How shall I describe the PV-1 Landcrawler to you? If I were to pick a single word, it would be a toss-up between ‘ingenuity’ and ‘insanity.’ Imagine, if you will, a tread-driven tractor or construction vehicle, one of those monstrous mechanical wonders with thick metal tracks and a great roaring engine running on some incomprehensible mixture of machinery and magic such as Dr. Time Turner and Twilight were wont to tinker with when they sought to see how science and magic together could optimize power-output. Add one iron box, set between the treads and covering the engine block and Celestia-knows-what-else. Cut a hatch in the front of it. Then, take a metal washtub, turn it on its head, and bolt it to the top. Add a cannon-like perturbance to the front, a hatch to the top, and a tall wire mast to the rear. Finally, hold the entire thing together with a truly staggering number of bolts, welds, and probably a half-dozen other attachments that I have neither the engineering wherewithal nor the patience to list. Absurdly, the Landcrawler reminds me of the Apple Family couch – it’s ugly, grim, and seemingly forged from cast-off scraps and junk; yet, simultaneously, it also looks functional, ably assembled, and probably accomplishes its designed role better than its outward appearance would lead you to believe. “I… I… I don’t know what to say, girls,” I say honestly. “I’m… I’m beyond impressed!” The trio beam. “It seems like only yesterday you were… and now this…” my eyes moisten with pride. In the past, they’d always modified existing equipment; this looked to be something new. “You’ve certainly grown into fine young mares.” I step forward to give my sister a hug, then invite the others into a group embrace. After the congratulations, I move up for a closer look at the machine itself. Again, the engineering goes over my head, but I’ve seen enough of the tractors and similar machines around town to realize this is a similarly professional quality, yet different from other models. “You built this all out here in the barn?” “Well… not all of it,” clarifies Applebloom. “You know the South Gorge FleetFarm Factory?” Indeed I do. Ponyville never had much need for construction equipment or tractors before the war. What cranes and such as they used – such as the one which malfunctioned and led to Pinkie saving the construction workers during the Mare Do Well incident, back in much simpler times – were few and far between. They could move at little more than a crawl and were seldom used. They also tended to be temperamental – again, like the one that caused the near disaster at the construction site – and were seldom seen save in big cities. The war changed that, as it did so many things. With ponies needed on the front, increased mechanization was needed to handle farmwork, construction, and so on. There also needed to be a greater refinement of the processes to make the equipment better and more reliable, leading to a demand for more prolific and more advanced machines. With Ponyville becoming something of a hub during the war, it made sense to build a factory to meet that demand, which would create jobs and ensure that people who moved to Ponyville (as well as current residents) could create wealth that would continue even after the war ended, rather than risk becoming a ghost town with the cessation of hostilities. However, the citizens of Ponyville did not want a big loud factory built straight in town. We’re still a small town at heart, even with the growing population and passage of trade. To balance the rural character of the town and the need for mechanization, we built the FleetFarm Factory further down the rail line at South Gorge. It’s a fairly short commute – and some of the distant Ponyville suburbs are actually as close to the factory as they are to the town square – but far enough away to preserve something of the small town feel even with modernity. “I am familiar with it,” I say, belatedly answering the question as I struggle to comprehend the vehicle before me. “It would be hard not to be, what with the factory owner helping you patent some of your inventions.” “Right,” blushes Applebloom, still embarrassed that she has actual patents on the books. “Well, as you know, Steel Mill has a deal with the Apple Family where we get discounts on parts and tractors in exchange for FactoryFarm getting first crack at licensed design improvements—” “And for your help troubleshooting their new designs,” I add with a smile. I helped engineer that deal, but it’s really Applebloom’s genius that made it possible. Blushing more deeply, Applebloom continues, “He also helps us machine new parts for testin’. We bought a tractor from FleetFarm as a test bed and started makin’ changes. Anything we couldn’t handle with tools here in the shop,” she gestures to the mechanical equipment taking up much of the wall space, “we get machined at the factory. Mill’s been helpin’ us work on this fer ’bout two or three years now, ever since the DARD Challenge fer a mechanized combat vehicle got announced.” My gaze flicks to Sweetie Belle. “And you wait until now to tell me?” I ask archly. Sweetie Belle plays with a lock of hair nervously. “We, uh… we weren’t sure it was going to work.” “I was sure,” insists Scootaloo. “That’s because ya don’t do so good in math, so ya don’t really comprehend the laws of physics we had ta cheat ta get this thing movin’,” remarks Applebloom dryly. Scootaloo smirks and buzzes her wings. “Well, I was right, wasn’t I?” Applebloom sucks in a frustrated breath of air. “Ye~eeah…” she finally admits, stretching the word into two syllables. “And it does work, then?” I ask. “Oh, yeah, it runs,” smirks Applebloom, rapping her hoof on the side of the hull with a dull *clang*. “She ain’t gonna top more’n about four point two miles-per-hour, but, hey, that’s still more’n Leoneighdo da Vinci ever managed,” she says, referencing the Renaissance pony inventor who’d inadvertently inspired Rainbow to name her tortoise ‘tank.’ “To be fair, he was working with a purely magic engine, not a hybrid magi-mechani like ours,” notes Sweetie Belle. “Eh,” shrugs Applebloom. She gestures to the tubing sticking out of it. “Obviously, there ain’t any real guns on ’er—” “Not for lack of trying,” grumbled Scootaloo. “Can’t believe the CO said ‘no.’” “—but,” continued Applebloom pointedly, “she’s fitted to carry a 37mm cannon with thirty-three shells, with two .30 cal machineguns to back it up.” My brow furrows. “Machineguns?” “New automatic weapon to replace Chatterguns,” explains Sweetie Belle. “Same rate of fire, but one barrel so it’s more portable, smaller, and has fewer mechanical breakages.” “Mm,” I nod, trying to sound enthused. I must admit, as impressive as their invention is, I don’t like thinking about what it’s built to do. In an attempt to distract myself while remaining polite, I turn to Sweetie Belle. “And your part in all this? Forgive me, but by your own admission you don’t share Applebloom’s and Scootaloo’s proclivity for engineering.” Sweetie smiles proudly. “I can’t do tractor treads and armor, but I can do radio.” I tilt my head to the side quizzically. “I thought radios require groundlines.” “Current models do,” explains Sweetie, “but they’re working on developing wireless radios using magic to make the connection.” She gestures to the antennae-looking contraptions protruding from the back. “Twilight and Time Turner let me sit in with them working on the new designs. I’ve, ah…” she blows on her hoof and polishes it against her coat with a satisfied smile, “made some improvements of my own.” She gives me a technical explanation which – I admit – goes mostly over my head. The gist of it, however, is that she suggested a different alignment of the crystals for greater durability of the radio and smaller overall volume needed. “At this point, the wireless radio is a just working prototype,” she says. “It barely reaches ten pony-lengths, and bad weather makes that even shorter; not exactly field-ready. Frankly, the whole Landcrawler is a working prototype. Four mph is still slow, and it’s got a lot of teething troubles.” I raise my eyebrow. “Teething troubles?” “Technical difficulties,” she clarifies. “It breaks down. A lot. Still, it’ll probably be ready for the battlefield before the radio is. But,” she regards the tank with a satisfied smile, “the design is already future-proofed, since we were able to work out the ergonomics of the radio. Plus, we got an in-tank radio system set up for crew communication, so they can talk to each other over the noise.” My lip curls slightly before I can stop it. “So it’s loud then?” The girls laugh. “Oh yeah it’s loud!” chuckles Scootaloo. “Why do you think we didn’t fire it up for a demonstration? The crew has to wear helmets with built-in ear protectors if they don’t wanna be deaf by twenty-five, and that’s without firing the cannon or machineguns.” “Honestly, that crew comms invention o’ Sweetie’s may have a better shot at getting adopted than our tank,” says Applebloom, throwing a hoof over Sweetie Belle’s withers. “It ain’t like we’re the only ponies workin’ on makin’ a tank, and a lot o’ the other designers got more resources than we do. But Twilight says the other teams entering the DARD Challenge ain’t done a crew comms fix yet. Sweetie here made somethin’ new.” Sweetie Belle blushes. “Twilight and Time Turner figured out the technicals. I just had the idea and helped them tinker.” I smile proudly and trot over to put a hoof to her shoulder. “Your modesty is very becoming, Sweetie Belle, and I admire your humility.” I tap her on the sternum. “But you had the thought to work for the comfort and capability of the crew. That’s no small thing.” I look over her shoulder at the tank. “Whatever else, your invention will most certainly save lives, and hopefully get us through…” I stop short of saying ‘the next war,’ because my throat catches at the words. “… get ponies like Shoddy through easier,” I say. Now why did I suddenly jump to Shoddy? “How’s he doin’?” asks Applebloom, either not noticing my discomfort over the thought of another war or – more likely – choosing not to comment on it. “He’s… he’s adjusting,” I say, trying not to divulge more than I ought. “I think he would benefit from having a… clearer idea where he’s going. He needs—” My train of thought derails mid-sentence, knocked off track by the blindingly obvious. How could I have been so stupid!? “Tell me, girls, in addition to schooling, Junior ROTC, and designing weapons with the help of local geniuses and factory managers, do you still help ponies with cutie mark problems?” After finding their special talents, the old ‘CMCs’ had spent many an afternoon helping their classmates and younger ponies find their own. They proved to have quite the knack for it, to the point that it seemed to be a part of their own, oddly-synchronous special talents. Twilight has long speculated it’s part of their special talents, or at least related to them. I must confess, however, that between helping Twilight, managing my own business, and helping manage two others throughout the war, I lost track of whether the three of them were still pursuing that endeavor. Based on the eager glances the three of them shoot each other, the answer is ‘yes, yes they were.’ Sweetie Belle gives me a sly grin and says, “Miss Rarity, why don’t you step into our office.” I blink in confusion. “Into your what?” They gesture to a side door to which I had not been paying particular attention – a door rather resembling a private investigator’s office door, with wooden frame, a large glass pane inset, and bold-printed lettering reading: CUTIE MARK CRUSADER PRIVATE VOCATIONAL CONSULTING, LLC My voice lowers an octave as I say the only thing I can under the circumstances. “What?” Well. This is surreal. My astonishment at discovering that the girls have had yet another extracurricular activity that I’ve been blissfully unaware of delayed my entry into the room long enough that they had time to set up. And what a setup it is. The Cutie Mark Crusader Private Vocational Counseling (LLC) office looks like its straight out of the pages of a Shadow Spade novel. A ceiling fan operating on a small magic motor spins lazily overhead, while filing cabinets and shelves full of what look to be case files dominate the walls. A hat rack in the corner is dominated by a plethora of bell hats, fedoras, trilbys, bonnets, homburgs, feathered headbands, wide-brimmed sunhats, and a variety of other similar accoutrements. A heavy wooden desk with an antique lamp and blotter fill the far side of the room opposite the door, along with an ashtray (thankfully empty) and what I sincerely hope to be a prop smoking pipe. Two chairs sit before the desk, with a wheeled chair behind it. The grimy window centered behind the desk looks to have been pried straight from the set of a detective play lets in natural light behind the desk while obscuring the world outside to the point that it could just as easily be in a big city as in the country. The three girls somehow managed change their attire before I entered, each donning either a period dress or a feminine long-coat, with each being expertly paired with either a feathered headband or a cap. Sweetie Belle sits behind the desk, leaning back in the chair with a hood-eyed, sharp-edged look on her features. Applebloom leans against the wall behind her like a bodyguard, flipping a coin to herself and blowing bubblegum, which I suppose is better than chewing tobacco. Scootaloo sits perched on a short file-cabinet by the window, playing soft jazz on a saxophone, because of course she is. Oh, did I mention everything is black and white? And I do mean everything – the room, the furniture, the girls, and – most disturbingly – me. Yes, the moment I stepped through the door, I became black and white. Before I can even get a dazed query out, Sweetie begins monologuing to an invisible audience to the tune of Scootaloo’s jazz. “It was a cool fall day when the fashionista blew into my office like an autumn wind,” she narrates. “I could tell by the look on her face she had something on her mind…” “Sweetie, what in—” “…Either that or she’d once again forgotten where she left her reading glasses.” Oh I’m going to kill her later. “Sweetie, what on earth is going on?!” Unmoved by my ire, she monologues on, “The fashionista was inquisitive. Perhaps too inquisitive.” My jaw hardens. “Sweetie, why am I black and white.” In her normal voice Sweetie replies, “Twilight put a glamor enchantment on the room. Like it?” I sigh and shut my eyes tight against the oncoming headache. As I massage my temple with a hoof, suddenly in need of a cup of black tea – or perhaps a shot of brandy – I say, “Remind me to never loan you my Shadow Spade books ever again.” “We find the setting helps put our clients’ minds at ease,” remarks Sweetie primly. “Oh it does, does it?” I ask dryly. “A glamor enchantment and saxophone music?” Applebloom shrugs. “Ain’t had any complaints.” “Well, points for unique marketing I suppose,” I sigh. Glancing at Scootaloo, still softly playing jazz, I ask, “And since when do you play saxophone?” She stops long enough to look up, saying, “You don’t know everything about me.” Feeling quite like I’ve stumbled into a bizarre alternate timeline, I square my shoulders and make my way farther into the room. “You know, under ordinary circumstances I would have many, many questions for you, but at the moment I’ll just ask the one before availing myself of your services.” “Ask away,” prompts Sweetie Belle. “How in the wide world of Equestria do you find time for school, work, designing a mechanized vehicle, farmwork, Junior ROTC, and this…” I gesture to the room, “bizarre approach to vocational training?” The girls exchange a glance, then Applebloom replies, “Pinkie Pie… may have helped us plan our schedules.” I blink rapidly for several moments, pondering the various implications of that answer, including the fact that Pinkie Pie was overseas until relatively recently, the various times each of these activities entered their schedules, and what exactly a Pinkie Pie time-management plan would entail. I quickly decide that my headache is bad enough as it is and I don't need a migraine. "Fine,” I snap. “No further questions. Let’s talk about Shoddy.” Sweetie gestures to one of the guest chairs. “Please take a seat, Miss Rarity.” My eyes narrow. “Don’t push it.” Sweetie dips her head contritely. “Sorry.” With that, I take my seat and begin the narrative. I lay out the circumstances of Shoddy’s difficulties in much the same way I would have for Applejack – describing what he’s struggling with while leaving out the things too personal to include. Right at the start, Scootaloo exchanged her saxophone for a typewriter and took notes like a stenographer, while Applebloom occasionally paused my narrative to collect another ‘case file’ to use as reference, which the three of them would review mostly in silence, broken only by hoof-written notes scratched on writing pads, presumably for reference to similar cases. Overall, the process is intensely surreal, but I find myself weirdly drawn into it to such a degree that I scarcely notice after a time. As absurd as it is to say, I find myself strangely comfortable in the setting. Perhaps there is something to the noir approach to vocational counseling after all. Either that or there’s something in the water at Ponyville, and we’re all just crazy. To be honest, both explanations are equally plausible (and arguably complimentary). Once I’ve gone through as much of the explanation as I can give without violating Shoddy’s confidence, the three of them sit back and ponder. “Well,” I prompt, “what do you think.” There’s a brief silence before they begin making suggestions. “Ah get the impression the answer is right under our noses,” suggests Applebloom. “Like… maybe the mark ain’t about the work per se, but somethin’ more basic.” Scootaloo nods. “Right, like the Diamond Tiara case. It wasn’t jewelry-related like the mark would seem on the surface – it was persuasion skills, which had only incidentally been discovered when she persuaded her father to carry dress-up tiaras in his stores. The tiara wasn’t the special talent – the skill behind it was.” “That makes sense,” says Sweetie Belle. “Shoddy worked so many jobs that focusing on any one of them would be a dead end. We have to find the common factor. He moved around from place to place…” “… working different jobs…” continues Scootaloo. “… but always moving,” concludes Applebloom. “Right,” says Sweetie Belle. “So maybe it’s not the work, but the moving, or, more accurately…” “… endurance,” chorus Applebloom and Scootaloo. “More precisely, the endurance needed to power through manual labor and the mental fortitude to endure repetitive, heavy work,” expands Sweetie. “That’s why it showed up on a long hike between towns.” “A back country road like that is just a long, mindless walk,” says Applebloom, sounding to speak from ready experience. “There’s a special kind of strength ta just put one hoof in front o’ the other on a long road, then work for hours on end day-in and day-out when ya get where yer goin’.” Scootaloo smiles. “He’s a ground pounder,” she says. “Built for all the grunt work Marines do.” “Long marches an’ heavy lifting,” says Applebloom. “Powering through pain,” says Sweetie Belle. “Crushing skulls,” says Scootaloo. The other two glare at her. “What?! It’s true!” Applebloom rolls her eyes and continues, “Point is, his thing seems to be mental tenacity, physical endurance, and mind-over-matter-but-the-matter-is-still-crazy-tough.” Sweetie nods and turns to me, saying, “That’s our initial assessment. What do you think?” What do I think? I think I’m at a loss for words for the fifth or six time this week, and about half of those were today with the three girls. I also think I’ve got a speck of sentiment and familial pride in my eye, based on the sudden moisture I detect there. “I think…” I say a touch huskily, “that I am very proud of the three of you. Sweetie, you told me a little while ago that I’d done a lot during the war; I think the three of you have just as many accomplishments under your belts.” Smiling, Sweetie Belle replies, “Well, when we’ve all got such great, affirming older sisters and friends to look up to, who tell us that you believe in us – and mean it – it turns out we can accomplish a lot.” Yes, definitely a few specks of sentiment and familial pride in my eyes. Having significantly dampened my kerchief, I say, “I think you girls have gotten right to the heart of the matter. You seem to have figured out the mystery of Shoddy’s special talent, as well as revealing why he excelled as a Marine.” “Well, sure, that skill set’s perfect for a grunt,” Applebloom agrees, “but it’d be perfect for other stuff too if’n ya can figure how ta apply it.” “Yeah,” agrees Scootaloo. “Plenty of jobs require that kind of grit, doggedness, and mind-over-matter determination to push through.” “Ya just need ta find somethin’ that’d let him exercise that talent, bring out that sort of ‘just one more mile’ mindset, an’ Ah think that’d really help him find job satisfaction.” “And,” adds Sweetie Belle, “it would sort of let him ‘redeem’ that mindset from only being in a warrior context. Don’t get me wrong, it’s perfect for a warrior, but even a soldier shouldn’t only be applying that kind of skill in war. Sergeant Hardline says that leads to combat fatigue. My guess is he needs to learn how to exercise his talent in more than just one context again.” “I couldn’t agree more,” I reply. “Now the only question is how to help him exercise it.” Hm, ‘exercise.’ That reminds me how much I’ve missed the exercise I got back in our adventuring days. I could stand to start exercising again. Exercise, exercise. Wait… A slow smile spreads across my face. “That gives me an idea…” As soon as I get back from my visit to the Cutie Mark Crusader Private Vocational Consulting (LLC), I make my proposal to Iron Shod: Be my personal fitness trainer. “Aw, shucks, Miss Rarity,” Shoddy says, rubbing the back of his head anxiously. “I don’t know the first thing ’bout bein’ a personal trainer.” “Oh, pshaw, darling,” I scoff. “It’s perfect! I need to get back into shape, and you know how to get into shape. That’s the first rule of business, darling: find a demand, devise a solution, and meet the demand.” “But… but…” he protests. “I ain’t got no trainin’ ta be a fitness trainer!” “Oh, I don’t see any problem with the idea Shoddy. You can just…” I trail off as something outside the window catches my attention. Namely, a red flag waving outside my window. “You can… um… one moment please, Iron Shod.” I trot over and throw the window open to peer outside. There I spy Pinkie, waving a red flag as if in warning. Seeing me, she waves cheerily. “Hiya, Rarity!” “Hello, Pinkie Pie,” I reply. “May I ask why you’re waving a red flag?” “Eh,” she shrugs. “Just seemed appropriate.” “O~kaaaay,” I say. “Well… you have fun now.” “Yuppers!” Shaking my head I turn back to Shoddy and say, “You can just take what you learned in the Marines—” I am cut off my ominous music playing outside. Once more, I throw up the sash and peer out to find Pinkie Pie, this time playing… “Pinkie, darling, why are you playing a pipe organ?” A newcomer to Ponyville would have asked, ‘How did you get a pipe organ into the street.’ Such newcomers either learn not to ask such irrelevant questions or else they don’t last long. “Eh,” replies Pinkie with another shrug. “Just ’cuz.” “… Okay, Pinkie. You enjoy yourself.” “Thanks! You too!” Shaking my head, I return my attention to a rather bemused Iron Shod and say, “You can just take what you learned in the Marines—” I don’t even turn around when the organ hits a note that sounds rather like “Doom.” “—and apply that to training me.” Shoddy winces and scratches the back of his head. “Well… if you say so, Miss Rarity.” “I know so, darling. Trust me, this is a wonderful idea.” My room, Ponyville, 0600 hours the next morning… At 0559 hours, I am sleeping peacefully. At 0600 hours, the shriek of a drill sergeant’s whistle levitates me approximately six feet into the air. “GET THE LEAD OUT, RECRUIT! IT IS 0600 HOURS AND YOU ARE LATE FOR OUR FIVE MILE WARMUP! LET’S GO! GO! GO!” As Shoddy launches into a slew of Drill Sergeantese, a single, solitary, introspective realization crosses my mind: This may have been a bad idea. Author's Note In hindsight, the premise seems obvious. Artillery and automatic weapons are very effective at killing the enemy, but they’re heavy, and the enemy naturally targets them. Artillery must stay far back and under guard, and chatter guns are often reinforced with sandbags and bunkers to protect the crews. The only problem is, then they can’t go on the offense. Sure, you could put a chatter gun on a wagon and drag it forward (and sometimes we did), but even armored war wagons have many vulnerabilities, especially for the poor sods who have to pull. So, what could be the solution? Well, a cart that could be driven from the inside, for one. Not something that would require tracks like an armored train, but something that could drive around the countryside like an automated cart or carriage. Leoneighdo da Vinci’s armored mobile fighting vehicle is a step in the right direction, but it operated on unicorn magic to keep it running, or on having a mighty earth pony to push it around from the inside. Fine over short spurts of even terrain, but painfully slow and utterly worthless in uneven terrain. Also, the crew would burn out from the exhaustion in short order. This means it needs an engine – a mechanical engine or at least a magi-mechanical hybrid (though the former would be preferable as it would be immune to a Tirek-like event). It needs to be powerful enough to handle the drive train while carrying the weight of the armor, weaponry, and crew. It needs to be large enough to carry at least one automatic weapon, ideally two or more, and should if possible allow for a small cannon capable of firing explosive shells. We already have a variety of tracked and wheeled automated vehicles, but most are either too slow or too underpowered to provide what we need. We need to innovate, to build better engines and more reliable means of locomotion to handle the harsh terrain and heavy load at a combat-ready speed. If we can unlock the potential of our existing technology, I believe we will produce a significant force-multiplier that will give us the upper hoof in any future conflicts. —Colonel Full Arsenal, Department of Arms Research and Development, Equestrian Armed Forces, in a briefing to the Equestrian Royalty and Cabinet Ministers, shortly before launching the DARD Armored Warfighting Vehicle Challenge.* *DARD Challenges were a brainchild of Princess Twilight Sparkle, and exist as a means for the Equestrian government to offer contracts to private inventors and companies to develop technologies useful to the Armed Forces, thus increasing the number of available options for military modernization. By leveraging Equestria’s robust free market, the Challenges enable the government to incentivize various industries to develop the tools they need to better equip their soldiers. Previous DARD Challenges of note include the Next Generation Rifle Challenge – which lead to the adoption of such weapons as the Spader rifle and the Turner carbine by the Equestrian Armed Forces – and the Advanced Protective Gear Challenge - which led to the improvement of combat armor worn by Equestrian troops prior to and during the war with the Dominion. I am immensely grateful for the patience you have all shown in waiting for the next installment. I am not happy about the long delay, and I won’t make excuses. I’m getting back into a better rhythm. I don’t know when the next chapter will be, but I’m at least glad to have this one up and running. While waiting for the next chapter, a historical interlude to tide you over and give you a little insight into my world-building (for those who are interested). I hadn’t originally intended such a long tangent on weapons development, but once the idea came to me it just kind of took over. Plus, I think it’s important to give the context that “other people do things besides the main characters.” We see much of the story from Rarity’s perspective, and part of that perspective is the astonishment at how quickly the world around her changes; that’s something we experience a lot today, but I don’t think we can really comprehend how much more disorienting the change must have been to those who saw the advance of technology from the late 1800s to the mid 1900s. One thing that is often glossed over in history is the rapid evolution of technology. There were veterans of the American Civil War who, in their own lifetimes, saw the evolution of technology from muskets and breech-loaders and telegraphs and steam engines to Korean War jetfighters and the engineering that would put men into space. Imagine that for a second – you took a muzzle-loading rifled musket to war as a young adult, and by the time you were old there were jetfighters and plans to put men on the moon. That’s insane. War in particular often causes technology to jump forward a decade or two in just a couple years. World War I began with some armies fielding Napoleonic-era artillery and ended with tanks, fighters, bombers, modern artillery, machineguns and sub-machineguns, and a whole host of other technological advances in everything from medicine to communication to automotive industry advances. Some of these inventions were done by pretty young inventors; there’s a whole generation of planes where one guy would cobble together some parts to make a functional aircraft in the back shop, along with all kinds of groundcar modifications, motorcycle innovations, and more, so the idea of the CMCs building a tank isn’t as out there as you might think in this early era of modern machining. Canon Equestria is the sort of setting that has some wild possibilities for technological evolution. On one hand, it would be easy to let it sit as early industrial, with trains, steam engines, and some magic engines (or magic-tech hybrids) for airships and some basic ground conveyance. We see motorized cranes (one of which catches fire and prompts a building collapse, as alluded to in the chapter), a few basic autocarriages (Flim Flam’s Super Speedy etc., the CMC’s semi-motorized float, and so-on), and the comics mention telegraphs. They also have cannons which appear to have evolved past Medieval cannons into at least Renaissance era, possibly Industrial era. In the Homecoming-verse, I’ve expanded this to note that muskets, rifling, and early breech-loaders were in existence in roughly season 1’s timeline, but that advances beyond that were ill-funded and mostly in prototype stages. Tirek’s *ahem* shenanigans (as well as concerns of rising dangers from other nations) lead to a rapid arms development. I’ve covered the small-arms side of this before in various in-chapter tidbits and canon lore snippets in authors notes. But two things I haven’t covered yet are communications and vehicles. Communication is among the most important aspects of warfare – your troops need to know what to do, when to do it, and how to accomplish it in the most efficient manner possible. Clear communication is often the difference between life and death, and bad communication spells disaster more often than not (see The Charge of the Light Brigade). Thus, if Equestria already had the telegraph (at least in comics), radio and the like is not that crazy of a step to consider, especially with magic in play. Automation is another vital piece of modern war planning. Trains were often the difference between victory and defeat in history. Prussia won the Franco-Prussian War in large part because their superior rail network let them mobilize troops and get them to the front faster, even though France had a much larger army. They often outnumbered the French in early battles because they had more people there, even if the French had more overall. Automobiles add considerably to logistical capability, as they don’t need rail networks to transport troops and supplies. In WWII, the Americans and British had a serious advantage over the Germans once their logistical capabilities hit their stride because they had approximately ALL OF THE TRUCKS (and also supplied the USSR with a massive number of trucks) whereas the Germans were often using horse-drawn transport even into 1945. It was one of the many reasons the German logistics fell apart the longer the war dragged on. Further, automotive transport lends itself naturally to the following premise: machinegun kill people, put people kill machinegunner. Put armored box on machinegunner, but then he no reach people. So put armor box on wheels, then machinegunner go kill people. (credit to Potential History for that one). This is where we see the creation and evolution of armored warfare. So, with Equestria having at least some automotive capability and artillery even in canon, and also possessing more modern artillery and even automatic weapons in the Homecoming setting (which are no doubt being improved upon post-war), that leads to the following natural question: What if we make horse-tank with horse-radio? And that’s where we get into the CMCs entering a DARD Challenge. Back before the episode where the CMCs got their marks aired, there was a lot of speculation that AB would get her mark in engineering. While I actually really enjoyed the episode, I also liked that older idea (and some others that went with Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo), so I resurrected it for this story. Heart to HeartDid you know that being a pony comes with certain natural advantages when it comes to soldiering? I’m not talking about pegasi flight or unicorn magic or earth pony strength and connection to the earth; I’m talking about how our brains develop. You see, ponies are, by our nature, herd animals. Now, this admittedly does come with certain challenges which must be overcome in order to develop a pony into a good soldier. The chiefest among these is the fact that our fight or flight response tends to default to the latter and prefers to shift to the former only when there are no other options. Ponies can be ferocious when backed into a corner, and training – or an inborn talent – can control the flight impulse, making it a decision rather than a default action. This allows a pony to go into a combat mindset as easily as one might flip a switch. Still, it is generally a learned behavior. I am told that pony soldiers tend to take longer to train than certain other races – like griffons – but that we become quite the force to be reckoned with when we are trained. And this is where being a herd animal has its advantages. You see, when ‘the herd’ unites behind a motivated leader, the herd will simply go. Oftentimes there is little verbal explanation needed, as ponies have a variety of nonverbal cues natural to our communication, as well as a certain single-mindedness when we are caught up in a grand action by ‘the herd.’ While this can certainly be abused, a good leader can inspire followers to accomplish things they’d never thought possible. I remember Twilight telling me one story from the early days of Equestria. A warband of griffon raiders had swept down on a rural settlement. All that stood in their way was a hastily organized band of townsfolk. They weren’t professional soldiers, and were more or less expected to run or die. What they did have though were two critical assets: their personal armaments, such as are sensible to keep for self-defense, and a leader. One, single, solitary pony with the grit to stand firm. While most of the ponies were in full panic mode, the town blacksmith – just a common earth pony with a little experience in weapon-handling – bellowed at the hasty militia until he got their attention. Then he told the militia that the griffon raiders would kill their families if they didn’t kill the raiders first. He said he was going to ram his spear down the throat of the first raider he saw, and said anypony among them with a shred of love for kith and kin would do the same. At his words, the townsfolk shifted from fear to ferocity. Historical accounts differ somewhat on the details, but most agree that the militia waited near the edge of town until the griffons got close, then sprang an ambush, fired such arrows as they had, and charged. Apparently, they killed the raiders almost to the last griffon, leaving a few survivors to limp home and tell their chieftains that Equestria would not be easy prey. Note how history turned solely on the courage of one pony and the herd mentality of the rest – he asserted his case, gave an order, and it was followed without question. Having been swept up in more than one herd movement – for better or worse – I can confirm that it is difficult for a pony not to get swept up in the heat of things. Thankfully, ponies are not typically the violent sort – and that we have a tradition of hooves off government – or else this sort of collective action would likely be abused far more often than it is. As a people, we are quick to ‘follow the leader,’ and that leader can be just about anypony with the presence to command respect. Thus, if a pony were, hypothetically, to ask a retired Marine to undertake – just as an example, you understand – the task of helping her get back in shape as a sort of experiment in alternative career paths, and then that Marine were to, say, wake said pony up at the crack of doom with a veritable cavalcade of bellowed orders, it is very likely – again, hypothetically – that those orders would be followed. All of which is a very long way of saying that I spend a good half hour – give or take a year – being put through my paces by Fitness-Sergeant First Class Iron Shod before I even think to question what’s going on. Of course, by that time at least a decade seems to have passed, and I’m much too out of breath to say anything anyway. “GET THE LEAD OUT, RECRUIT BELLE!” roars Iron Shod, his words driving me down the track with all the force of a hurricane at my back. Did I mention we’re on a ten-mile run? We’re on a ten-mile run. “YOU CALL THAT A RUN?! MY GRANDMOTHER – CREATOR REST HER SOUL – CAN RUN FASTER THAN THAT AND SHE’S BEEN DEAD SIXTEEN YEARS!” I say ‘we’re’ on a run, but Shoddy appears to be strolling. “I DID NOT GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO STOP, RECRUIT! WE’VE STILL GOT THREE MORE MILES TO GO!” Backwards. Strolling backwards and still ahead of me at a run. “PICK UP THEM HOOVES, FILLY! THIS AIN’T NO SUNDAY CANTER!” I have not been able to feel my hooves for the last fifteen eternities. “I CAN STILL SEE YOUR WHITE COAT UNDER THE DUST! THAT MEANS YOU AIN’T MOVIN’ FAST ENOUGH!” Time loses all semblance of meaning as a morning jog quickly turns into a death march. “KEEP YOUR PACE STEADY! FIND YOUR RHYTHM!” He breaks into a marching cadence at the top of his lungs – still running backwards mind you – and bellows: “I DON’T KNOW BUT I BEEN TOLD!” To my immeasurable horror, my vocal chords go AWOL from my mental faculties and gasp out: “I dOn’t KnoW bUt Ai bEen tOlD!” Did I forget to mention the herd mentality applies to singing? “THEM ROY’L MARINES IS MIGHTY BOLD!” The herd mentality applies to singing. “th~EM ROyal marINES iS mI~ghTy BOld!” It’s something ponies take for granted… “AN’ UP UPON THEM BOLDEN SCENE!” But I’m told it’s shocking or even horrifying to outsiders. “An’ uP upON t~Ehm bWOld~en SEe~En!” A single voice is raised in song… “STANDS THA ’QUESTRIAN ROY’L MARINES!” … and hundreds may join the refrain… “sTan’s thUh KehstryAhn rhOil Mu’rEens!” … whether they know the song, as in Shoddy’s case … “SOUND OFF!” … or don’t know the song, as in my case. “ONe tWo!” And, like any other herd mentality moment… “SOUND OFF!” … it is nearly impossible to resist… “thREE FwWOR!” … even if one really, really wants to. “ONE TWO THREE FOUR!” “ROY’l KEhstpREEAn Mu’RIne KWor!” Just so we are absolutely clear, I have never once, in my life, heard an Equestrian Royal Marine Corps cadence, still less the specific one Shoddy chose for today. That said, I am fairly certain we made it through the entire thing. “ONE TWO THREE FOUR!” “ROYL KEQUESTPRIAN MUREEN KWPWOR!” More or less. “KEEP GOING, BOOT! YOU’VE ONLY GOT A MILE TO GO!” My life flashes before my eyes in a blur of color and sound that makes me keenly aware that I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time dealing with monsters of supervillains, all of whom I would rather be fighting blindfolded than run the next mile. “SWEET BEER-BATTERED CELESTIA, HAVE I BEEN STRUCK BLIND FOR MY SINS, OR AM I NOT SEEING ANY MOVEMENT?! PICK UP THE PACE, RECRUIT! GO! GO! GO!” As I finally collapse in the muck after pushing my body beyond all previously held physical limitations and discovering that I appear to be capable of violating the laws of physics to please the drill sergeant, I come to an important, introspective realization: Ow. I blink my eyes for a thousandth of a second, and Iron Shod is on the ground in front of me, eye to eye with me, the smell of his breath seeming to bespeak ‘IMPROVISE, ADAPT, OVERCOME,’ which I did not realize was a particular scent up until that moment, but now seems so obvious that I wonder how I could have missed it all these years. “Recruit Belle, why are you on the ground?” he demands. Strangely, he is not shouting, and yet his question feels more pointed than a fresh sewing needle being jabbed into the frog of my hoof. Deciding that such a question merits a direct answer, I eloquently respond, “Legs *gasp* naw *wheeze* move.” “You can’t move?” “*gawheeze* no *hackspittle* I *wheezespittlegasp* can’t.” “Could you move to save a brother Marine?” Iron Shod asks, his voice sober, intense. He’s not shouting like he was, he’s not even raising his voice, yet he conveys the gravitas of family, love, and loss. “Your brother needs you to move,” he informs me. He points over the low hill up which the path runs a few meters ahead of us. “Your brother is bleedin’ out over that hill. He needs you. You gonna leave him bleedin’, or you gonna get ’im?” Warm bile rises in my throat as energy flows back into my limbs. Pain which debilitated me a moment ago now galvanizes me. The agony in my legs and gasping in my lungs cries out not for relief, but for movement. My suffering becomes my friend. Needs me. Brother needs me. I am back on my hooves before I realize what I’m doing, scrambling up the slope. My legs threaten to give out, and I nearly plunge back into the dirt, but I wrench myself onwards through sheer will. I will not leave him. My hooves eat up the ground before me, clawing me up the hill, moving me with a sort of shambling locomotion I never knew I possessed. I don’t think; I just do. I manage to crest the hill and start down the slope before my limbs fully give out. Shoddy is next to me in a heartbeat. The dread anticipation of his next words – no doubt words saying that I failed to get to my brother – does not allow me to rest. I scramble forward, intending to use my forward momentum and the downward slope to come out of my fallen posture and into a run— Oof! Legs aren’t working. Have to try agai— Ow! Still not working. Improvise, adapt, overcome. If I can’t run to him, I’ll crawl. Dirt and grit scrapes my underbelly, but I won’t stop, I won’t give in, I won’t— be able to move, apparently, because I can’t even crawl. Maybe if I shift my weight around I— “Okay, Miss Rarity, I think that’s enough for today,” says Shoddy gently. He stoops over me and reaches for something in his satchel. “It’S rEkROot BELle, FITnESs-S’rgeant Shawd, an’ Ah’m nAwt dUn Yett,” I say, which is rather remarkable when my verbal capabilities are essentially parked at the corner of Wheezing and Gasping right now. My further attempts to crawl further meet with an insurmountable obstacle: the gentle push of Iron Shod utterly negating all forward momentum on my part. “Miss Rarity—” “R’breeCRoot BwElle,” I insist. There’s a pause before he says, “Recruit Belle, you have completed training for the day.” He pulls from his satchel a flask marked with a red cross and a little tin of what looks like mints, though are probably medicine given that they bear the same red cross. “Natural Zebrican anti-inflammatory and energy restorer,” he says, shaking the tin, “and a few gentle sips o’ this tonic – mostly water, but some other stuff that’ll help rehydrate ya without shockin’ yer system.” I’m proud to say that Fitness-Sergeant First Class Iron Shod barely needs to assist me in opening my mouth to administer the medical supplies (or, as I like to think of them as I feel their pain-relieving effects, as he administers the ‘Sweet Nectar of the Heavens’). Standing still proves a challenge though. Not that it matters because standing is apparently not a part of the Fitness-Sergeant First Class Iron Shod’s battleplan. Instead, he gently manages to drape me over his back so that he may carry me to town. Feeling rather like a little filly who’s been out playing all day and needs her big brother to carry her home, I start feeling drowsy. Not so drowsy, however, that I can’t ask an important question about our mission. “Did Ah get ta him?” I ask, coming closer to Applejack’s drawl than I ever manage when I’m actually trying. “Get ta who?” asks Shoddy. “Mah brother Marine,” I clarify. “Did Ah get ta him in time?” Shoddy is silent for so long that I actually start to nod off. The last thing that I hear before dozing off is his answer. “’Course ya did,” Shoddy assures me, his voice hoarse. “We… real Marines always get to their brothers in time.” “He did WHAT?!” roars Applejack. I wince as I adjust the ice packs lying on my legs. “He acquiesced to my request for a fitness trainer." It’s been several hours since Shoddy’s and my excursion into the remarkable world of the Marine Fitness Regiment. I have regained feeling in my extremities, which is good. That feeling is mostly pain, however, which is less than ideal, but also leaves me with an odd feeling of triumph. Or maybe I have some endorphins in my system who were too tired to show up earlier and are making their presence felt now. Applejack is not feeling the endorphins. Applejack is feeling the rage. “If ya asked fer that, he shoulda taken you on a jog, not a ten-mile forced march at bayonet point!” I scoff, wincing again as the light scoff puts enough pressure on my extremities to hurt. “Oh please, Applejack. Don’t be so dramatic. There were no bayonet points.” His voice sufficed. “True enough,” says Trixie. Applejack glares at her. “What?” the showmare protests defensively. “Rarity has a point. And that point is there were no points.” Applejack’s glare intensifies. “Bayonet points, that is. You see, it’s a play on words that— oh, Trixie is sorry, is she spelling this out too much? She’s spelling it out too much.” I lie in my bedroom on the second floor of the boutique. It is that room wherein Applejack is glaring at both Trixie and myself – and presumably, at Shoddy downstairs through two floors and various support struts. Applejack and Trixie had come by to see if I wanted to join them for lunch. Shoddy let them in and then – thankfully – disappeared downstairs before Applejack could see me and decide to rearrange his face, his limbs, and possibly some of his internal organs. Our dear Applejack has always had a rather powerful Mom Look – likely from raising Applebloom and generally being the ‘big sister’ to our group (and others) – but it has only grown in power since serving in the Marines and – most recently and obviously – getting pregnant. She now has a fully operational Mom Look. I have no doubt that – without even needing to look down – her Mom Look is penetrating all the way to the basement, and Shoddy is probably down there cleaning his room, remaking his already made bed, and putting the toilet seat down without knowing why. “Ah am gonna wring his skinny little neck!” snarls Applejack, pacing in fury. “Oh, come now Applejack. You shouldn’t be so hard on Shoddy, especially not when it’s my fault.” “Your fault?!” she shouts. “How in the Sam Hill do ya figure that?!” I manage to restrain myself from a painful shrug. “I heard enough of your boot camp stories and have learned enough of Shoddy to have predicted something like this. I should have seen this coming.” “She makes another good point,” agrees Trixie. “Not a bayonet point, you understand, because, as we’ve established, there were not bayonet points, but…” Applejack’s Mom Look lands on her, and Trixie takes a step back. “Trixie will be quiet now.” “Shoddy should have known better,” snarls Applejack. I roll my eyes. “No, Applejack, I should have known better. Especially since…” I bite my lip in hesitation, not wanting to admit what I’m about to admit. But I have to, or else Applejack might go cut a switch and tan Shoddy’s hide or some such thing. “Especially since Pinkie Pie was waving red flags and playing ominous music and making ‘Doom’ sounds when I asked Shoddy to help me get in shape.” Applejack pulls up short, blinks rapidly, and says, “Oh.” She pauses. “Well then it’s your own dumb fault.” “Idiot,” says Trixie, looking at me. “Yeah, idiot,” agrees Applejack. I sigh and accept the punishment, knowing I’ve spared Shoddy the wrath of Mama Applejack. At least now perhaps we can have a civilized discussion and— “Have ya pooped?” Applejack demands. The question raises concerns in the higher levels of my mental faculties. Specifically, concerns that my ears are malfunctioning. My higher mental faculties send a runner down to my ear canals to get a confirmation. A few moments later, the runner reports back to said faculties that, yes, I did in fact hear her right. My vocal chords open a dialogue to resolve the many concerns such a question raises. “I beg your pardon?!” “Pooped. Have ya pooped since runnin’?” Applejack clarifies, somehow managing to clear up exactly nothing. Seeing that a standard form of questioning failed to work, my brain defaults to the more primal response of simply sputtering in confusion in the hopes that this will cause Applejack to explain herself. “It’s a serious question, Rares,” Applejack assures me in an un-reassuring manner. “Boot camp does crazy things to tha body. Sometimes, yer doin’ so much that it don’t work right. If ya don’t poop in the next couple-three days, check in with Redheart or her husband. They’re both nurses, and they both went through boot camp, so they’ll know what to look for. If it’s longer, just go ta the hospital.” “I… bu… you… you’re serious?” “Ah am indeed,” nods Applejack. “They’ll check ya out an’ make sure yer plumbing’s workin’ agin.” Trixie nods sagely. “They’ll make you poop before you fly the coop.” Applejack shoots her an astonished look. “What is with you an’ these dumb jokes today?” The stage mare shrugs. “Trixie got a book of Dad Jokes for Arinze this morning. But he was out, and Trixie got bored waiting for you when you had your morning sickness, so she decided to read them all.” Applejack snorts. “Glad ya weren’t too inconvenienced by my pukin’,” comes her acerbic reply. “Why would ya give him a fool thing like that anyway? You know Ah hate them kind o’ jokes.” Trixie puts a comforting hoof on Applejack’s shoulder and says, “Trixie understands this is a very confusing time for you, Princess Applejack, so Trixie will clarify.” Despite Applejack’s low growl, the showmare does indeed clarify. “You see, Trixie has long been distraught over her inability to torment you with daily pranks and jokes as she once did.” She leans against Applejack as though fainting against one of my couches. “All those long nights of agony asking, ‘Why? Why can Trixie not be there to torment Applejack with silly jokes and childish amusements, to unleash the full power of the little sister archetype and bring it to hideous bearing against the common-born Princess Applejack?’” She throws a dramatic hoof to her brow demanding, “‘Why? Why? Wh—?’” She has to catch herself as Applejack steps back and allows Trixie to fall with a surprised ‘yipe’. After recovering, Trixie reasserts her overblown tone. “All those nights of agony… wondering… wishing… tormented by my inability to annoy you…” she drops the overblown tone and states blandly, “So Trixie bought the book for your husband so she could take comfort in knowing he’d do the work for her.” Applejack gives Trixie a long, hard, calculating look. Her jaw moves as though chewing on her thoughts. Her squinty-eyed Mom Look bores into Trixie like a woodworker’s drill, and it does Trixie tremendous credit that she does not wilt under the assault. Abruptly, Applejack turns to me and asks in a casual tone, “Random hypothetical for ya, Rarity. If’n Ah killed Trixie here,” she points to the mare in question, “would ya report me er not?” What I have here is a golden opportunity to bring a peaceful end to the friendly threats and playful tormenting passing between them, to lower the level of playful aggression with a sort of ‘Oh come now, Applejack’ sort of statement. That’s not what I do, of course, but it’s a golden opportunity for it. Throwing caution (and any regard for my sore limbs) to the wind, I adopt my fainting couch pose and cry, “Oh Applejack, why? Why do you so vociferously fight the fond torments of Trixie and her dedication to annoying you? Why, oh Applejack, why, why?” Soon Trixie adds her own cries of “Why, why?” to my own, and my room sounds like it’s the recording studio of a cheesy radio drama, interspersed with Trixie and I giggling uncontrollably. Applejack stares us down with the flat look of one enduring an unnecessary and underserved lecture. Then she turns and makes fer the door. “Welp. Tha’ssit. Ah’m headin’ home. Ya’ll can go play hopscotch in a minefield fer all Ah care.” “Oh, Applejack, come now. Let’s do lunch!” “Nope!” “Trixie will even annoy you by paying for it!” “Nope! Ah’m out! Go hug a cactus, the pair o’ ye!” We do eventually manage to entice Applejack to join us for lunch, though it takes me dragging my screaming limbs up and out the door to go after her so that I may suggest Sweet Ole Batter’s Pancake Emporium. Sweet Ole Batter’s is a new addition to Ponyville that came while Applejack was away at war. It has such a strong, well-developed, staple-of-the-community-small-town-eatery feeling to it that Ponyville residents sometimes forget that it’s only been here about four years. Applejack was so pleased with the quality of the fare that she declared the proprietor, Ole Batter, to be a ‘Genuine Ole Staple of Ponyville,’ whom she insists has been here for decades. To be clear, she knows this is incorrect, but whenever called to task on this she always says something to the effect of, “Don’t gimme none o’ that linear timeline crap. He’s been here all my life. Ain’t that right, Batter?” To which the elderly proprietor always replies with a twinkle in his eye and a “Yes ma’am.” I’ve long passed the point of questioning it, so when Applejack introduces the place to Trixie as a Genuine Ole Staple of Ponyville – a ‘fact’ Trixie has no cause to question – I don’t even bother to comment. It’s a harmless joke. Besides, they managed to neglect telling me – and, of infinitely greater importance, Twilight – that Trixie had emerged from her Cocoon of Selfishness and undergone the transformation to Close Friend and War Hero, so I think it’s fair that I don’t correct this blatant falsehood. Yes, that logic is as flawed as a dime-store romance novel. No, I don’t care. We secure a table in the back corner of the diner, one that’s near an exit, has clear sight lines, and is relatively secluded from the diner as a whole. In other words, it’s the table that Batter basically holds in reserve for any of the steadily increasing number of Royals who eat at his diner. Kafil – who, due to his easy-going nature, has quickly become Applejack’s go-to bodyguard whenever she wants to be out on the town – posts himself up in a spot that lets him keep an eye on things and be close enough to intervene without being so close as to be distracting. Maybe it’s simply that I became accustomed to the presence of guards around Twilight, but it is remarkable the degree to which a tall, muscular zebra in a red uniform with colorful piping can become unobtrusive. Conversation is fairly light, mostly touching on little everyday occurrences. We talk of Trixie’s train ride down to Ponyville and the various shenanigans which occurred along the way. We speculate on the disheveled history professor we see around Twilight’s castle now and then, a friend of hers who seems rather like the stereotypical cantankerous old uncle and to whom she periodically ‘grants sanctuary’ to so he can ‘hide from the Angry Mob’… whatever that means. An odd fellow, to be sure. We recall how sweet it was to see Nurse Redheart and her beau (a fellow veteran) getting matching prosthetics. Those sorts of things take up much of the conversation. Toward the latter half of the meal, the Redheart story prompts a surprisingly humorous little wartime anecdote from Trixie involving a griffon who captured a medic friend of Trixie’s for the sole purpose of surrendering to him so that he wouldn’t have to fight anymore, though retelling it here would take too long and require too much context. Applejack does not appear too engrossed in the story, possibly because she’s heard it before, or possibly because she has something else on her mind. What she says next suggests the latter. “Rarity, last night, did we…” she rolls her jaw, choosing her words carefully as she idly taps on her mug with the edge of her hoof, “… did we get too grim with the talk last night? Is that why ya left early?” The question rather takes me aback. Before I can respond, she hastily adds, “Because, if that’s why, Ah do apologize. We oughta be more respectful o’ ya.” Much as it shames me to admit it, a respectful reply to her contrite remorse is not the first thing that populates my mind. Rather, it is annoyance. Severe annoyance. Heaven forgive me, but I am so deucedly tired of ponies walking on eggshells around me like I am a porcelain vase balanced on a sewing needle. I’m a seasoned adventurer, darnit, and I am far from inexperienced in the cruelties of the world! I am fifty-seven flavors of done with my friends hiding their lives from me! I hold myself back because… because… because in that particular instance, I did leave early in part because of the direction the conversation took. It was so utterly shocking to me that anypony could miss the war – especially a pony like Shoddy who is so clearly still battling demons from the war on a daily basis – that I had to step back and process what I’d heard. So then, how best to admit that without undercutting my general frustration with being treated like a foal by my veteran friends whenever conversation veers too detailed? True, it is not a problem which appears one hundred percent of the time, but it occurs often enough to be profoundly vexing. Or, more precisely, the fact that they seem to be shutting me out of their lives is… not something that I can bear any longer. In light of this, I manage to choke back my initial snap reply by sheer force of will, literally shutting my mouth against the words which would be spoken in haste and repented of in leisure. After a moment to compose myself, my actual response, though tempered, still retains more annoyance than I would have preferred. “In truth, Applejack, I did need time to… mull over the notion of missing at least a part of the war. That was…” I lightly stir my tea, “… that was not a revelation I expected, nor was I prepared for it. However,” I am quick to continue before she or Trixie can interject with an unnecessary apology, “in truth I am glad Trixie said what she did. Moreover, I am glad of it whenever one of you actually discloses more of the truth about the war. I wish you did it more often.” Looking up steely-eyed from my tea, I meet their gazes levelly. “I do not wish to be spared the details of the conflict. That’s not to say that I wish to pry into things which you do not wish to share – I most assuredly do not –but too often you and the others will begin to freely share a story, only to cut yourselves off and either water it down or change the subject when you remember I’m present. I consider myself fortunate on the occasions when you forget yourselves and say what you mean to say before remembering you’re speaking in my presence. I do not desire insulation from what you all endured; if anything, I want to embrace it.” Returning my gaze to my tea, I continue, “You’ve no idea what it’s like, stewing at home, knowing your friends are out there fighting and possibly dying, and feeling like a coward for not being there with them. To hear word from the front only in the form of cold after-action reports and second-hoof news stories and attempt to fill in the gaps with naught but occasional letters, and having naught to do but guess your stories and pray you live to tell them. Not being able to do anything to help played havoc on my conscience, and the lack of even being able to know your stories only made it worse. I was…” I bite my lip, “I was there Applejack. I was there when we almost lost… I helped Shining Armor keep the shield up. I was in battle that day, serving alongside all you girls, together, but then… when the war started…” Shutting my eyes, I say, “I know it was… necessary that one of us remain. All things considered, it even makes sense it was me. But while what you all endured was surely more devastating than what I suffered, the fact remains that I still bleed inside for only having scraps of knowledge against your canvas of experience. I want to know what it was like, I want to know what you endured. I want to be able to experience it, even at one step removed, because I feel like… I feel like if I can know it, imagine it, even in some limited way, then maybe… maybe I can help share the burden in some small way.” I look up at them to conclude my case, “I can’t go back and be there where you were, and live as you lived. But… I can listen. I can hear. I can be… somebody to talk to I… I want to help. I do. And they say that’s a way to address grief, don’t they? ‘Joy is multiplied when it is shared. Yet grief, when shared, is divided.’ If the only way I can serve is to accept the sharing of grief, then let me share it. Let me help you divide it. And, when you have those humorous anecdotes, well, let me help multiply the joy.” Both of my dining companions sit quietly for a moment. Trixie I still don’t know well enough to read with as much confidence as I’d like, but her steady gaze suggests she’s truly considering what I have to say. Applejack scratches the back of her head, her eyes moving about the room to look at anything but me. She is the first to speak. “Rarity, it ain’t like we’re tryin’ ta cut ya off, it’s just…” she shudders, “what we saw over there was terrible, girl.” Frowning, I reply, “It’s not as though I have no experience of war. I may have only tasted war for one day,” I blink, and for a heartbeat I can see Twilight’s blood on my hooves, “but I assure you it is a bitter taste well-remembered, and oftentimes its foulness returns to taint the flavor of my life. I may not live with it the same way you do, but I live with it all the same, and I do not wish to be spared the details. We are friends, Applejack. We are family.” “Ah know that, Rarity, trust me, Ah know we’re family,” says Applejack earnestly, her eyes coming to meet mine. “Now Ah’m right sorry ya feel like we’re keepin’ ya out of our lives, but that ain’t why we’re doin’ it. Believe me, the things Ah seen…,” she shuts her eyes, “no pony should have ta see what Ah’ve seen, or do what Ah’ve done. Ah wanna spare ponies that,” she opens her eyes once more, and they are full of grief, “’specially family like you.” Well, I suppose it’s hard to stay angry in the face of a reason like that. Especially since I’m not entirely certain which one of us has the right of it. But I’ve come too far finally letting this all out to stop now. Reaching across the table, I take one of Applejack’s hooves in mine and say, “Applejack, I am grateful that you and the girls love me so much that you don’t want me to know the horrors of war as you do. And, I repeat, I don’t want to pressure you into relating stories you’re not yet ready to tell. But… there are stories you do share, just… not with me.” Leaning forward and maintaining eye contact, I declare, “I know it will be hard, Applejack. But I’m asking you to be honest with me.” She winces as I play the honesty card; I feel a little bad, but I’m desperate. “Applejack, I want to be there to listen, to learn and preserve the memories, and to understand… look, I know it may seem petty and selfish, but I want… I need to know what you girls went through. You…” I swallow as I feel my voice cracking, “you’re a part of me, all you girls are, and I feel like… like I don’t even know a part of myself anymore. And maybe… maybe you all need to talk about it to somepony who wasn’t there, so that the few who were there don’t need to carry the weight of the memory alone.” “Three dead, seven injured, four of them crippled permanently,” says Trixie softly. Her abrupt remark startles me; I’d been so intent on making the point to my friend – my sister – that I’d half-forgotten Trixie’s presence. A fact which I deeply regret now that she’s made such a grim statement. “I’m… sorry?” I ask of her. “Those are the casualties of one of my howitzers exploding in my battery in the midst of the First Battle of Pasturedaele,” continues the former stagemare in a muted tone, her gaze a thousand miles away. “I’ve handled explosives for years. Comes with the trade. I know how dangerous they are when proper precautions aren’t taken, and I know how, even when you do everything right, something can still go fatally wrong.” She shakes her head. “I drilled my gun teams relentlessly. I made them clean and maintain their guns so well that our safety and maintenance standards were better thanwhat ‘the Book’ calls for. Anypony I saw cutting corners I let have it for endangering his crew. ‘Slow is smooth, smooth is fast’ I told them. Maintaining calm and moving smoothly is faster than rushing, which is better for the troops you’re supporting and safer for you. But…” she looks at me evenly, “one day a howitzer had a misfire. The round cooked off inside the barrel. To this day, we’re still not entirely sure what happened. Could have been a bad round, could have been operator error, could have been any number of things.” She shrugs. “In all likelihood it was a combination of little factors no one on the planet could have predicted or prevented – a slight imperfection in the round with exactly the wrong pressure conditions in the chamber and grime built up from how many fire missions we’d had that day – a set of dominoes set up by the battle.” “Still,” she sighs, looking away for a moment, and then back at me, “I’ll always wonder if I could have done something different. Something better. Maybe I missed something in the inspection, maybe the crew was too tired, maybe I didn’t train them well enough… maybe, maybe, maybe. Like I said, there was probably nothing anypony could have done. But,” she takes a drink of her water, “I’ll always wonder.” There is a quiet agony in her gaze, a sorrow that runs deep into the marrow. But it is not her master. It is a part of her, one she lives with every day. Yet still, she lives. You’ve really become an incredible mare, Trixie. “I’m… so terribly sorry to hear that, Trixie,” I say softly. Applejack doesn’t say anything, but puts a wordless hoof on Trixie’s shoulder comfortingly. “I can’t even…” a vision of the shooter pointing his gun at Twilight flashes before my eyes – the shooter I saw, but failed to warn of in time – and I stop short of saying ‘I can’t even imagine,’ and instead say the more truthful, “I believe that you’re probably right that there was nothing you could have done, but I don’t suppose that makes it any easier.” With a tired laugh, Trixie replies, “It beats knowing there was something I should have done but didn’t, so on the balance it could be much worse. And, realistically, you’re right. Or rather,” she rolls her eyes, “technically Trixie is right and you’re agreeing with her. But, still, you’re right. Things happen you can’t control, and it’s arrogance to believe otherwise. We have not the power of angels to call on, however much you and your friends have very specific areas in which you are grossly overpowered,” her teasing remark earns a smile from Applejack and me, despite the heaviness of the moment, and she continues, “Trixie advised her fellow artillery ponies of much the same lesson. We all feared the same thing, after all. We each feared to be personally responsible for the tragedy. And, Trixie imagines, we all likely still… wonder from time to time. Perhaps that’s why we never really discussed it after it happened.” A pregnant pause lies upon us. “Until now,” I say softly. Trixie smiles, at once sorrowful and at peace. “Until now,” she echoes. “Do you… feel better for having told us?” The showmare-turned-soldier is silent for a moment, scrutinizing the table as though it might reveal some answer before nodding slowly, “Trixie is not… I’m not sure ‘better’ feels like the right word. More that I feel… lighter.” Her smile broadens slightly. “Less crazy. Instead of my worries being trapped in the echo chamber of the mind, they are heard with compassion. What lurked in the dark is exposedin the light of day. Hardly the end of the battle, but a step nonetheless. One I didn’t know I needed to take. So, yes, I feel… lighter.” It is a peculiar thing to feel both sadness and happiness at the same time. Sadness for the tragedy, and happiness for seeing someone face and process their pain. Joy for seeing someone in the midst of healing, sorrow that they have suffered the wound at all. That mingling of love and grief which is called compassion. Hope in the midst of loss. ‘Bittersweet’ barely begins to cover it. So, with a smile of both joy and sorrow, I say, “I’m glad.” “Me too,” Applejack affirms. “Trix… Ah know bein’ married an’ having a kid on the way means it ain’t as easy fer me ta check in on ponies as regular as Ah’d like, but… you know you can always—” Trixie pats her hoof reassuringly. “Fret not, dear friend, the Understanding and Wise Trixie knows you can always be counted on to help when Trixie – or anypony for that matter – really needs you.” She winks at me. “And your sister from another mister can spot you for the times you have morning sickness.” I can’t help but chortle at that. Nodding gratefully to Trixie, Applejack turns to me, picking her words carefully as she says, “Rares… Ah am sorry fer how we been treatin’ you those times we really were coddlin’ ya, an’ fer it seemin’ like we were even when we weren’t. It’s hard ta tell…” she scratches the back of her neck, “there’s things we don’t tell Twilight either, times we don’t tell anypony who weren’t over there. There’s things we don’t even discuss outside our own units. Sometimes it’s tryin’ ta spare ’em, but sometimes…” she shrugs, “sometimes there just ain’t no way ta describe what it was like over there ta somepony who wasn’t. Ain’t about you, it’s just how it goes. Everypony’s got life experiences that nopony else can ever truly understand, but most of it they can understand at least to a point. Some things though,” she sighs, “some things are so out there, so far beyond the realm of what most folks experience, that it sounds unreal ta folks who got no first-hoof experience with it. Like,” she shoots me a pointed look, “what happened last night when we all said we missed the war.” I flush red. “I suppose that is a fair point, and one I hadn’t considered.” My blush deepens. “In fact, perhaps it is I who should be apologizing for making you all feel so uncomfortable when you’d all made yourselves vulnerable enough to share something like that… and then today I have the gall to criticize you for not sharing more with me like an entitled brat and I am so terribly sorry to both of you I have made a complete fool of myself and—” “Rarity, stop!” Applejack cuts me off before I can hyperventilate. “Ah ain’t fishin’ fer an apology. Ah think… Ah think maybe we’re all just tryin’ ta figure out how ta handle somethin’ there ain’t no rulebook for. Ah only brought that up ta make the point that… well, it’s like ya said, ya gotta be vulnerable ta reveal somethin’ like that, an’ it’s somethin’ most of us gotta ease into. Cuz ya fear ponies are gonna judge you for what went down.” She cuts me off with a wave of her hoof before I can properly start to panic over being a horrible friend again. “Ah ain’t sayin’ that’s what ya did. Honestly, in yer place, Ah’d probably have freaked out an’ said somethin’ stupid. You kept pretty calm and then tried ta figure it out respectful-like, which is about the best Ah could hope for. Ah’m just sayin’… maybe we oughta take this slow. Work up to it, know what Ah mean?” Letting out a breath of sheer relief that I didn’t make a total and utter fool of myself – perhaps just a standard fool – I reply, “I think that is a marvelous idea, Applejack.” The rest of our lunch is thankfully less heavy. That is to say, the conversation is less heavy. The food, well… let’s just say I’m glad I didn’t have that in my system before taking the Iron Shod Death March. I would have – to use Rainbow Dash’s unsettlingly descriptive euphemism – performed the ‘technicolor yawn’ over most of the outer Ponyville acreage had I undertaken such a physically demanding exercise on a stomach full of hearty diner food. Ah, Rarity. There was a time you never would have ventured to use such a term as ‘technicolor yawn’ when referring to the violent expulsion of one’s stomach contents, even in the privacy of your own mind. How Rainbow has broken you. Still and all, our lunch is overall a pleasant one, and a productive one to boot. I have no complaints. My joints and muscles however, have many complaints they would like to file, and file complaints they do! As I begin the slow and painful return to my domicile – with Applejack and Trixie ambling beside me and Kafil following behind – the complaints come so fast and thick that the Complaints Department of my brain is forced to co-opt employees from other departments of my consciousness just to handle the overload. Regrettably, it seems they even managed to coopt staffers from the Hearing Department, because the Visual Department – thankfully better staffed – alerts me to an orange hoof being waved in front of my face, which signals my Hearing Department to escalate their Readiness Level, which in turn alerts me to the incoming message. “Yo! Equestria ta Rarity!” barks Applejack from my right. “You there, pardner?” Emergency signals send a crack team of specialists to my Linguistic Department in order to buy time for me to reorient my brain away from ‘BODY HURTS’ to ‘Polite Conversation.’ “Hmm? Pardon?” I manage. “Ah said why’d ya ask Shoddy ta take ya out exercisin’ anyhow?” Walking on my left – opposite Applejack – Trixie smirks and says, “Besides the—” abruptly, she gives her head a shake as though trying to drive off a buzzing insect, and then – to my great shock – she slaps herself. As in, full hoof, full contact slaps herself. “No! Bad Trixie!” she snaps, sounding for all the world like she’s rebuking a naughty puppy. “You don’t use the kind of jokes you would use on the hayseed and the tripod on Rarity!” Applejack pops her head over my back to peak at Trixie like I’m a sandbag separating her from the enemy. “Trix, were you gonna slag Rares like you slag me an’ Dash?” Blushing so hard that she practically turns maroon, Trixie answers hurriedly, her words almost tumbling over each other in their haste, “Trixie has picked up some habits in the military that don’t translate well to civilian life. One of them is the knee-jerk exchange of brutal insults that neither party takes offense at because neither party actually means them. It is important to not apply such practices to those who are not familiar with and accepting of such practices.” It takes me a moment to break down what Trixie said, but when I do, I can’t help but chuckle. Yes, Rainbow Dash and Applejack have always teased each other ceaselessly, but neither meant a word of it and both learned what was over the line and what wasn’t, so they managed to maintain the teasing without wrecking their friendship. Now that I think on it, all six of us girls engaged in some manner of this lively but un-serious teasing with each other once we got to know each other better, but none of us quite so readily as Rainbow Dash and Applejack. With the passage of years and gaining more experience with soldiers – and, for that matter, firefighters, police, and the like – I’ve learned that this seems standard for those who labor in such dangerous professions. However, those who are not familiar with such provocative humor – ‘slagging’ as it is sometimes called – are often… put off when they see it without context. Many a time growing up I witnessed colts and stallions treating each other in such a manner, and I always had a hard time understanding why sometimes they laughed and sometimes they took offense. My father explained that there was a difference between slagging and cruelty, though it took me many years to truly understand. The difference, as it happens, is intent, trust, and understanding. Firstly, one must not intend any offense, but that is not enough by itself. The recipient has to understand that, and there must be a level of trust that no offense is meant and that – if offense is accidentally given – it will be duly apologized for. And, as always, we must learn where the line is. All this being said, since I do not know Trixie particularly well – and am still only one day into processing that SHE’S A WAR HERO AND COMRADE-IN-ARMS TO MOST OF MY CLOSEST FRIENDS – I’m not sure how I would have taken such ‘slagging’ if it was directed at me. Since I now know that it would have been innocent and friendly slagging, however, I am curious. Applejack shakes her head at Trixie and clicks her tongue like a mother chiding a youngster. “Now, Trixie, you know you can’t just go about sayin’ the first fool thing that comes inta yer head around these civilized folk.” She throws a hoof over my withers and says, “They’re liable ta take offense.” “Oh, yes, very liable,” I say blandly. “In the interest of furthering my education about you barbarians, however," I tease, “what exactly were you planning on saying?” Trixie actually looks abashed, and pulls her hat down to cover her eyes. “Trixie… Trixie does not wish to share that information. Trixie feels it would be unseemly.” Scoffing, I say, “Trixie, I know you mean no genuine insult. I know it would just be ‘slagging.’ I give you permission to voice your venomous quip.” “Trixie does not want to. Trixie’s mind was mean.” Rolling my eyes, I reply, “Trixie, I know you don’t actually mean it. And besides, I live with Shoddy under my roof for pony’s sake! You think he’s never said something off-color, tactless, and offensive without meaning to? Not to mention putting up with this brute,” I nudge Applejack, “and the ever-tactless Rainbow Dash for years! Between thethree hooligans, I think I’ll manage!” Perking back up, Trixie deadpans, “That is true, they are all worse ponies than Trixie.” At an outraged cry from Applejack, she clarifies. “Actually, that’s too harsh. Shoddy is wonderful.” Another outraged cry. “Well, Miss Rarity, if you insist… what I was going to say when Applejack asked ‘why did you ask Shoddy to take you out exercising’ was... ‘besides the obvious you mean?’” The question actually causes me to stumble. “My heavens!” I exclaim, raising a hoof to my forehead. “I… I think I was just transported back to secondary school!” Stopping and sitting so I can massage my temples I continue, “Oh, how I hear them again! The catty girls making snide remarks behind my back! The whispers around the drinking fountain! The back-hooved compliments spoken by schoolmates with barbed tongues! Oh the Equinity!” “See?” says Trixie miserably. “Trixie warned you her mind was mean!” “Darling, I’m not mad, I think you just discovered a form of time travel! I went right back to secondary school!” “Ah ha!” exclaims Trixie, rearing up triumphantly. “Time travel! The Great and Powerful TRIXIE has finally beaten the Stupendous and Exceptionally Regal Twilight Sparkle to something!” “Eenope,” drawls Applejack. “Sorry Trix. Twi already time traveled fer real.” “Oh come on! SERIOUSLY?!” “Eeyup. Few years back now.” Dropping back to all fours, Trixie scuffs the road in irritation. “Well drat! Now Trixie is back to apologizing for Rarity and not having any great discovery to show for it.” “No need to apologize, my dear,” I assure her, rising once more to my hooves so we can resume walking. “I insisted. I know well the dread power of a quick wit and an acid tongue, and I insisted you reveal the things your mind conceived before you were able to stop it. Just as was the case with Shoddy, I have no one to blame but myself.” “Yeah, stupid,” says Applejack. “Stupid,” echoes Trixie. “Splendid,” I sigh. “Glad we’re all on the same page.” Again, at least I am used to Shoddy’s outbursts. We walk in silence for a moment before Applejack says, “Sooooo… speakin’ o’ Shoddy…” “Why’d I ask him to take me out exercising? Well, in truth, it is partially because I’m out of shape.” “Not really,” says Trixie. I arch an eyebrow at her. “What?” she exclaims. “Trixie only thought of that jab because there was setup for the punchline. Again, Trixie didn’t actually mean it. Heck,” she continues with a grumble, “while Trixie wouldn’t mind living closer to her wartime friends, at least living farther away from Ponyville means I won’t have to get out-competed byyou for attracting all the most eligible stallions.” That’s… I don’t really know how to respond to that. It’s weird enough getting a genuine complement from Trixie. (Well, really, it’s weird enough that Trixie now gives genuine complements in the first place). But what’s even weirder is that… she assumes that I’m having to fight stallions off with a stick. And, don’t get me wrong, it’s flattering that she thinks that, but… … I don’t know. Maybe stallions are intimidated by my perceived status, a twist which would be ironic and infuriating in equal measure… … Maybe it’s how wrapped up I was for the duration of the war with caring for Twilight, helping administer the castle, running my business whilst also helping other ponies run theirs, worrying about my friends, feeling like I wasn’t doing enough, doing everything I could so I felt like I was doing something… … … maybe… maybe I’ve given so much away that I don’t have much to offer anymore. … But I don’t want to say all that in public or at all so I force myself to stop ruminating, take the genuine complement for what it is, and pay one in return at the same time. A genuine complement in return, mind you. Because war hero Trixie has done more than me to warrant the attentions of eligible bachelors lately. “I… I thank you for you kind words Trixie. I believe you sell yourself very far short, and I’m sure that some wonderful stallion will recognize what a treasure you are and sweep you off your hooves, but I thank you for your complements all the same.” Clearing my throat, I clarify, “However, I was not thinking of my figure when I asked Shoddy to help me get in better shape. I had not cause to think on it until I recently had to run all across town—” … specifically, running in a panic to Sweet Apple Acres when I thought Applejack was moving, though I don’t say that part aloud… “—and discovered myself quite out of breath and lacking the endurance I once had. I found myself thinking on what excellent shape I was in when we six Bearers battled monsters and cultists and existentially threatening magical catastrophes on the regular.” Applejack smiles fondly, “Ah, good times.” “Quite. And good exercise to boot!” I shrug. “I hadn’t realized how much I relied on the Tuesday Crises to keep me in top physical condition.” Tilting her head, Trixie asks, “Tuesday Crises?” “She means the sort of hullabaloo that always seemed ta stir things up ’round here,” clarifies Applejack. “You know, Nightmare Moon, tha parasprites, Discord, tha Darin’ Do shenanigans, Discord again, tha Noodle Incident…” Trixie frowns and interjects before Applejack can properly begin the list. “Did your crises really always present themselves on Tuesdays.” “Not at all, darling,” I say, winking at her. “As I recall, you showed up on a Wednesday.” Applejack guffaws and Trixie’s eyes narrow dangerously, though there’s amusement in her gaze. “Oh, well played, Miss Rarity. You have now made Trixie’s List of Retribution.” Smiling primly, I reply, “I wouldn’t have it any other way, darling. But, returning to the matter of Shoddy,” I continue, reverting to the actual topic – Celestia, we have gone down far too many rabbit holes! – “I went out to the farm yesterday to talk to her Royal Highness Applejack,” her royal highness growls, but I carry on undeterred, “only to find that she was away.” “Doubtless on Royal Apple business,” supplies Trixie. “Doubtless,” I agree. The growl increases in volume, but my story holds its course. “As she was away on Apple-related and certainly Royal business, I found myself conversing with Applebloom, Sweetie Belle, and Scootaloo.” Hmm. It occurs to me that if – when – Big MacIntosh marries Twilight, Applebloom will be the only non-royal of the Apple siblings. I shall have to procure a prince or duke or something for her just to round things out. “Those three holy terrors – or, excuse me – those three fine and upstanding mares have something of a side hustle going.” “Trixie is not surprised by this,” remarks an unsurprised Trixie. I glance at her and see eyes full of understanding. “Trixie has heard the stories,” she explains dryly. “I see. Well, then it should not surprise you to know that they have opened a Cutie Mark Consulting business, complete with a noir-style office, noir-saxophone, noir-attire, noir-style ambient narration, and even a magical glamor enchantment that lays a black and white noir effect over the office and everything – and everypony – within it.” “Trixie commends their dedication to their craft and showponyship. Trixie intends to see this for herself and converse with these worthy young mares.” Applejack snickers. “Gonna talk shop with some other over-dramatic showponies?” “Yes, Trixie is going to engage in worthwhile dialogue with fellowartists rather than the usual Philisteeds she has to endure,” she replies with a prim sniff. “Anyway,” I interrupt, keen to avoid yet another rabbit hole – I also notice we took a wrong turn somewhere and aren’t even heading to my home but I don’t want to get sidetracked from this conversation again – “we got to discussing what Iron Shod’s special talent might be. While we are still far from certain, I think we have narrowed it down to some general principles…” I explain in brief terms what the girls and I discussed: that Shoddy’s special talent is likely along the lines of mental tenacity, physical endurance, and mind-over-matter toughness. That being probable, deciding to try various things which meet that general criteria would be logical. Hence, the physical fitness trainer. Applejack nods approvingly at the explanation. “Pretty good plan, Rares.” She smirks. “Even if it was stupidly executed. “Yeah, stupi— oh, sorry, is this bit played out?” says Trixie. “This bit is played out. Trixie will move on to the next joke.” It’s a good indicator of how strange my life has become that I don’t even bat an eye at this. Applejack, equally unfazed, remarks, “Ah’m mighty impressed ya figured this out, Rares. Shoddy always was cagey ’bout what his special talent was, but Ah guess it never really sunk in that maybe he was so cagey ’cause he didn’t know himself.” She sighs and shakes her head. “Yet another tough break for the guy.” “Pardon the intrusion,” interjects Trixie. “Trixie doesn’t mean to be rude in asking this, but… Rarity, what exactly is your business arrangement with Shoddy? Applejack mentioned he was working for you, but it seems more like you’re trying to run a personal development seminar on him. Even as he runs a fitness development seminar on you.” “Shoddy’s had… a hard time adjustin’ after leavin’ the service,” drawls Applejack, still uncomfortable with discussing a friend who isn’t present. “He ain’t got much in the way o’ civilian skills, and he’s had a hard time reintegratin’ with civilian life.” “Hmm. Unfortunate, but sadly not unexpected,” remarks Trixie sadly. “Trixie never knew Shoddy to have much – or any – filter on his mouth, and she imagines that has not gone over well with prospective employers. One requires a certain degree of tact to land steady employment.” She waves a hoof in the air so as to stave off snide remarks. “Yes, yes, Trixie is well aware that she is one to talk about tact, but even Trixie had to know who to kiss up to if she wanted gigs, especially when she was starting out.” She sighs. “Many troopers – especially young ones – just don’t have job experience outside a pair of combat boots. Trixie is fortunate, both that she remains in uniform and in that she has multiple career options lined up to fall back on if and when she returns to civilian life.” Applejack chuckles. “‘Multiple’ career options? You mean Option A, playing on the road, or Option B, playing for casinos?” “I mean chemical engineering and ordinance testing and development,” says Trixie, dropping her third person speech as she drops into a deadpan tone. Applejack and I stop and stare at her. “What?” she says. “I made all my own fireworks, fog, special effects, smoke bombs, everything I used in my act.” Fixing her gaze on Applejack, she states, “You know this about me. You don’t think I have the training to back it up?” The farm mare princess holds up her forehooves in surrender. “Yer right. Ah’m sorry.” “I literally designed new ordinance mid-war.” “Ah get it. Yer right.” “I’m going to open a manufacturing firm. Sell my inventions to every allied nation and all their militaries and every mining company and every showpony on the continent. Make enough money to buy Ponyville.” “We get it, Trix.” “Gonna rename it Trixietopolis.” “Trix,” sighs Applejack tiredly, “We were talkin’ about Shoddy, remember?” “Right. Sorry.” Trixie clears her throat and resumes her more flowery, authoritative tone. “The point is, he and a lot of other veterans don’t have many trained skills. Now, there’s a lot of unskilled labor work, and many of those jobs even make for decent careers. But if he’s having a hard time re-adjusting to civilian life… Trixie can see that making it hard to hold a steady job. One of Trixie’s best gunners had a problem like that. He was even a semi-skilled laborer with a good job history before the war, but he always had a temper, and once he got back, he kept picking fights. Couldn’t hold a job. Fortunately, he had Trixie in his corner.” My ears perk up at that. Thankfully, Shoddy isn’t out getting into bar brawls, but hearing how this veteran dealt with his troubles could help Shoddy. “Well, what did you do?” I ask eagerly. “Trixie introduced him to a hype pony and a coach and got him into heavyweight boxing. He’s in the minor circuit right now.” I blink rapidly at that as I try to process this information. On one hoof, better a controlled environment than a street fight. On the other hoof… I can see that potentially backfiring. Yes, martial arts have often been used to help one control one’s temper – that’s why I studied karate and why I still practice now and then – but the tournament environment can bring out the worst in ponies if they’re not properly formed and tempered. Still, I don’t want to offend Trixie by saying my reservations aloud. I have to say something open-ended, generally positive, and simple. Something that doesn’t sound like waffling or leeriness but also doesn’t say something I don’t mean. “That’s… well… nice… um…” Oh dear. It seems the others have a point. I am stupid. Fortunately, Trixie seems not only to not take offense, but also to have considered the same potential pitfalls. “It’s not ideal, Trixie admits. The tournament circuit is not without its more brutish elements. But the hype pony in question has experience reining in destructive behavior, and the coach knows how to give him a listening ear, a gentle correction, and tough love as needed, so they keep him channeling his aggressive energy in a controlled and healthy way. Something to temper the temper, so to speak. The coach especially has a good track record of making temperamental ponies less temperamental through discipline.” She shrugs. “Trixie was in the midst of transferring when she set this up. Best she could manage on short notice.” Now feeling more confident, I assure her, “Well, it sounds like you did right by him.” And, given how limited my progress has been with Shoddy – despite apparently having more time to work the problem – I suppose I’m not really in a place to judge. Especially since, for all I know, boxing might be exactly the right fit for Trixie’s comrade. “Trixie certainly hopes she did right by him,” the showmare says with a sigh. She looks around as we continue our slow pace through the winding streets. “Trixie also hopes her memory isn’t going, as she remembered your home being closer to the diner than this. How long have we been walking?” To my surprise, Applejack wipes her brow with relief. “Whew! Thank goodness! We did get turned around somewhere! Ah thought my memory was goin’ too!” “Yes, yes, we did get off track somewhere,” I admit. Fiddlesticks. I’d been hoping to get us back on the right path before anypony noticed. “I hope neither of you had someplace to be.” Trixie checks her pocket watch, then shrugs. “Trixie needs to swing by the telegraph office and pick up some correspondence, but it’s not a disaster if she’s a few minutes late.” “Need a hoof findin’ yer way there?” offers Applejack. The showmare snorts, then pulls out a map and compass with her magic. “As it is not a bar, a pool hall, a shooting range, or a crayon factory, I’m not confident Marine navigation will be of any assistance to me,” she quips, before barely ducking under the swipe of Applejack’s hoof. “Besides, Your Royal Appleness, you were as lost as Trixie. And you, Fitness Recruit Belle,” she says with a brief glance at me, “need to get off those hooves if you want to be ambulatory tomorrow. Especially,” Trixie smirks, “if you’re planning on continuing your fitness regimen.” A shudder runs all down my body from the tip of my horn to the tip of my tail, then back up again. “I… may have a word with Shoddy about proper scale of intensity,” I admit as my muscles quiver in dread. Trixie smiles and pats my head. “See? Not so stupid after all.” “Most kind of you,” I reply dryly. “Well, we shan’t keep you, Colonel. Ta ta for now. Lunch tomorrow, perhaps?” “Indeed,” she says with a smile. “And perhaps we can even find a restaurant to cater to Applejack’s unique culinary preferences such as—” “If this is another ‘Marines eat crayons’ joke, Ah’ll kill ya with mah bare hooves,” interrupts Applejack, deadpan. “Trixie doubts you could catch her with a bun in the oven,” the showmare counters, pointing to Applejack’s pregnant belly. “Fine. Ah’ll order Kafil ta kill ya with ’is bare hooves.” Glancing at the bemused zebra, Trixie nods. “Well-played, Hayseed Highness. Trixie will see you both later.” With a quick parting hug to each of us, Trixie departs. Applejack and I stand in silence for a moment, watching in the direction Trixie just went. (Kafil also stands in silence, though presumably he is watching all directions for possible threats). After a moment, Applejack breaks the silence, saying, “Ya still can’t get over the fact she’s a friend now, can ya?” “I still can’t get over who she’s become in general, Applejack,” I retort somewhat hotly. “She is a completely different mare than when I last saw her. Virtuous, personable, funny, compassionate, charming, the lot of it! If she’d been like this when we first met, she might well have joined us on our adventures!” “Might well have,” agrees Applejack. “She’s completely different in her values, her worldview, her motives, her outlook on life, and yet… and yet…” “And yet she’s still Trixie?” suggests Applejack. “Oh, more than that, darling! I dare say she’s more Trixie now than she’s ever been in her life, at least she’s more than she was before having her ‘come-to-the-Creator’ moment at the start of the war!” Applejack tilts her head curiously. “How do you mean she’s ‘more Trixie’ now than she’s ever been? She don’t even talk in the third person all the time no more.” I scoff. “Oh puh-leeze, Applejack! That’s just a surface level trait! It’s like when one of those new moving pictures does a bad adaptation of a classic novel, and they take the obvious traits of a character – the catch phrases, the costuming, the same jokes that they run into the ground – and they assume those surface level things were what really moved fans in the first place, and not the real depths of the character that lay beneath the surface.” I gesture vaguely in Trixie’s presumed direction. “Trixie’s eccentricities are no more than a reflection of her deeper complexities.” “Riiiiight,” says Applejack slowly, seeming bemused by my assertions as we wind our way back to – hopefully – my boutique. “So… what’s the business about her being more Trixie now than before?” Feeling philosophical, I say, “Each of us is on a journey, Applejack, a journey between the best version of ourselves and the worst. We fall somewhere between the two, moving back and forth, to and fro, becoming either fuller or emptier depending on whether we follow our better natures or our worse.” Applejack continues to give me the bemused side-eye as though she’s not following what I’m saying. Knowing her, she’s following perfectly well and, for some foolish reason, feels the need to pretend she isn’t. Undeterred, I continue, “Trixie used to trend towards the emptier side of herself, the less virtuous, more vicious, and thus ultimately worst part of her nature. Now, she strives to be the best version of herself, growing in humility, virtue, goodness, and, as a result, fullness.Truth.Ergo,” I conclude, “she is more authentically ‘Trixie’ now than she has ever been in her life.” Raising an eyebrow at her continued bemusement, I say, “Have you some jest to deliver, Applejack?” The farmer chuckles. “Just ta say ya sound like a preacher, which ain’t an insult, just funny. Normally when Ah hear heavy meanin’-o-life philosophy stuff like that, it’s from one o’ the chaplains or one o’ the princesses.” “Well, seeing as you are a princess now, oh Fair and Noble Apple of the Zebrican Royal Line, perhaps you ought to be taking notes,” I say primly. The Fair and Noble Apple of the Zebrican Royal Line jostles me with her shoulder, making a noise that’s both a chuckle and a much-exaggerated snarl as she does so. “But… thank you. I suppose I’ve picked up a thing or two from dear Twilight after all these years.” “Mm,” grunts Applejack. “It is a good point, though. We all got the makins o’ saints in us, as well as sinners. It’s a good reminder that we all got potential. Our chaplain once said the realest version of ourselves is the best one, and we can get pretty well there, even if we ain’t gonna get there perfectly.” A silence hangs between us a moment as we walk. “You might make that point ta Shoddy when you get the chance. Only,” she chuckles, “maybe don’t say it sound so pretty as ya did ta me.” “Indeed not,” I chuckle. “Actually, I was hoping to make that point by ‘showing, not telling,’ with the personal trainer suggestion, but…” I stretch my back slightly as we walk, and there’s an audible and stomach-churning series of *pops* as I do so, “… perhaps a more tempered approach is called for. I just… I just want him to see that he has many strengths and many virtues. He’s a good stallion, he simply… needs to find a way to exercise his goodness.” My muscles scream. “Hopefully with less actual exercise.” Author's Note I remember going to a college fair back when I first got out. There was a pretty young mare at the table for Seaddle U. – braided golden mane, peach coat, friendly eyes. I went up and told her I’d like to apply for the university. She told me that Seaddle U. prided itself on the quality of its education and got out a fresh application form for me. Since I was applying using the Veteran’s Bill, I was in dress uniform – she asked me what skills I’d picked up in the Marines; she said it was to help place me in a program that would be suited to my talents. I told her that I had been a mortar pony, that I was proficient in carbines, rifles, and pistols, and that I’d received advanced hoof-to-hoof combat training. She became increasingly flustered as I listed my qualifications, and kept asking questions to try to see if I had any experience in other fields. I was getting frustrated too, though I tried not to show it. I was listing skills which were as close as possible to what she was looking for – getting cross-trained on field artillery was something of a mechanical engineering background, in my view. I knew that nothing would be a direct match, but that was why I was going to school – to adapt my skills to something applicable to civilian life. After a couple minutes, she got so irritated that she blurted out, “Didn’t they teach you anything useful in the Marines?” Folks nearby got quiet when she said that, especially the other vets. I looked down at her and said, “They taught me how to kill griffons. I got pretty good at it.” About then I decided that Seaddle U. wouldn’t be a good fit for me and I left to find another table. —Excerpt from The Old Breed, by Steel “Sledgehammer” Sledge, MA Engineering, Corporal (retired) Equestrian Marine Corps *** The subject of encouraging vets to share their war stories can be a bit complicated. On one hand, I firmly believe that such stories should be told, for those sake of those telling them and any closure they may find, for the sake of those who are no longer alive to tell their stories, for the sake of honoring the sacrifices made for our sake, so that civilians don’t take their hard-won peace for granted, so that the public and the government are not so quick to desire war, and many more reasons besides. It’s also worth noting that there’s this idea that it’s somehow “weak” to be vulnerable about trauma. That’s BS. We, collectively, need to take that idea, tie it up, stick it in the trunk, take it out to the dock, put it in cement shoes, and dump it into the depths of oblivion where it belongs. It’s a dumb fricking idea, and I’m very glad that there are an increasing number of veterans of both emergency services and the military – including spec ops guys – who are making it their mission to assure fellow veterans that they can and should seek help when they need it. On the other hand, it is wrong to force or try to guilt trip veterans into talking. We should do everything we can to make it clear that they can talk freely, to de-stigmatize seeking help with trauma and whatnot, and to help in what ways we can… but, ultimately, we cannot force someone to accept help. It’s their choice. Rarity, AJ, and Trixie are all trying to navigate that particular complexity, each burdened by their own wounds and their own needs, and none of them are handling it perfectly… but they’re all trying. Honestly, this can be a touchy enough subject that I’ve been afraid to put this chapter out (it’s the main reason for the delay). But fear can’t rule us, so… here we are. Hopefully it’s good. The secondary reason for the delay is that I’m a perfectionist, and I kept letting ‘perfect’ be the enemy of ‘good.’ Frankly, I’m still not entirely happy with this chapter. I feel it ends abruptly and at times I’m not sure if the meandering pace is adding to the slice-of-life tone or just plain meandering, and different readers will I’m sure have different opinions. But, again… I can’t let ‘perfect’ be the enemy of ‘good.’ So, in an ironic parallel to Rarity here, I just need to do something, even if that something isn’t perfect, and deal with it afterwards. *** I don’t think I mentioned this before, but this story actually has a tie-in set in the same universe now, spawned by a FanOfMostEverything story contest and a throwaway joke from the chapter ‘Baggage of Tricks.’ (It was just a funny aside… until it wasn’t). Daring Do and the Ditzy of Infinite Possibility, featuring the eponymous characters, has very little directly to do with Homecoming, but it is part of the shared universe (and is a much more lighthearted adventure story), so… check it out if you’re interested. *** There are a lot of little references sprinkled throughout. One I’ll highlight is that the story of a griffon capturing a pony medic solely to surrender to the Equestrians is a reference to a M*A*S*H episode wherein a North Korean soldier ‘captures’ two of the doctors – Hawkeye and Honeycut if I recall correctly – so that he can follow them back to American lines and surrender because he doesn’t want to fight anymore. Every time they bump into North Koreans, he has to pretend to be ‘capturing’ the doctors so that they don’t get actually captured, and whenever the doctors try to just leave he threatens them with his gun and demands they let him surrender. Hijinks ensue. Some previous chapter, I don’t remember which one, Nurse Redheart is noted to have been a combat medic who lost her eye when the plasma bottle she was holding while administering first aid was shot, and shards of glass pierced her eye. She went on to keep treating patients with glass in her eye. That’s a reference to a real story from WWII; a combat medic named Robert Eugene Bush had that happen to him on Okinawa and kept on treating patients and prioritizing others over his own treatment. A heroic man with a staggering level of pain tolerance. As always, thank you all for your patience. Declaration of WarI remember when my little sister first introduced me to her friends. She said, “This is my big sister, Rarity. She makes pretty things, and she makes things pretty.” A gross oversimplification of what I do, perhaps, but an accurate statement nonetheless. I do indeed try to make ‘pretty things,’ and to make the existing prettiness of things shine forth. Some may consider it shallow, but I believe that there is beauty to be found in almost anything. But war… War is ugly. It’s muddy, bloody, and full of tragedy, and even without ever seeing the front lines it’s possible to get the muck on you. I learned that lesson years ago. After all, I was there when the war began. To this day, I can picture it as though it’s happening right now. It’s a Sunday in early autumn, bright and cheerful, with barely a cloud in the sky. The air has just enough of a crisp snap in it to be invigorating without being truly cold. Under other circumstances, it might have been a good day for a pleasant walk with friends or for catching a carriage around Hoofenberg to see the sights. Then, in an instant, it’s transformed into the worst day of my life. It starts so well: we six Element Bearers, and Spike of course, are riding in the open-topped chariot down the avenues of Hoofenberg, waving to the crowd as the military parade takes us around the old city’s districts. The citizens of the independent city-state, both pony and griffon, are ecstatic at our coming. Well, really, they’re ecstatic at her coming. Twilight Sparkle, the Princess of Friendship, here to host the Summit that will stave off the war that threatens to consume them. I can see the hope, the joy in their eyes as they look to their savior, to the pony who will make the Dominion back down without further bloodshed. Many have tears in their eyes as they shout her name. Twilight, benevolent, noble, radiant in her royal regalia that so carefully hides the discreet armor plating beneath, beams back down at them, showing none of the nervousness that I know she must be feeling. My friend does not show them the frantic pacing, the panicked breathing, the self-doubt that she displays so eloquently for us. No, the crowd needs to see her as the pillar of diplomacy and authority that will protect them from being gobbled up like so many other independent city-states. And so that is the only face she shows. I feel so proud of how far she’s come; so in awe of her poise under pressure; so blessed to be one of her closest friends. And then he comes. An unassuming griffon, barely an adult, looking to be more student than soldier, comes to the edge of the crowd, just past the line of guards. There is nothing to distinguish him from the hundreds of other griffons among the citizenry; nothing about him to draw a second glance. Nothing, that is, except for the look in his eyes. I’m a businessmare. I know how to read people, even non-ponies. I’ve always had a knack for picking up on moods and intent. But what I see in his eyes, I’ve never seen in the eyes of an ordinary citizen before. That bloodlust. That hate. What I see in him belongs to the likes of Chrysalis and Tirek. The comparison shocks me into silence for a heartbeat. Just one. One heartbeat too long. A double-barreled pistol appears in his grasp as he takes aim at the carriage, his beak twisting in a snarl. Time slows as guards swing to stop him. Twilight’s gaze meets his and her hoof stops mid-wave, a her smile freezing at the sight of his hate. “For Talon!” he shouts. Then the roar of the gun silences all else. I have a detail-oriented mind. When properly focused on something, there is nothing that escapes my notice. Till that day it was only a blessing. With accursed slowness I see the bullet tear into her. It penetrates her body right where the wing meets the barrel; the one place on her torso that the armor doesn’t cover. The impact sends her body sideways as her head is whiplashed in the other direction. Flecks of saliva spray from her mouth as her face twists from shock into dawning agony. Then the spray of blood paints the air in vivid crimson, a color suddenly so bright and terrible that it’s as though nothing else exists. The gunshot echoes in a rolling thunder, but it is no longer alone. The wail goes up; the sound of grief, loss, and shattered hope. The sound of death. We are, all of us, caught in the same horrendous slowness, scrambling from our seats as our minds attempt to grasp what they see. But they cannot. It is too horrid, too unthinkable. The shooter lines up for the second shot as guards lunge to tackle him. Spike, the loyalist of all assistants, is the only one of us to shake off the stupor. He flings himself in front of his oldest friend, shielding her with his body, his face a mask of rage as he screams a final defiance at his foe. The gun barks again, and my eyes cannot but stare as blood erupts from his skull— But it is only a glancing blow, as the guards tackle the shooter to the ground and the bullet flies wide. Then the slowness ends and I am brought crashing down into the maelstrom of chaos. Spike drops with a cry, holding a claw to his bloodied head. Fluttershy is instantly at Twilight’s side, applying pressure to the wound as she cradles our princess in her wings. Pinkie Pie is wrapping a bandana that she pulled from nowhere around Spike’s scalp as a makeshift bandage. Rainbow Dash bodily flings me to the floor of the carriage and shields me with her frame. Applejack, swearing like I’ve never heard her swear, is doing her best to shield Twilight. From my place on the floor, I can see the barrel of a breech-loading rifle, held by one of the guards who tackled the insurgent, being raised and swung downwards like a club, followed by an animal squeal that echoes even over the panicked cries of the crowd. I try to look around, I have to know, I have to see, but Rainbow shoves me back down with a string of expletives. My shouts demanding to know what’s happening are cut off by an explosion that shakes the cart. Rainbow loses her footing and I scramble to my hooves. Carnage at the front of the carriage. All four of guards who were pulling are down, either dead or likely to wish they were, their flesh rent open by the bomb. The perimeter guards are trying to keep the crowd back; unicorns throw up magic shields while rifle-ponies seek targets. But the crowd is in a panic, and the guards can’t shoot. A gunshot cracks and the carriage splinters next to me. The last thing I see before Rainbow Dash drags me back down is a halberdier reaching his weapon over the milling heads of the crowd to hook a pistol-toting griffon around the throat. The insurgent gives a warbling carrion cry as he’s hoisted bodily into the air. Even from the floor I can see him die as three rifles bark and three horns spark and he’s ripped apart. What I’m seeing is too horrible to comprehend, so my mind doesn’t even try. I’m reacting, and not even sure what I’m reacting to. I fight to get out from under Rainbow Dash. To get out and do something. “Let me go, Rainbow! We have to help her! We have to help Twilight!” “Shut up! Shut up!” Another bullet cracks against the wood. “Shut up and stay down! We’ve got to—" Unicorns are sensitive to magical surges, so I feel what’s coming before Rainbow does, but it leaves us both equally shocked. The magical energy crackles through the air in a form so potent that I can taste it on the backs of my teeth. Tendrils of crimson energy flash in the sky, accompanied by the roar of stallion immersed in agonizing rage. There are several shrieks, and the air is filled with the cloying smell of immolating flesh, leaving the taste of wrath in the back of my throat. Wrath tastes like copper, it turns out. The sky turns crimson and there’s scrapingon the sides of the carriage. Rainbow rises with a snarl, but backs down as four rifle-ponies and Shining Armor himself clamber into the carriage. The prince looks like death, though he appears untouched, and his horn sparks as he powers the dome shield that now covers us. He spares a single glance at his sister, and I see something die in his eyes, replaced with something different. Something colder. “Big Mac! Get us the buck out of here!” he barks. Rainbow’s shock matches mine. Big MacIntosh? “Eeyup!” is the answering bellow, and my head cracks against the seat as we jolt forward. Tentatively I raise my head. Hoofenberg is a blur as we plunge through the streets at speeds better suited to a pegasus than to a gilded carriage laden with ponies. All around us sprint guardponies; a dozen; a score; three score. I look to the front, somehow managing to look past the blood-soaked Fluttershy and the weeping Spike to see who is pulling. I expect to see a team of guards, along with apparently Big MacIntosh. I see Big MacIntosh. Only Big MacIntosh. He’s pulling a carriage built for four draft ponies, with twice the intended number of passengers, by himself… and yet somehow I get the impression that if we or the guards were to offer our help we’d only slow him down. Besides, the guards are too busy keeping the path clear. Several griffons rush to block us. Guns speak. Horns gleam. Three insurgents are chewed apart by bullets. The other three are simply incinerated. But the guards still can’t shoot into the crowd, and shots from their ranks strike guards and shield, causing the former to fall and the latter to crack. Shining Armor grunts, sweat pouring down his face as he shunts more energy into the dome. Catching sight of me, he bellows, “Rarity, stay down!” “I-I can help!” I protest. I want to. I need to. If I’m not helping I have to think about— “I can shunt power to you for the shield!” He groans as another volley rips against the barrier. “Fine,” he grits, “but do it from down there.” Gratefully, I concentrate all my power, all my will into transferring my power to him. It takes total focus to keep the transfer going, and I’m glad. If I’m doing something, then I’m not thinking. I’m not thinking about Twilight, I’m not thinking about the blood, I’m not thinking about how she’s not moving, or how Applejack and Pinkie have started sobbing, or how Fluttershy is begging— I’M NOT THINKING ABOUT IT! We’re storming the hospital. Guards pour into the building as though charging a gate and clear a path for us to the surgeons. We strap Twilight to a gurney and gallop along with her, calling out encouragement, assurances, anything we can say to her, but she’s not moving, she’s not breathing she’s just not— Spike is riding on the gurney with her, stroking her mane and wetting her head with tears as he begs her to say something, rattling off every little misdeed he can think of in the hopes that her big-sister instincts will kick in and wake her up so she can reprimand him. When the nurses remove him to take her into the operating room, he claws at them. It takes Rainbow Dash and Applejack both to restrain him, and Fluttershy to calm him. Pinkie is pacing back and forth, chattering incoherently. She makes what sound like jokes from time to time or, at least, she laughs to herself intermittently, but the laughter isn’t real; her mane is straight. Shining Armor is giving orders with the speed of an auctioneer as he makes the hospital the most impregnable fortress on the continent. Big MacIntosh, who was just supposed to be a bystander in the crowd, moves into the midst of the mares and simply sits himself there. Applejack gravitates to her brother and sags against him, tears welling in her eyes as she stares sightlessly ahead. He puts a hoof around her. Soon, Pinkie Pie ceases her wandering to accept his other hoof and sags against him, still trying to make herself laugh through the sobs. Rainbow is flying in circles, accosting every guard she sees, demanding to know what happened and swearing bloody vengeance against whoever is responsible. Fluttershy just stands, staring at the door, her wings and torso stained red with blood. With Twilight’s blood. And that’s her in there. Our Twilight bleeding out on the table, unconscious, violated, dying. That’s our Twilight who— I vomit until I can’t stand. Purpose and Family“Trixie!” squeals Pinkie as she charges into the room to give the blue mare a hug. Well, ‘waddles’ into the room is probably more accurate, but it’s still a respectable clip for a pregnant mare. Even more respectable is that being with child (or children I suppose) has done nothing to diminish her capacity for bone-crushing hugs. “Gahck! Pinkie Pie!” gasps Trixie, who seems to agree that Pinkie’s hugs have lost none of their spine-compressing intensity. “Kindly release the Great and Powerful Trixie so she may breathe!” “Oh, it’s so good to see you again, Trixie! It’s been so long! What has it been, a year? Two years? How many of your birthdays have I missed?!” “Can’t answer! Not breathing!” “We have got so much catching up to do! It is gonna be a blast!” “Dying… please… halp…” Bud ambles up beside his wife, seeming bemused. “Honey, I think you’re hugging the colonel a shade too tightly.” Pinkie tilts her head in confusion. “Too tight?” she asks, unconsciously loosening her grip. Trixie sucks down a double-lungful of air like her life depends on it. Which, in fairness, it might. Hard to say with her coloration. Bud coaxes Pinkie to release the poor dear, and I find myself supporting Trixie as she replenishes her oxygen supply. “That… gasp… mare… wheeze… crazy!” she manages. “Well, I should think that was rather obvious, darling,” I remark dryly. “Almost… cough… killed… sputter… me!” “In all fairness, it’s rather difficult to tell when a blue pony is turning, well, blue,” I point out. Then I shake my head sadly and tut, lamenting, “So tragic. We lose more blue ponies that way…” Pinkie is rather sheepishly apologizing to Trixie when Rainbow Dash arrives with Thunderlane, Fluttershy, Shoddy, Nkea, Arinze, and the Zebra Guards. The guards all look perplexed by the gasping Trixie, but none of the ponies who know Pinkie are phased. “Pinkie Pie hug ’er?” asks Dash knowingly. Applejack snorts. “What tipped ya off?” “Educated guess.” Thunderlane and Bud both shake hooves with Trixie, exchanging genuine pleasantries and a few quips that might have been insulting if not for their obvious familiarity with each other. Fluttershy, not surprisingly, doesn’t say much, but the warm, sisterly hug she gives Trixie speaks volumes to how close they became in the war. To Arinze, Trixie makes a courtly bow before trading grips and teasing him about something involving an apple bushel and chewing gum. Arinze replies with a question as to whether or not she’s read any good books lately… which doesn’t strike me as all that amusing, but he, Trixie, Applejack, Dash, and Thunderlane all laugh uproariously, so I imagine it must make for a pretty good story. One which unfortunately has ‘you had to be there’ written all over it. Trixie then surprises me by waving to Nkea and saying something in Zwahili. Nkea raises an eloquent eyebrow and snorts, but there’s amusement in his eyes. No small feat considering his frosty exterior. Shoddy, meanwhile, has hung in the back. From my angle, I can see that he looks just as happy as the others to see Trixie, but he’s hesitating, like he doesn’t want to impose or interrupt anypony. I frown. It’s plain that he’s excited to see Trixie, but he’s acting like he doesn’t matter enough to interject. I’m preparing to trot over and nudge him forward when Trixie spots him. “Who lurks in the back behind Trixie’s other admirers?” she asks in her stage voice. “Could it be? Is it—?” she emits a dramatic gasp and sways on her hooves as though she’s about to faint. “Iron Shod?” Blushing, Shoddy ambles forward, giving a casual salute. “Howdy, Colonel.” “Don’t you ‘Howdy, Colonel’ Trixie, Corporal! Get your sorry flank up here and shake Trixie’s hoof!” Shoddy grins sheepishly and trots forward, stretching a hoof out for shaking, only to be accosted by a surprise hug, which turns into an affectionate headlock as Trixie marehandles the poor lad around to show him off to me. “This stallion,” she declares, “saved Trixie’s battery from a platoon of buzzard fusiliers that slipped around to hit us from the rear! His keen senses picked them up before they could get into position, then he and his squad pinned them down until we could swing the guns to bear. Trixie feels he was cheated out of a Star of Valor for that one!” My eyebrows go up and I look to Shoddy for confirmation. He blushes and looks down. Then Trixie smiles slyly and jabs him with her free hoof. “This stallion also still owes Trixie thirty bits.” Shoddy’s embarrassment is replaced by outrage. “Bu- s- what?!” he sputters, ducking out from under her grasp. “I won that bet, colonel! Ya’ll said I couldn’t eat more of that green hash than Ramrod, but I ate a full bowl more’n him!” “That’s not how Trixie remembers it,” replies Trixie airily, examining her hoof with affected unconcern. “Trixie remembers that the bet was that you could both eat more hash and keep it down, and you may recall that after eating four bowls of green hash you—” “Okay! That’s enough of that!” interrupts Applejack like an angel of sanity. “We got two pregnant mares and a roomful o’ ponies who’re about ta eat! Last thing we need is to hear about green hash!” “What’s green hash?” asks Twilight innocently. Applejack shudders. “Let’s just say only a fool eats it and leave it at that.” Twilight looks like she’s about to pursue the matter of the green hash, but, mercifully, Big Mac arrives in that moment to inform us that dinner is ready. He also loops a hoof over Twilight’s withers and bends to give her a quick kiss. This prompts a mock-outraged look from Trixie. “Oh, come on!” exclaims the stage mare. “You’re the reason he’s taken!? It’s not enough for you to show Trixie up magically, but you need to take this strapping fellow out of the dating pool as well?” In a surprising display of smugness, Twilight smirks. “Jealous?” she asks coyly. Trixie sniffs. “Covetousness is unbecoming and low. Trixie is above such things.” Then, after a pause, “She is not, however, above asking if you Apples have any other stallions of similar stature. You have a billion cousins, do you not?” Applejack laughs and Big Mac grins. “We got a couple,” answers the former. “We’ll talk later,” says Trixie in a stage whisper. “First, however, the Great and Magnanimous Trixie has brought gifts to formally congratulate the happy parents in our number. Come forth, parents!” Applejack, Pinkie, and their respective husbands obediently assemble. “First, for the Marine parents,” with a flourish, she produces a pair of children’s books from beneath her cape and bequeaths them to Applejack and Bud. “And now, for the parents from civilized branches of the military.” Amidst chuckles, she lifts her hat and bestows another set of books upon Arinze and Pinkie. The latter set of books are the sort of early-learning readers to be expected for small children (Goodnight Luna, Go Diamond Dog Go, Grannie Goose’s Nursery Rhymes, and the like), though with the added feature of being made of durable, non-toxic, waterproof pages that the foals can safely chew on without damaging the books (which seems to delight Twilight even more than the actual parents). The Marine books, however, prove to be much more unique, if Bud guffawing and Applejack nearly falling over laughing are any indication. Ponies crowd in to see what the joke is, Applejack’s copy is passed around, and soon the whole room dissolves into hilarity. Shoddy is laughing so hard has tears in his eyes. Fluttershy and I are the last to see the book. It’s… interesting. Trixie somehow managed to procure copies of a “children’s” book called ‘Slay Bodies’ and other Marine Bedtime Stories by Gunny Sack. The cover features a wide-eyed filly sitting in bed and looking up with innocent wonderment at a benevolent-looking gunnery sergeant reading from a book riddled with bullet holes. “Oh my,” says Fluttershy, thereby expressing her views on the book as well as mine. Obviously, the book is not actually intended for foals, a fact made even more evident by the… colorful terminology used within. I pass the book back to Applejack before I can turn redder than Big Mac. “Ah can’t believe Sack actually got it published!” exclaims the farm mare through her merriment. “I can’t believe he managed to resist picking fights with the Rangers long enough to keep the extra stripe,” remarks Bud, referring, I presume, to rank insignia. “I figured he’d be stuck in a perpetual state of getting promoted to Gunny and then busted back down to Staff.” “Well,” I remark, “it’s amazing what a Marine can accomplish when he sets his mind to it.” I say this in the hopes of subtly reinforcing an optimistic worldview for Shoddy, but Rainbow takes it in another direction. “Yeah,” she smirks, “until today, I never would have believed one of you could learn how to write.” She ducks a swipe of Applejack’s hoof. “Maybe one day a Marine will learn how to read too.” This time she has to spring into the air to avoid retribution. Thunderlane comes to his wife’s aid and addresses Arinze and Pinkie. “So, as ponies who married Marines, I assume you two will be reading that to your spouses, helping them sound out the vowels, that sort of thing?” Applejack growls, but Bud pats her on the shoulder. “Disengage, Gunny. Remember what they told us in basic: don’t argue with Airheads.” “Why not?” asks Twilight. Shoddy chuckles and explains. “It’d take a lobotomy to get on their level.” The non-Air Corps ponies and zebras enjoy a laugh at those worthies’ expense as we make our way to the dining room. One thing I notice as we walk is that, while Trixie is naturally the center of attention, she makes a point of using her focal position to make sure the attention gets spread around so no one is left out of the conversation. She’s not overbearing about it – respecting Fluttershy’s preference for quiet for example – but the masterful way she directs the conversation is… more subtlety than I thought she was capable of, to be frank. It’s impressive. After years playing the gracious hostess (both on my own behalf and as Twilight’s de facto Steward), I can certainly appreciate the skill it takes to manage a group like this. The fact that the showmare can do it is a testament to how capable she has become now that she’s gotten out of her own way. Spike meets us in the dining room. Having presumably been briefed on Trixie by Big Mac, he reacts to her reformation with the ready aplomb he’s cultivated in maturity, though he can’t help but snort laughing when Trixie apologizes for “that unfortunate incident wherein she folded him into a basketball.” The others take their seats, but I wait near the door that leads down the hall to the kitchen, listening for Chef’s approach. Sure enough, his arrival is preceded by bearlike growls and a litany of expletives calculated to turn the walls bluer than Trixie. He cusses about a myriad of topics, among them last minute changes to dinner, royal attendees, the sensitive palates of two pregnant mares, and the inadequate pay he receives for the kind of… shall we say ‘restroom leavings’ that he puts up with. Chiefly, he complains of the return of that “Ivory-coated, ice-hearted, persnickety, pedantic, petulant, forged-in-Tartarus-windigo-in-pony’s-skin called Rarity!” Truly, it’s nice to be appreciated. The rant continues right up to the door, and I can picture the ferocious scowl on his grizzled features clearly as my own reflection. The latch clicks, the door opens… and he enters the room with an angelic smile plastered across his features. “Welcome, honored guests,” he says in a honey-sweet voice. “My name is Chef, I am the chef, and it is my privilege to serve you this evening. On the menu tonight we have…” Chef proceeds to list off the culinary wizardry his is preparing for them tonight, making special note of the many options available and often lapsing into Prench or Bitalian as needed, even going so far as to make the appropriate Bitalian hoof gestures when describing the ricotta cheese on the pasta. The guests all thank him, and he makes his way back to the door from whence he came, wearing that same indulgent smile he entered with. Just before passing through the door, he shoots me a glare calculated to curdle milk at 50 yards, then slams the door shut behind him. I smile and let out a contented sigh as I take my seat with the others. Twilight shoots me an odd look as I sit down. “Rarity? Why were you hanging out by the door?” “Oh, nothing, darling,” I reply. “Just reminiscing.” The dinner is exquisite, of course. I would expect nothing less from a chef of Chef’s caliber. Granted, my waistline won’t thank me for indulging my passion for Bitalian food, but that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make on this auspicious occasion. Especially since Twilight has an excellent wine selection – one of the few elements of class she needed no help from me developing. Chef even brought up one of my favorite chardonnays. Such thoughtfulness is typical of him, not that he’d ever admit it to anypony, least of all to me. I’m not the only one imbibing, of course, and the wine quickly loosens the tongues of all present (excepting those of two specific mares, of course). It’s not long before we are being regaled with some of the more colorful tales of the Front. And, I must say, I’ve quickly discovered that my friends were never the sort to let a little thing like Total War get in the way of having a good time. “… so Rainbow lies there, barely awake, a whole squadron’s worth of empty cider bottles piled up beneath her like a dragon hoard, the MP demanding an explanation,” guffaws Applejack, giving the mare in question a hearty slap on the back that almost puts Rainbow’s muzzle in her pasta, “and you know what this crazy gal says to ’im?” “Something snarky, I’ll bet,” predicts Twilight. “She looks ’im dead in the eye, blinks, and says, ‘Listen, buddy, if you didn’t want us drinking the contraband, you shoulda locked it up better.’” Laughter fills the room as Rainbow smiles sheepishly. “Cripes, Dash!” chuckles Bud. “Tactical error!” “Yeah, not the smartest move I’ve ever made,” she admits. “Not the dumbest either,” Thunderlane remarks. “Yeah, I guess no— hey!” she exclaims rounding on her husband. “Friendly fire!” Spike helps himself to another bowl of shrimp scampi. “Sheesh, Rainbow. How long were you in the stockade for that one?” Rainbow smirks. “Zero hours, Spike. ’Cause I’m awesome.” “’Cause Trixie bailed ya out, you mean,” corrects Applejack. “As Ah recall, she somehow convinced the MPs to let her handle yer punishment. Then, soon as you were in her custody, she let ya off with a ‘warning.’” “W-well,” sputters Dash, “she owed me after you all left me curled up on the bottles. Sticking a friend with the evidence after we all made the empties was kinda blue falcon if you ask me!” I lean over to Fluttershy and whisper, “‘Blue falcon?’” Blushing, she whispers back, “It means… um… backstabbing friend.” I raise my eyebrow at that answer, but elect to listen to the main attraction rather than press the matter. “Ya still sore about that?” retorts Applejack, “ya may recall raiding the contraband crate wasn’t mah idea! An’ we weren’t tryin’ ta leave ya hangin’. That starched shirt surprised us an’ we bolted. We was all gonna step up an’ take the heat with ya if’n Trixie hadn’t taken charge.” The showmare tosses back her mane and waves a hoof airily. “Yes, well, let it never be said that the Loyal and Charismatic Trixie leaves her dearest friends twisting in the wind.” Thunderlane raises an eyebrow. “Especially when the Breaking and Entering Trixie is the mare who got us into the contraband in the first place.” Trixie flushes slightly as ponies chuckle all around the table. “Y-yes,” she stammers. “Especially then.” “I can’t believe you all raided the MPs’ contraband chests like that,” remarks Twilight. “That violates, like, twenty regulations. At least.” Applejack huffs. “Ah can’t believe some starched shirt thought it was a good idea ta confiscate cider from troops who just came off eight months on the line.” “Yeah,” agrees Spike, his voice dry. “Forbidding cider with Dash around, you’d think he’d have been in fear for his life.” Thunderlane gives Spike a long look. “See, you joke about that…” “Half them ciders weren’t even hard,” protests Applejack. “Shows how much he knew! An’ we were miles from the Front that day! Even if we hadn’t been, it’s not like any of us got plastered! Only reason Dash passed out was ’cause she’d been up for forty-seven hours straight!” “Forty-eight,” corrects Dash as she takes a sip of her hard cider. It’s a minor culinary sin to pair a cider with scampi, but I suppose she’s making up for lost cider seasons. “Don’t short-change my misery.” Thunderlane clears his throat and she nudges him affectionately. “Our misery. Sorry, ’Lane.” Trixie laughs lightly. “Princess Twilight, if the Wise and Insightful Trixie may make an observation, it strikes her that this incident is exactly the sort of situation where the regulations, nobly-intentioned though they are, deserve to be interpreted in a… relaxed fashion. Why, after seeing the horrible deprivations these brave stallions and mares had suffered, Trixie considered it her duty as an officer and a lady to succor them in their distress.” Twilight smiles dryly and jots down a note on the scratch paper she keeps around for note-related emergencies. “I’ll be sure to bring it up at the next meeting with the Joint Chiefs.” “Give General Poneshing my best,” purrs Trixie. Arinze cuts in. “Speaking of the good General, I have a question I’ve been meaning to ask: did he really threaten to court-marshal you after the Second Battle of Trotter’s Hill?” “On the contrary, Your Highness,” corrects Nkea, “I believe he threatened to have her shot.” All eyes turn to Trixie, who takes a dainty sip of wine before replying, “Trixie is reasonably certain he was speaking in jest.” “How certain?” asks Twilight. “Eh. Seventy, seventy-five percent? In any case, he promoted Trixie instead.” Applejack chuckles. “Well, shoot! Ah didn’t know that! Musta been right before ya got sent down our way! How come ya never said nuthin’?” “Yeah!” agrees Dash. “Woulda been a hilarious story!” Trixie gives a nervous laugh and rubs the back of her neck. “It… might have had something to do with the fact that Trixie couldn’t believe you were actually talking to her after… everything.” “Hm. Fair.” Ah, perfect! An opportunity to ask a question that’s been tormenting me all day! “Trixie, I have to ask,” I remark, my tone casual as I swirl my pasta onto a fork. “How did you encounter the four of them? Was it just coincidence, or did you seek them out?” The showmare sits back in her seat. “Trixie supposes that’s a fair question, but yields the floor to Her Royal Apple-ness for the opening narrative.” ‘Her Royal Apple-ness’ rolls her eyes at the moniker, but starts in all the same. “Truth be told, we had no idea Trixie was even in our AO at first. All we heard was General Poneshing had transferred some crazy artillerymare to us, and that whoever it was had a rep fer crazy tactics – placin’ her guns way forward o’ the line in concealed positions, hauling ’em inta impassible mountains ta get good angles, experimental shot, fireworks ta disorient, that sorta thing.” Rainbow snorts. “Those were just the sane rumors. Some ponies said she had her bombardments timed to live music, that she had posters advertising her ‘show’ made up and mailed to the buzzard officers, and that she fired dummy shells over enemy lines that dropped leaflets bragging about her brilliance and the inevitability of an Equestrian victory.” Slowly, I turn my stunned gaze to Trixie, who shrugs casually. “Art never rests,” she says. “Trixie has her reputation to consider.” “Anyway,” resumes Applejack, “point is we didn’t know what to make of ’er. And it looked like we weren’t gonna find out any time soon, or at least Ah wasn’t, because me an’ the boys got sent up ta Hill 223. You remember that hill, doncha, Shoddy?” “Sure do, Gunny.” “You remember why we were there?” “Sure don’t, Gunny.” “Hill 223 was one o’ them hills that traded sides more times’n Ah care ta remember. This was one o’ the times we held it, maybe even the time we kept it, Ah honestly don’t recall fer sure, but the point is we held it. 223 was forward o’ the lines by a ways cuz the terrain around it was too marshy ta dig in, so we was really hangin’ it out there.” “Too far out,” agrees Shoddy grimly. Applejack nods. “Eeyup. They waited for a night when we had practically no moon, then hit us hard. Turns out the buzzards had brought up a bunch o’ them owl-type griffons that could see in the dark. First warnin’ we had was when Shoddy here thought he heard something comin’ through the wire. He took a peek over the top, saw ’em creepin’ up on us, swore loud enough ta wake the camp, and put a grenade right in the middle o’ the sorry dastards.” I glance in Shoddy’s direction and nod approvingly. This is the second time tonight I’ve learned that his keen senses and heroics have saved our brave soldiers from ambush. I’m about to ask whether he was decorated for this action, but the stallion in question blushes deeply and mutters, “I got lucky is all.” “Tartarus with luck, ya saved the platoon,” retorts Applejack, with the tone of a mare who’s had this argument before. “In any case, before we knew it we were up to our eyeballs in griffons, fire pourin’ in from every direction. All we had ta shoot by was muzzle flashes, on account o’ not havin’ any moon ta speak of, so we were pretty much firin’ blind. Any unicorns what lit up were lucky not ta get their horns blown off, and there were so many o’ the dastards that we didn’t have a prayer o’ keeping ’em off the hill.” “My word!” I exclaim, feeling the sort of uncertain dismay one feels when the outcome is in doubt, even though the survivors are plainly in front of me. Dramatic tension is funny like that. “How ever did you survive?” Applejack dips her head in Dash’s direction. “Ah’ll let the Zoomie take over here.” “Soarin busted into the barracks and roused us, saying Hill 223 was getting hit,” says Dash, her eyes taking on a hard quality at the recollection. “We threw our kit on and lined up to take off but…” she scratches the back of her head, a displacement action to cover frustration, “Spitfire ordered us to stand down.” Twilight tilts her head in confusion. “Why?” “Pegasi can see a little better than other ponies in the dark, but not that much better. There are lots of griffon breeds that can see better than us, especially owls, and Spitfire had a hunch that was what was waiting for us. It’s how they’d operated during other night attacks. She figured we’d get shot out of the sky if we went in before having the mages cast night vision on us. In hindsight,” again she scratches the back of her head, “in hindsight she was right, but I… didn’t think so at the time. I kinda… blew up at her.” I raise an eyebrow. If Dash’s history of understatement is any indication, she did a great deal more than ‘blow up’ at Spitfire. Thunderlane rubs his wife’s back comfortingly. “Hey, the boss forgave you, and nothing went on your permanent record.” Dash does not seem soothed. “’Lane, that’s sweet and all, but I tried to assault a superior officer. Only reason I didn’t wind up in the brig was that she knew she needed warm bodies.” Wow. I… I can’t say I blame Dashie for her outburst, but… wow. “The boss forgave you because she knew you were out of your head with worry,” corrects Thunderlane, unwilling to let his wife stew without a fight. Rainbow shakes her head. “Whatever. We’re off topic. Point is, it was gonna take time for us to get enough fliers with night vision, and we weren’t sure we had that kind of time.” Dash shudders at the recollection, then looks up at Trixie with a grateful smile. “Then we got a runner from our mystery artillerymare with strict orders and a plan to save the Marines.” Trixie shrugs casually and takes a sip of wine. “T’was nothing, really. Trixie had been experimenting with some new illumination rounds – flares of a sort, with a few slow-fall enchantments to keep them airborne longer, loaded into low velocity shells that dropped the flares at intervals in a line. Trixie merely prescribed a path for our brave fliers to follow that kept them out of the line of fire, softened the griffons up with a barrage, then lit the sky once our airponies got close enough. Once they had the light, the combined fire of the Air and Marine Corps made short work of the attackers in the immediate vicinity, and my battery kept any reinforcements from coming up.” She takes another sip of wine, her smile coy. “It was a reasonably effective tactic if Trixie may say so.” Applejack snorts. “Ya may say so, an’ ya should say so. It weren’t just effective – it was a total rout! Poor buzzards never knew what hit ’em.” “Good riddance to bad blood,” growls Shoddy, throwing back half a beer in a single swig. His snarl is bitter, and the hate in his voice sounds fresh in spite of more than a year’s distance between him and the war. It’s a sharp contrast to the more casual way the other veterans tend to refer to the enemy which, while often mocking and sometimes serious, is seldom venomous. Fluttershy shoots Shoddy a long look and opens her mouth to say something, then returns her attention to her food without voicing her comment. I almost wish she had; perhaps I’ll have to ask about it later. In my brief distraction I miss a part of the narrative, but it seems to have only been a transitional part, giving a few details about the after-action cleanup. I probably missed some minor context, but not enough to throw me off track for when, at some point after the battle, Dash and Applejack sought out the mysterious artillerymare who’d saved the Marines, bearing with them a celebratory bottle of… well… applejack brandy. I sometimes forget that Applejack is named after an alcohol. “Out of curiosity,” I ask, “did you have that shipped from home, or did you distill it in the field?” Applejack coughs. “In the spirit o’ not rattin’ out the ponies who hypothetically helped me in this theoretical scenario where Ah may or may not ’ave broken a few regs makin’ the stuff, Ah respectfully decline ta answer.” That’s about what I expected. “Anyhoo,” continues Applejack, “we got ta the Cheap Seats… er… for you civvies in the room ‘Cheap Seats’ is Service-Speak fer the artillery ponies, an’ we asked ta speak ta the commandin’ officer. Took a minute for us ta get invited inta the office, but we got there eventually.” Smiling fondly at the recollection, she turns to Trixie. “Imagine our surprise when we saw her Great an’ Powerful self waitin’ for us.” Twilight laughs. “I think I can imagine that after today. How’d it go?” Trixie laughs weakly. “To be honest, it almost didn’t go at all. Trixie heard who was outside and… well… Trixie… I came closer to dropping a smoke bomb and vanishing than I’d care to admit. Only the knowledge that it would be impossible to avoid them forever when sharing an encampment kept me from attempting the greatest vanishing act of my career. I… was not expecting it to go well.” Dash laughs. “Meanwhile, we didn’t know whoto expect when we walked into her office, but it sure wasn’t Trixie! My jaw dropped so hard I almost dislocated it, and Applejack froze up like Twilight in a quesadilla factory.” Twilight blurts a word that princesses probably shouldn’t say and flings a fork at Rainbow’s head, which the latter barely ducks. “Sorry, Twi,” laughs the pegasus. “Don’t apologize to her,” says Spike with a chuckle. “Apologize to Princess Luna for the nightmares she’s going to be cleaning up tonight.” Shoddy gives me a befuddled look and I mouth “long story” before turning to Trixie and asking, “What happened next?” “We… talked,” replies the showmare at length. “Explanations, apologies, Trixie won’t bore you with the details. Suffice it to say we emerged with an understanding.” Rainbow snorts. “Understanding, heck! We emerged friends, Trix. Don’t sell it short.” Trixie smiles. “Yes, I suppose we did.” Her gaze sharpens. “A fact which you were supposed to have informed Princess Twilight of.” “Hey, we tried! We didn’t know the mail didn’t go through!” “Oh, you didn’t?” exclaims Pinkie Pie abruptly. Her sudden entrance into the conversation makes more than one pony jump in surprise, myself included. Strange as it would have seemed a few years ago, Pinkie hardly ever speaks during meals anymore, to the point that it’s easy to forget she’s there. Shocking, I know, but she is eating for five, and I suppose that only leaves so much time for talking, even for a mare like Pinkie. In spite of the shock, however, Dash recovers quickly enough to retort, “Wait, Pinkie, you knew she didn’t get our letters?” “Of course, silly!” “Then why didn’t you say anything?!” “Eh. Pinkie Sense,” replies the pink menace casually. Face-hoofs and groans of dismay echo around the table. Spike, who seems more amused than anything, asks, “How did Trixie meet you and Fluttershy then?” “Oh, that’s easy!” said Pinkie Pie. “We met when Trixie won the Battle of Eagle’s Ridge.” My eyes widen at the name. Eagle’s Ridge is remembered by the public as a great Equestrian victory, but rumor has it the soldiers call it by a different name: Butcher’s Ridge. I remember walking into the room when Twilight got the casualty reports. She was sobbing uncontrollably. I look to Trixie, whose good humor seems to have deserted her. She grips her wine glass in her magic and swirls it in a slow circle, gaze lost in her drink. “Pinkie exaggerates,” she says quietly. “I did not win the battle; my artilleryponies simply gave us a much-needed edge.” “I’ll say you gave us an edge!” says Pinkie Pie. “Everypony thought she was crazy, wanting to haul cannons up the cliffside and mount them on the tippy top of the Ridge! But I knew my engineers could do it, and boy was it a good thing we had ’em up there! We dug in and camouflaged the guns where Trixie’s ponies had a view of the entire field, only the griffons didn’t know we were waiting to surprise ’em! When they charged the main lines down below, they didn’t know what hit ’em! By the time they figured it out, it was too late to stop us! Even—” Her voice breaks and she swallows, blinking rapidly as her smile falters. Bud puts a hoof across her withers. A moment later, her grin returns, though it seems forced. “Even when they launched all their squadrons at us up there,” she says, almost managing to mask the shake in her voice, “Trixie held us together. She walked the line with her saber and pistol, calling out shots, leading the defense whenever the birds got close, keeping us calm while the squadrons kept coming and coming and…” Pinkie swallows again and beams across the table at Trixie, moisture in her eyes, “she kept us alive.” Silence descends on the room. Trixie stares into her wine, not meeting Pinkie’s gaze. After a moment, she speaks in a voice soft and controlled, “Trixie was just in the right place at the right time, that’s all.” Clearing her throat, she stands up from the table. “Trixie’s afraid she needs to use the little fillies’ room. Fluttershy can tell her part of the story in Trixie’s absence.” Without another word, she turns and leaves. Nopony says anything at first. Then the silence is broken by Shoddy, who refills his beer and says, “Well, Miss Fluttershy, what happened next?” Sweet Celestia, how can anypony be so casual when asking that? Pre-War Fluttershy would have been a wreck just hearing a story like that. Now, she may have a distant look in her eyes at the memory, but she’s very much present with us as she says, “I was a medic up on the Ridge. It was… there were so many wounded, more than I’d ever seen at one time except Angriff.” A lock of hair has pulled free from her bun, and she brushes it back behind one ear. “Trixie was in the thick of it from start to finish. When she ran out of bullets, she used her pistol as a club. When her saber broke, she fought hoof-to-hoof. She was wounded three times but refused to be treated until the griffons were driven off. Then she refused to be treated until all her ponies had been treated.” Once more, the room falls silent. Pinkie nods at the recollection, as does Bud who, being in the same army group, must have heard about it immediately afterwards. Arinze, looking quite impressed, makes a remark to Nkea in Zwahili which the latter returns. Myself and the other girls, along with Thunderlane, Mac, and Spike, all stare at Fluttershy in degrees of awe ranging from profound to total. Shoddy chuckles and raises his beer in a one-pony toast. “Hot dang. I knew Bag-o-Tricks was a tough old nag, but that’s some jarhead-level horseapples there, eh boss?” “Uh… yeah,” manages Applejack. “Now how the hay’d she get cheated outta the Star o’ Valor?” wonders Shoddy aloud as he raises his beer to his lips and takes a swig. “Typical brass BS.” “She was approved for it, actually,” says Fluttershy quietly. Shoddy slams his tankard down. “What? Then why in the hay don’t she have it?” Before Fluttershy can answer, Trixie struts back into the room, her previous somberness gone. “Ah, the joys of indoor plumbing,” she says. “One never ceases to appreciate it after the detestable squalor of the field.” Shoddy starts to address Trixie, presumably to ask her a barefaced question about the Star of Valor she doesn’t have, but a sharp nudge from Fluttershy and a shake of the head silences him. He appears bemused, and I suspect he doesn’t understand why she bade him leave his question unspoken. In truth, I’m not certain I understand myself, but I’ll defer to Fluttershy’s judgment. Trixie sits and remarks, “Still, for all the conveniences of living once more in Equestria, I must confess, I do miss the War.” “You WHAT?!” The exclamation is out my lips before I can stop it. And I’m not done there. “How could you p-possibly…?” I stammer, “But it was so… I just… I can’t…” No, I can’t. I can’t understand. After all we’ve heard tonight, after she just had to leave the room because she recalled Butcher’s Ridge, after what the war did to my friends, to Shoddy, to Twilight, how can she just— Unless she really is just a callous nag who simply doesn’t care about the killing and the death, but then my friends wouldn’t be friends with her unless they also— “What in the blazes do ya mean, ya miss the War?” demands Applejack. “Yeah,” adds Rainbow Dash, seeming a little leery. “Did AJ hit you harder than she thought earlier?” Their questions send relief flooding through my body, though they don’t answer the questions I have of Trixie. The mare herself remains composed. “Oh, don’t act as though you don’t feel the same way at some level. Trixie would wager all you fellow soldiers of mine miss the War, except perhaps Fluttershy.” She takes a sip of wine. “Though perhaps Trixie… no… perhaps I should clarify – I don’t miss the killing. I’m not a savage. And I don’t miss seeing my comrades die. I’m not a sadist. But there was so much more to the War than that! It was…” she turns her gaze to the ceiling as though searching for inspiration there. “It was…” “Purpose,” supplies Shoddy, his words ringing and his eyes intense. “Family.” Trixie grins and points at the stallion. “Yes! The Marine gets it! Purpose. Family. Every morning I woke up over there, I knew I had a purpose. I wasn’t just some random showmare, I was the shield of the innocent, the sword of Equestria, defending ponies like Twilight or Snips and Snails or strangers for Celestia’s sake – I defended them all, and avenged the evils the Dominion had done them! I woke up knowing I was charged with leading the finest soldiers in the world into battle with our enemies… and with bringing my ponies home safely! I, Trixie, loud mouth, braggart, petty villain, had been trusted with the awesome responsibility of lives, and where I once would have run, I now knew I would die before I failed my ponies!” She punctuates her declaration by smashing one hoof on the table as she bares a toothy grin. “And, best of all, I was amongst my soldiers, my family, ponies I never knew before the war and may have had nothing in common with… but who I would die for. And they were willing to die for me! No question, no doubt! Because we loved each other! Battle proved our love for each other!” Her gaze sweeps over the six of us Bearers, electrifying us as though with a spell. “You all knew this purpose, this family before the War. You had causes bigger than yourselves, bonds bigger than yourselves, things and friends worth dying for. Others are lucky enough to say the same.” She gestures to herself. “But a pony like me? I never had that. Not once in all my life. Then, suddenly, I get over there, and I have…” Trixie’s gaze turns to Shoddy, mutely asking him to finish her thought. “A place to belong,” he concludes, matching her intensity. “A brotherhood, a sisterhood of hundreds.” “Sacred bonds, proved in combat,” says Trixie reverently. “Nothing has ever been so thrilling.” Her eyes are locked on Shoddy’s as though the two of them are seeing into each other’s souls. “It’s amazing. Surrounded by death, and yet I never felt so—” “—alive,” he finishes. “Yes!” Trixie exclaims, raising her glass in salute like a warrior baroness of old and declaring, “You understand War, Iron Shod.” For once, Shoddy does not protest the compliment. Casting her gaze over the veterans, Trixie says, “You understand. I know you do. Perhaps you do not miss the War as much as Trixie - you have other bonds, other causes to satiate those needs. And you needn’t say you wish the War was still on. I do not wish that! I thank the heavens every day that the damnable War has ended, that more of my ponies don’t need to die! But can any of you, any of you, honestly say you don’t miss it at all?” I stare in disbelief as, one by one, my friends all answer “No.” Author's Note Every sapient creature desires meaning. They want something to live, to fight, to die for. Many never find that something. Others find only falsehood masquerading as meaning. Yet, still, we search. What is it about war that so drives us to seek this meaning there? That is a matter philosophers have debated for millennia. For my part, I think it is the bonds and the cause. Of the two, I suspect the bonds may be the stronger. Even should the cause prove false, after all, the bonds remain. Happy the one who finds a cause worthy of the fight, for he finds both cause and bonds to instruct him in meaning. Though he buys this gift at a terrible price, he may well find the price more than fair. —Skyward Vision, PsyD, 2nd Lieutenant of the Trottingham Fusiliers (medically discharged), survivor of the Gustyshire Massacre, reflecting on the search for meaning Yes, I’m aware this is something of a hard emotional cutoff to leave on… and also a controversial one. Trixie’s description here and the other’s reaction to it is drawn very heavily from firsthand accounts of many different wars from ages past up to and including current wars. Yet, not every veteran would agree with it. I’m not trying to make a universal representation here, but simply to give a snapshot of a perspective that I have found to be very common – that, as terrible as war is, the bonds of brotherhood, and often of cause, reach beyond its horrors. All the same, sorry for giving such a long delay and coming back with a gut-punch. A reminder of the Veteran support line for veterans, friends, family: here “Only a fool eats green hash.” —Patrick F. McManus In actuality, ‘Blue Falcon’ means ‘Buddy Fouler.’ At least… that’s what it means in Equestria. The real world meaning exceeds the rating level on this story. And, in case there’s any confusion, Chef loves his job. He just loves bing about it even more. He’s partially inspired by a good friend of mine who’s a cook and is this exact way – he’s never happier than when everything is going wrong. Rarity knows this about him, and thus never hesitated to change things on him at the last minute when the situation demanded it. It’s a game they both enjoy playing, even if the rules demand they never overtly acknowledge that it’s a game. The two of them have an… oddly symbiotic relationship built on cheerful and benign antagonism.
A Day at the RangeThe whistling of the tea kettle wakes me. It’s muted by a layer of blankets, earplugs, a heavy door, and two flights of stairs, and still it wakes me. I used to be such a heavy sleeper. Sighing, I pull myself out of bed, stretching the kinks out of my legs and setting the sleeping mask on my nightstand. And it is my nightstand. That still takes some getting used to after spending a considerable part of the Great War living in a castle. Not that the castle wasn’t lovely, and having a permanent serving staff laid on certainly had its advantages. But, for all my comments over the years on the grandeur of royal living, I have come to appreciate the simple beauty of my little boutique. Humming to myself, I head to the washroom and perform my morning ablutions. No doubt certain friends of mine would poke fun at the length of the process, especially given what our day’s activity shall be, but a lady does have standards, after all. Throughout the war I maintained my habits. Maintaining the sense that life marches onward in spite of conflict is essential to civilian morale. There’s no reason to break the habit now just because my friends spent years away from home, crawling through mud and blood in a desperate slog against a vicious foe to— A pounding on the door elicits an unladylike yelp from me. “Rarity, did you fall asleep in there?” Hmph. The nerve of some ponies. I cast a quick glance in the mirror to ensure that my appearance is satisfactory before snapping the door open with my magic. “Sweetie Belle, honestly, must you frighten me so?” The young mare cocks an eyebrow, not seeming impressed by elder-sister-outburst. I must be losing my touch. The fact that she’s almost as tall as I am now probably doesn’t help. “You were taking way longer than usual,” she replies. “I didn’t want your breakfast to get cold.” I try to drum up some hostility against her, but find it to be a losing battle. I smile and nuzzle her side. “Yes, well, I suppose that would be a shame, especially given what a fine cook you’ve turned out to be.” Grinning at the praise, Sweetie Belle wastes no time leading me downstairs. We pass by my Inspiration Room on the way to the dining room. It’s filled mostly with wedding dresses, and I can’t help but chuckle as I walk past. Over a year since the war ended, and still no end to the abundance of marriages. Sweetie glances back at my amusement. “What’s so funny?” “Just reflecting on the nature of romance and business,” I reply. The breakfast really is good. I had better tasting food at the castle, of course, but that’s because the chef, an earth pony rather bluntly named Chef, was a professional cook. Sweetie’s meal has the virtue of being a labor of love from an amateur who’s overcome, shall I say, an inauspicious beginning. To put it another way, she’s certainly come a long way from inexplicably transforming toast into bubbling tar. “What are you and your friends up to today?” I ask. “Well, nothing until the afternoon. I’ve still got to finish the bookkeeping.” I give her a reproving look. “Sweetie, darling, it’s our day off. Enjoy the time out with your friends! I don’t expect you to work overtime!” There’s that cocked eyebrow again. “You worked overtime the whole war. Managing the stores, the farm, the animals, the castle, not to mention—" I put a hoof to her mouth, forestalling further elaboration. “Sweetie, darling, those were unique circumstances. And, now that I’m not so overworked, don’t you think I appreciate the days off?” I chortle and resume eating. “You ought to make the most of your times of levity darling.” While you’re still young enough to do so. She picks at her food, looking guilty. “I know, I know, it’s just…I feel bad leaving you with so much to do now that I’m so busy most days with jay-rot.” Jayot … jay-rot … for a moment I begin to be concerned that there’s an unfortunately named young stallion that my sister has become interested in without telling me before I remember that she’s probably just referring to the Junior ROTC program with the abbreviated speech so regrettably common amongst today’s youth. “You have your own life to live, darling. And while I adore how helpful you are around the shop, I can manage without you working as much as you used to. Besides, you’re practically an adult, and I shall likely have to manage without you entirely soon.” I bat my eyelashes. “Especially if you meet a fine young military stallion.” Sweetie Belle snorts. “Fat chance of that anytime soon. Honestly, it feels like half the boys in my class have gotten denser since hitting puberty.” She wordlessly offers me the last egg. I shake my head and she happily takes it herself. JROTC is hungry work, after all. “All the same, you should take the time to enjoy yourself. After all, I plan on spending my day off rather frivolously.” She chuckles at that. “I wouldn’t let the others hear you call a day out shooting ‘frivolous.’ They might be offended.” She glances over at the oaken case lying on the counter. “I think they’ll like your little surprise though.” “I should certainly hope so. It took considerable effort to procure that antique.” “Well, I’m sure they’ll love it all the same.” She glances up at the clock and gives that mischievous little smile that I oh so hate seeing. “Maybe they’ll even love it enough to forgive you for being fifteen minutes late.” I swear; you’d think that young mare likes seeing me dashing about in a tizzy. I deny her assertion that I “shrieked” in dismay when I saw the time. However, I would be lying if I claimed that I did not beat a rather hasty retreat from the dining room, pausing only to grab sunhat, sunglasses, and the aforementioned case, shooting a disapproving glance over my shoulder as I left. Rolling on the floor laughing at one’s sister’s misfortune is most unbecoming, Sweetie Belle. What begins as a sprint though town swiftly slows to a brisk trot. Late or not, I’d prefer not to arrive icky with sweat. I can’t help but take in the sights and sounds of the village around me. Or perhaps it would be more proper to call it a true town, or even a small city. Having served as a muster-point for troops before sending them on to various theaters of war, Ponyville has grown from the tiny hamlet I was raised in into something more suited to the hub it has become. The town has more than doubled in size, expanding to include more shops, more stores, and more housing. Soldiers are a frequent sight on the streets these days. Most are cadets from the Ponyville Martial Academy, resplendent in their dark green dress uniforms, complete with jaunty berets. This in itself is a departure from the pre-war days, and not just because the uniforms have undergone significant changes; simply put, there was never a need to have a military presence in a little town like ours before. During the war, though, our military expanded tenfold, and it wasn’t exactly small to begin with. Between the increased need for security on the borders, the occupation force, and the grim reality that other kingdoms are modernizing their arsenals, we need warfighters in a way that we haven’t for centuries. These young cadets, most of them only a year or two older than dear Sweetie Belle, represent that need. Of course, the actual armed soldiers represent it even more closely. That’s another thing that would have been inconceivable to pre-war minds: rifle-toting ponies in olive-drab uniforms, wearing armored chest-plates and wide-brimmed Brodie helmets. Shining Armor made the importance of such increased security for critical towns like Ponyville abundantly clear after that … tragic day seven years ago. Two of the soldiers dip their helmets to me as they walk past, and I acknowledge their pleasantry with a smile and a nod, but I don’t slow my pace. I suppose the attention of two fit young military stallions ought to set my heart a-patter, but I have other matters on my mind at the moment. Like worrying about my tardiness. “Oh, I do so hope the others don’t tease me terribly for being late,” I hiss to myself. “That Sweetie Belle! I sincerely hope that she simply didn’t notice the time, because if she deliberately failed to mention it then I will be having a rather stern talk with her about the value of punctuality, which she ought to already know, what with her being in Junior ROTC and all, and—" “Hiya, Rarity!” greets Pinkie from directly beside me. I maintain that I did not shriek at the top of my lungs in a most unladylike manner. Once I regain my composure, and some modicum of a steady heartbeat, I address my dear friend in a calm and reserved manner. “Pinkie Pie, you scared the daylights out of me!” More or less. Pinkie giggles and twists her neck to look at me upside-down, somehow not spilling the beret from her physics-defying mane in the process. “Sorry, Rarity! I just didn’t want you to be seen talking to yourself.” She looks around furtively, as though spies might be listening, then leans into my ear, putting a hoof up to shield her mouth as she whispers, “Ponies might think you’re crazy!” A little over a decade ago, her behavior would have struck me as odd. As it stands now, I barely blink. “Well, thank you for your consideration, darling.” “Anytime, Rarity!” she gushes. We resume walking to our destination and I try to ignore all the ponies who I catch in the process of pretending they weren’t staring at my little, ahem, outburst a moment ago. We probably look to be quite the odd couple. Well, more of an odd couple than in the old days, I should clarify. It’s not just the difference of coats and manes anymore. These days Pinkie is sporting some rather impressive scars, to say nothing of her black-green beret and vest, the latter of which was once a combat engineer’s jacket before she tore the sleeves off. The case on my back is scarcely larger than a breadbox, while the rifle case slung over her back is longer than she is. There are a few other minor differences as well, like her battle-toned musculature, the combat knife she still habitually straps to her back hoof, and the fact that she’s actually walking rather than bouncing like she always used to. Oh, and she’s pregnant. That’s different too. Honestly, the lack of bounce in her step probably has more to do with not wanting to upset the foals she’s carrying than any lingering effects of the war, as one might have suspected. “Well, darling, I must say that I’m relieved not to be the only pony running late today. At least I shan’t have to bear Rainbow’s and Applejack’s attempts at comedy alone.” “Happy to help, Rarity,” she smiles. “Though I wouldn’t have been late at all if Bud wasn’t so fussy!” she adds with a scowl. “Fussy?” “Yeah,” grumbles Pinkie, letting her head dip. “These days it’s always, ‘let me get that for you, honey!’ ‘Don’t try to lift that by yourself, sugarplum!’ ‘Why on Celestia’s green earth would you need to take all of your guns, Pinkie, and how have the MPs not confiscated your horde of contraband weapons anyway?’” She snorts. “As if the MPs could even find my tunnel network to begin with. And today was just silly. All I wanted was to bring three of my long-guns today, and Bud was all over me about ‘not exerting myself.’ He wouldn’t even let me leave until I agreed to only take the one.” She glances at me. “Crazy, right?” Bud must be the incarnation of the Element of Patience to keep up with Pinkie’s inability to dial back her eccentricities even when conspicuously pregnant. “Well, darling, I’m sure that he just couldn’t bear to let such a beautiful young mare out of his sight.” Somehow, even the wicked scar across Pinkie’s muzzle, courtesy of a griffon saber, doesn’t manage to dampen the glow of her blushing smile one iota. “Aw, shucks, Rarity,” she giggles. “You always say the nicest things.” I smile. “Tis only what friends are for, Pinkie dear.” Our walk eventually winds its way out of town to the entrance of the Bronze Bayonet Memorial Shooting Range, a massive acreage at the edge of Ponyville surrounded by a rather unassuming white wall. Three ponies wait for us at the gate. Rainbow Dash is flying, as usual, in part from habit and in part of avoid putting too much strain on her one remaining back leg. She’s wearing a wool-lined flight jacket blazing with an appropriate rainbow of combat ribbons and has two rifle cases leaning against the gate house. Applejack stands next to her, wearing one of her trademark stetsons, with the absence of any sergeant’s chevrons stitched into it marking it as one of the ones she left at home for the war. Her rounded dog tags hang loose from the open front of her ‘lucky jacket.’ The rumpled green combat jacket has seen better days. Faded, pitted, weathered, and starting to fray at the edges, it’s in need of restoration. But Applejack won’t hear of it. “Not to Lucky,” she’d say if I asked. “He’s untouchable.” She has at least three rifle cases slung on her back, plus a duffel bag of ammunition and Celestia-knows-what-else at her feet. Fluttershy is sitting to the side, watching a butterfly. She’s not wearing anything resembling a uniform, though her hair is still done up in the conservative bun that she adopted at the start of the war. At her side rests her medical kit, an olive drab bag with a red cross on a white field stamped on the side. It’s the same bag she carried in the war, but by some miracle she’s restored it to be nigh-immaculate, to the point that, if I didn’t know better, I’d think she hadn’t seen any action at all. Unlike the others, she carries no weapons. Catching sight of us from some ways off, Rainbow throws her hooves up in the air in frustration at our sedate pace. “What are you two, a couple of snails? Get a move on! We’re burning daylight here!” Fluttershy lets the butterfly land on her hoof. “Oh, it’s okay. I don’t really mind.” Chuckling cheerfully, Applejack swipes at Rainbow’s tail with her hoof. “Don’t listen to the Tripod. Air Corps made ‘er even more impatient than she already was.” I must admit, I still flinch whenever I hear anypony call Rainbow ‘Tripod.’ Not that the pegasus seems to mind. “Pfff!” snorts Rainbow. “Is that jealousy I hear, ground-pounder? Can’t handle our superior awesomeness?” “Superior arrogance is more like it,” grins Applejack. “Ya’ll sky-jockeys wouldn’t know a proper battle plan if’n it bit ya in the flank.” “Mindless grunt!” “Feather-brain!” “Jarhead!” The two dissolve into an (apparently) good-natured bout of one-up-ponyship between their respective Branches, enabling Pinkie and I to close the distance. The five of us eventually gather at the entrance. Ignoring the bickering, I take stock of our little gathering. It’s impossible not to notice the absence of one of our closest friends. No matter how accustomed I am to it, and I still feel my heart sink just a little. Fluttershy notices my mood and trots over. “Is something wrong, Rarity?” “Nothing dear,” I reply with a sad sigh. “I’m just lamenting Twilight’s absence.” Rainbow interrupts her bickering to fly over. “What do you mean?” she asks. “Twilight’s just inside.” “Oh, she is?” I exclaim happily. “Capital! I was worried that she’d been feeling under the weather again. It’s so dreadfully often that she’s cooped up inside.” “Naw, she’s here. Spike wheeled her in and set her up early. She’s already taken over one of the shooter’s tables to spread out all her notes on force, trajectory, an’ whatnot. You know how she is.” I chuckle. “Yes, I do know how she is.” Quite well, in fact. Being her caretaker for so many years, I feel that in some ways I know her better than anypony, except perhaps Spike. “Well,” I say, trotting through the gates. “Best not keep her waiting any longer then.” Three dozen pony-shaped dummies composed of straw and skinned with burlap charge across the rolling field in a staggered line, resembling a still frame reproduction of the last great charge of the Scarecrow Brigade. At least, that’s what Pinkie Pie thinks it resembles. There’s a sharp crack and the head of one of the rearmost dummies explodes in a haze of straw and dust, reducing the bold dummy brigade’s numbers from thirty-six to thirty-five. Rainbow Dash ejects the spent casing from the heavy rifle with a precise flick of her forehoof. “Hot dang, AJ, that’s got a satisfying kick to it!” she exclaims, lying prone on the shooter’s table. “No wonder you dirt-suckers worship this thing!” Applejack smiles around a chaw of tobacco. Filthy habit. “Glad ta see ya can appreciate the finer things in life, RD.” She gives her friend a playful swat across her hindquarters. “Even if yer scrawny flank couldn’t handle this puppy out there in the Slog.” The pegasus arches an eloquent eyebrow and rolls to her side, glaring at the farmpony. “Well excuse me if the kick from a Sharps long-gun is a little much to handle while airborne, AJ, but you try firing a .45-70 round while pulling out of a 5000 foot dive at 2300 miles per hour!” Chuckling, Applejack hefts her smaller Spader Rifle. “Yeah, well, be thankful you got issued somethin’ with a higher rate o’ fire earlier in tha war. I didn’t get ta use one o’ these puppies till we’d near put the Buzzards on the run.” She rises to her hind legs for a standing shot and takes aim at one of the closer dummies. Taking a breath to steady her aim, she opens fire, working the guns’s lever-action in a controlled frenzy to put all five shots through her victim’s center of mass. The smaller caliber rounds don’t have quite the same explosive effect of the heavier Sharps Rifle, but the precision fire still shreds the dummy’s chest. With an almost loving sigh, Applejack settles back into a sitting position, fondling the weapon. “Now ain’t that a pretty sound yer makin,’ gorgeous?” she exclaims, grinning like a filly. I chuckle and adjust my hat to block the heat of the sun. “Take care, Applejack. If Arinze hears you talking about your firearm in such a manner, he may become jealous.” “Yeah!” exclaims Pinkie Pie, looking up from cleaning a Needle Rifle that she’d ‘borrowed’ from a Dominion soldier. “Poor zebra! Imagine finding out his wife’s cheating on him with a banged-up lever-action!” Even Fluttershy laughs at that. Applejack shoots Pinkie Pie a sour look before she, too, starts laughing. “Well, as far as homewreckers go, at least this’un don’t jam often.” Rainbow Dash snorts. “If that’s how you feel about it, I think we’ll need to host an intervention and get you some marriage counselling. How about it, Twilight? You up for doing some marriage counselling?” Twilight looks up from her research notes and gives a dry smile. “I think you or Pinkie are technically more qualified than I am for that at the moment,” she remarks. Her voice sounds stronger today, with almost none of its usual waver. Not bad for a wheelchair-bound mare with only one functioning lung, I suppose. “Oh, I’m sure you could do something, Twilight,” encourages Fluttershy, who had appeared beside our friend with a medical satchel to help the alicorn take her various pills and potions. “After all, friendship is the foundation of a successful marriage.” “Indeed,” I agree, taking advantage of the pause in shooting to make inquiries of my friends. “Speaking of which, Twilight,” my voice turns coy, “how are you and Big MacIntosh doing?” Twilight turns bright red and becomes quite fascinated with the calculations on her research papers. “We’re fine,” she answers flatly. “Now, Rainbow Dash, as compared to the kick of the Spader, how would you characterize the experience of firing the Sharps…” she trails off as the snickering of the other mares (sans Fluttershy) cuts her off. Flushing even redder than before she buries her snout in her notes. Fluttershy shoots me an arch look. I return it innocently over a sip of tea. Can’t blame a lady for wanting a little information about one of her best friend’s love lives. Especially when I helped her write most of those wartime letters. Applejack appears to take mercy on Twilight. “Say, Twi, if’n yer so keen ta learn about the kick, ain’t no better teacher than experience.” Twilight blinks at that. “I- I couldn’t. I shouldn’t.” “Why not, darling?” I ask. “I know a heavier gun like the Sharps isn’t your preference, but it’s not as though you haven’t shot before.” “No, it’s not that,” she interrupts. “I actually did fire first generation Sharps Rifles when they were introduced after Tirek, but since then I’ve only read about it.” “Well, you only read about running marathons and you still beat the horseshoes off of AJ and Dashie!” chirps Pinkie as she slides the bolt back into place on the Needle Rifle. Both athletes glare. Twilight bites her lip, then mumbles, “Well, I suppose it couldn’t hurt.” She glances at our resident medical expert for confirmation, “Or… could it?” Fluttershy shakes her head. “It won’t hurt. You can shoot it. You know… if you want to.” “See? Even the Angel of Angriff says it’s okay,” declares Rainbow. “So get your flank over here!” “Well… okay,” acquiesces Twilight. She wheels over to the shooters bench. Rainbow vacates the spot for her and sets the barrel of the Sharps up on a sandbag for stability, placing a box of ammunition within easy reach. Twilight’s horn lights up and she levitates five bullets out of the box, loading one into the chamber. Rainbow, still hovering at Twilight’s right, points out at the distant targets. “Now, you’re going to want to control your breathing and—" BANG! The crack of the rifle cuts Dash off mid-word and the chest of a distant dummy is reduced to dust. With one hoof she ejects the shell casing, loading the next with her magic. Another shot and another dummy’s head explodes. Eject. Reload. BANG! Hit. Repeat. Five shots end in five clean hits, any one of which would have been fatal had it landed on an actual pony. The echo of the last shot rolls over the hills, uninterrupted by dialogue as the five of us turn to stare at the alicorn, who lets out a long breath as she sits back in her wheelchair, a satisfied smirk on her face. “You’re right. That is much better than just taking notes. Good suggestion, Applejack.” Everypony else is quiet for a moment; then Dash says what’s doubtless on all our minds. “Hot dang, Twi. You woulda made for one heck of a sniper!” Twilight emits a cackle. “Yes, because hauling a wheelchair-bound sniper around a battlefield wouldn’t have caused any logistical problems. I can’t even begin to count the number of ways that could have gone wrong.” “Startin’ with the fact that Shining Armor would kill us for letting ya,” chuckles Applejack. “If Spike didn’t get to us first,” adds Pinkie. “All the same, that was really good shooting, Twilight,” smiles Fluttershy. “You looked like you were having so much fun, I was almost a little bit jealous.” Rainbow Dash opens her mouth as if to invite Fluttershy to experience it herself, but closes it so fast that I almost don’t notice. A few years ago, she would have suggested it without hesitation (and likely without tact), but we all know better than to ask Fluttershy to fire a gun. Better to just be thankful that she enjoys the range with us and leave it at that. “How about you, Rares?” asks Applejack, turning her attention to me. “You gonna shoot or what?” I smirk and set aside my tea. “In due time, I assure you. First I have to show you what I brought.” With a spark of magic I draw my case over. Five mares direct their attention to me. Rather than simply open the case, I decide to play it up a little. To simply reveal the surprise with no panache would simply not be proper. “Now, all of you have your own prized and exotic weapons to bring, often procured from,” I glance at Pinkie, “…less than willing sources, but I believe that I have found an article of war which shall put them all to shame.” “Ooh! Ooh!” exclaims Pinkie. “What is it? What is it? Is it a raygun? A laserbeam? A magic projector—" “This,” I cut her off, “is among the most difficult military articles to procure without a king’s ransom and is, fittingly enough, something of a rarity.” I giggle at my own joke. I’m not above that. “It is,” I click open the case and twirl it around with a flourish to display the contents, “an original, mint condition Gilded Peacemaker.” “Oooooh,” chorus the girls. Even Fluttershy is impressed. I don’t blame her. The Peacemakers were the first black powder pistol ever issued to officers of the Equestrian military, and the Gilded variety were issued only to officers of the highest caliber. Few were ever made, and fewer still remain. “H-how?!” stammers Dash. “I thought all the Gildies were either owned by some rich guy or destroyed!” “All but one!” I sing as I levitate the venerable sidearm out of it’s velvet case. “And, let me tell you, tracking this little beauty down was not easy. You wouldn’t believe the lengths to which I had to go to procure it.” Applejack approaches, holding out a hoof to touch it, and then pulls back as though afraid to sully it. “May Ah? “Of course, darling.” One by one they take the firearm and pass it around, oohing and awing appropriately at the inlay, the scrollwork, and, yes, the rarity of the item. Fluttershy is the last to look at it. “It really is beautiful,” she admits. “Almost seems odd that it’s something to shoot creatures with.” Well, when you put it like that… “But we’re still gonna shoot it, right?” demands Rainbow anxiously. I roll my eyes. “Well, I didn’t just bring it to look at.” “Well, if’n we’re shootin’ the granddaddy o’ service pistols,” Applejack gives a wolfish grin and produces her Colt .45 Revolver from beneath her jacket. “Ah think we should have a comparison with his heir.” Twilight moves one of the targets closer with her magic under Fluttershy’s watchful eye while I load the Peacemaker. It’s a rather laborious process, and one which makes me thankful for my magic. Black powder and a white coat don’t mix. Applejack goes first. Having cast off her jacket in the heat of the day, she moves up to the firing line and sights up on the dummy. “We doin’ one shot or the whole shebang?” “Just one shot should suffice,” I reply, setting aside my sunglasses and bonnet. “Unless you want to wait five minutes while I reload each time.” “Fair.” Her tongue sticks out as she steadies her breathing. I can’t suppress a twitch at the loud bark of the Colt. Rifles don’t bother me, but, every once in a while, the sound of a pistol reminds me of Hoofenberg. I glance at Twilight. She seems unfazed. But then, she doesn’t remember most of that day. A fortunate turn of events, to be sure. Applejack waves her hoof in front of my eyes. “Hm?” I ask. “Ah said yer up, Rares,” she repeats. “Oh. My apologies.” She cocks an eyebrow. “You okay?” “Why of course I am, darling,” I chuckle, hoping it doesn’t sound forced. “I was just…” I look to the target for inspiration, “intimidated by the precision of your shot.” “Uh huh,” she replies, not sounding convinced. All the same, she doesn’t press me about it. “Well, ya’d best start shootin’ before Rainbow up and yanks it from ya.” “Oh, like you don’t want to shoot it too, AJ!” Tuning them out, I sight up on the target. I must admit, shooting is more enjoyable than I thought it would be and I’ve turned out to be a fair hoof at it, but I’m under no illusions that I’ll beat Applejack with anything short of a miracle. All the same, I shan’t give it anything less than my best. I take aim, steady my breathing, squeeze the trigger with the inside of my joint… …and gag on the smoke while shaking my head to clear the ringing from my ears. “My word!” I wheeze, my eyes watering as I release the grip and levitate the offending weapon over to Applejack. “That makes quite a racket, doesn’t it?” “Hehe! She sure does,” grins Applejack, who seems unaffected by the noise. “Bit of a smoker too, looks like.” “Maybe it’s a navy pistol,” suggests Rainbow. “No, silly! That’s smoking and drinking,” corrects Pinkie Pie. Fluttershy offers me a glass of water, which I take with gusto. “Wherever it came from,” I manage after the coughing stops, “I would be willing to bet they were happy to see it go. Honestly, Applejack, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I prefer your plain old revolver to that gilded thing. It may look pretty, but choking on smoke from a single volley hardly brings any refinement to war.” The comment gets a chuckle, but it dies out pretty quickly at the sound of Pinkie’s more… bitter laughter. I turn slowly to see her polishing the Needle Rifle with a humorless grin on her face. “Oh, Rarity. It’s cute that you think there’s refinement in war.” She says it sweetly, but there’s a bite to her words that makes the sweetness sickening. “No matter how fancy the weapons, how efficient the tech, how brilliant the ways we conceive for keeping the enemy at a distance, war always comes down to two critters fighting in a muddy ditch over a bucking knife.” A cold silence settles on the range, broken only by the soft rasp of Twilight’s breath. Then Pinkie looks up with her trademark smile and exclaims, “But, hey, I got my hubby out of it, and now I’ve got four little buns in the oven! So I’d say it worked out pretty well!” She brandishes the rifled. “Now enough chit-chat! More shooting! Here, Twilight, try this Needle Rifle! It’s super-duper!” And with that she carries on as though nothing else happened. The other veterans slide back into the routine of the range without much bother. Even Fluttershy doesn’t seem that fazed. As for Twilight, she’s two busy having the modified Needle Rifle planted in her hooves to show shock. Which leaves me alone to look on and see how much has changed. Author's Note Equestrian history took a dramatically different turn in this AU right around the time Tirek nearly won. As such, I will be providing some contextual vignettes in the Author's Notes. If there are particular questions you have about this world, please ask, and you may well see a future vignette giving the relevant lore. *** For decades, Equestrian firearms had been largely neglected by both the military and the civilian market. Muzzle-loading muskets had existed for over a century, but never reached the point of being standard-issue amongst the military or even a popular civilian home defense weapon. The musket’s slow rate of fire, cumbersome nature, and inaccuracy led to most preferring the crossbow. Even the coming of the rifled firearms (and the corresponding spike in accuracy) and the higher damage output of the weapons relative to crossbows were not enough to offset the general antipathy towards the technology. As such, Equestrian small arms saw little use outside the borders, where the stopping power of guns was prized by independent ranchers and Equestrian Rangers for use against monsters. That all changed when Tirek nearly conquered Equestria. With memories of having their magic forcibly stripped away fresh in their minds, it was suddenly much easier to justify the development of weapons which had the stopping power of magical blasts but didn’t require a mage to use. Public sentiment on the matter of firearms had shifted enough that Secretary of War Hard Contact and Prime Minister Duke Golden Crown (known to his friends and detractors alike as ‘Fancy Pants’) were able to attach the Equestrian Small Arms Development Program to the bluntly-named EUP Guard Modernization Act. However, the margin for passing the Act had been so narrow that compromises had to be made, and the Program received little funding. Recognizing the importance of the Program, especially in light of worrying rise of the Unified Griffon Dominion, the reigning princesses of the Equestrian-Imperial Commonwealth quietly paid for the Program themselves. Sharp Wit’s famous Sharps Rifle (and its smaller cousin the Sharps Carbine) was the first mainstay rifle issued to Equestrian and Imperial troops. While this breech-loader had a slower rate of fire than the average battle caster, it was more reliable over the course of a pitched battle and could be used by all three pony races. The power of the weapon was sufficient to overcome the magical shields of even great combat mages like Shining Armor given enough time and numbers, and it was functional over longer distances than most offensive magic. Accurate, powerful, and reliable, the breech-loading rifle would be the backbone of the Equestrian Armed Forces for the first half of the Great War. Even as it was gradually replaced by more modern lever-action Spader and Turner Rifles, the Sharps was a common sight on the battlefield, and it remains the preferred weapon of sharpshooters even to this day. —Excerpt from Called Shot’s Arsenals Abridged: The Weapons of the Great War, Second Edition
ProspectsIt’s a few hours before the other girls eventually tire of all the shooting and decide to call it a day. I say ‘tire of the shooting,’ but for the three actual combatants in our merry band it’s more a case of ‘ran out of ammunition.’ I suspect that if somepony had materialized with a truckload of bullets they would have merrily plugged away until the cows came home. ‘Until the cows came home.’ My oh my, it seems I’ve picked up some of dear Applejack’s countryisms. How long the years have been. At any rate, as Celestia begins to set the sun we make our way to the gate. There we find three stallions waiting for us. Or, more specifically, waiting for three of us. They greet their mares more or less simultaneously, but I pride myself on being detail-oriented, especially where romance is concerned, so I don’t miss a thing. Bud is a rather unassuming stallion, with a pale cream coat, short brown mane and tail, and black-rimmed glasses. He’s clean-shaven, a little shorter than Pinkie Pie, and a little thick about the middle. Glancing at him, one could be forgiven for assuming that he’s a clerk or perhaps a supervisor for a construction site and not a highly-decorated Marine lieutenant with two Bronze Stars and the Imperial Bloodstripe. “Hiya, hubby!” exclaims Pinkie, crossing the distance between them in what would be a short sprint for most ponies but is really quite sedate where Pinkie is concerned. She gives him a nuzzle. “Miss me?” “Always, sugarplum,” he says warmly. “The house is just eerily quiet without you around.” That I readily believe. He reaches for her rifle case. “Why don’t you let me get—” She smacks his hoof away. “No! Bad hubby! I’m perfectly capable of carrying Gretchen myself!” Bud looks hurt and she plants a kiss on his snout to show him it’s no hard feelings. “If I make your favorite casserole tonight, will you promise to hover a little less?” Bud smiles. “Only if you let me help you make it.” “It’s a deal. Seeya, girls!” After acknowledging the others’ goodbyes, the two of them trot off. Thunderlane, hovering a few feet off the ground, looks much the same as he always has, though his mohawk is just a touch shorter than it used to be and his physique is that of a soldier recently back from active duty rather than a pre-war reservist. He’s maintained that physique despite the many moons that have passed since the war’s end, and I suspect that being married to Rainbow Dash might have something to do with that. Before he can even get a greeting off, she zips up to plant an energetic kiss on his lips. When she releases him, he’s just dazed enough to yield the first word to her. “Race you home, Thunder?” The stallion smirks knowingly. “Oh, yes, and we all know that will be a fair race.” He flaps around to her flank and swats at her stump leg with his tail. “I couldn’t beat you even before you lost a few pounds.” She swipes at him with one hoof and he only barely manages to dodge. “Jerk!” she laughs. “Howsabout I carry all my guns as a handicap?” “Or we could just fly back like normal ponies,” he replies mildly. Rainbow appears to give this due consideration, then says, “Naw! See ya all later!” and zips off. Thunderlane sighs, waves to the others, then follows the blue dot rapidly disappearing into the distance. Big Mac… Big Mac stands out. He always has, really. Polite, deferential, square-jawed, honest, and with a body many stallions would kill for, he’s always made quite an impression on the mares of Ponyville. Applejack used to joke, not without merit, that if a group of mares was around she could always tell when Big Mac came to town because the conversation petered out and the ambient temperature rose. In a lot of ways, it’s only gotten worse since the war. His already impressive musculature is now so sculped that he looks like the subject of a Roanan statue. He’s grown his coat out a little to cover the web of scars crisscrossing his body (burns, bullet holes, the cuts of talons and blades), which gives him a sort of ‘rugged adventurer’ look. It’s menacing, but in a reassuring ‘if anyone insults my marefriend I’ll break him in half’ sort of way. And, as if that weren’t all enough to make him a heartthrob, he had the absolute gall to grow out a perfectly masculine beard. Honestly, if I were the sort of base, pathetic, classless mare who couldn’t control her affections and went after other mares’ special someponies, the only thing that would keep Big Mac safe from my advances would be the fear of reprisal from our friends. Fortunately, I’m a big girl who learned long ago how to be able to admire beauty without lusting after it. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said of certain other mares in Ponyville, and I don’t envy the stick that Big Mac must need to lug around to fend them all off. Then again, I suspect he just ignores them. After all, he only has eyes for one mare. “Big Mac!” cries Twilight in delight as she rolls towards him. She approaches him eagerly, but there is the barest hint of hesitation, and the wheels of her chair drag just a touch. Her eyes dance in excitement at his presence, but I know her well enough to detect a lingering fear in them; a disbelief that haunts her happiness, questioning how he could truly love her when, in her mind, he’s so perfect and she’s so broken. But Big Mac doesn’t see a broken mare in a wheelchair. He sees Twilight, the mare he loves, who just happens to be differently-abled than the rest of us. When he looks at her, he sees the most beautiful thing in the world. “Hiya, sweetheart,” he says, his basso rumbling with warmth as he crosses the distance to kiss her gently on the forehead. “Ya have fun?” “I did! I really do enjoy these outings. I’m surprised to see you, though. I thought Spike was going to pick me up.” His smile turns teasing. “Ah told him Ah’d walk ya home. Not disappointed Ah hope.” She nuzzles him. “Not at all.” The two of them depart together, the big warhorse walking at a gentle pace for her sake. Both forget to bid farewell, but I don’t mind. Truthfully, it almost brings a tear to my eye to see our precious little Twilight with the stallion she deserves. “You did a good job helping them along,” whispers Fluttershy to me with a smile. Once upon a time, I would have replied with false modesty. To Tartarus with that. Helping a stallion who’s not known for talking and a mare who didn’t know the first thing about romance to build a relationship via letter during a war was bloody difficult. “Yes, I did, didn’t I?” I reply, preening just a little. Don’t look at me like that. I earned this! I hear Applejack snort and I turn to see the farm mare staring up at the sky in mock accusation. “Okay, so where’s mah stallion?” she demands of the heavens. Fluttershy and I giggle. “I’m sure Arinze is just caught up in his work, Applejack,” Fluttershy assures her. I can’t resist. “That or he’s out drinking because he heard you were cheating on him with a rifle.” The remark earns me a censorious glance from Fluttershy and a laugh from Applejack. “Heh! Yeah, Ah’ve brought this on mahself, Ah reckon.” “Indeed. Such a tragedy.” Not seeming impressed by the joke, Fluttershy checks her watch. “Well, I’d better get back to my animals. I’ll see you girls later.” “Bye, Fluttershy.” “Ta ta, darling!” After she leaves, I cast a glance at Applejack. “Well, I’m hardly a dashing zebra stallion, but I’d be happy to walk back with you.” “Mighty kind o’ ya.” We amble in the direction of Sweet Apple Acres, not in any particular hurry. “Arinze really has taken well to the farm life, hasn’t he,” I observe. “He sure as sugar has,” admits Applejack. “Honestly, Ah think he’s happier here than he ever was back in the palace.” I elbow her. “I’m sure that has more to do with you than anything.” She blushes. It’s a good shade on her. “Well, yer right about that, but Ah think he’d enjoy the farm life anyway. He loves his family and his country, but he never was much fer courtly living.” “And what about Nkea?” I ask, referring to Arinze’s bodyguard and aide-de-camp. “Is he still frosty about the entire affair?” Applejack chuckles. “Oh, he makes all sorts of hooded scathing remarks about the rustic life, but he’s secretly warmed up to it. Doesn’t hurt that he and Grannie get on like a house on fire. Not that you’d guess from all the insults.” I can’t help but laugh at that. The thought of Nkea (dry, patrician, coldly refined) and Grannie Smith (boisterous, rustic, unrepentantly irreverent) verbally jousting with barbs and slights always brings a smile to my face. In spite of my laughter, though, I feel an unwelcome pang of jealousy. It’s not right of me, and I know that, but I can’t help but think of Applejack, Pinkie Pie, Twilight, and even Rainbow Dash having special someponies while I— No! That’s enough of that! My friends all deserve their happiness and, besides, I’m still a young mare. Plenty of time for me to find somepony. Fluttershy is single and she seems perfectly happy that way. I don’t need a stallion in my life. It’s just… I would like a stallion in my life. “Gunneh!” calls out a voice behind us. “Gunneh!” We turn to see a lanky mail-carrier stallion flapping towards us. Applejack pulls a wry face and glances up at the sky. “Okay, one, yer too late, an’ two, that’s the wrong stallion.” I pat her on the withers. “It’s a step in the right direction, darling.” The stallion lands in front of us, dipping his cap to me and throwing Applejack a salute. “Glad Ah caught ya, Gunneh,” he says in a Atlantail drawl so thick that I can barely make out that he’s calling her ‘Gunny.’ He reaches into his mailbag and pulls out an envelope. “Got a lettah for yah, Gunneh. A telegrahm ta be precise.” “Thanks, Buckeye,” she replies, returning his salute before taking the telegram. “How’s the ole thumper treatin’ ya?” “Oh, Ah get bah, Gunneh, thanks fah askin’,” he replies with a laconic smile. “Naw if you fine mares will excuse me, Ah gotta finish mah rounds if Ah wanna be home fah suppah.” Saluting and doffing his cap once more, he flaps off. Once he’s out of earshot, I turn to Applejack, one eyebrow raised. “The ‘ole thumper?’” I ask. “His heart,” replies Applejack with a deliberate shrug, her voice a touch forced. “War souvenir.” She doesn’t elaborate, and I get the impression there’s more to it than that, but I don’t feel inclined to pry in case it’s a sensitive topic. Instead I ask, “He called you ‘Gunny.’ Was he a member of your old unit?” “Naw, he just happened ta settle in Ponyville,” answers the farm mare, ripping open the envelope with her teeth. “He ain’t even a Marine, though he’s a nice enough feller for an Army puke.” I roll my eyes. Her tone is good-natured, but it would appear that the inter-branch ‘slagging’ persists even when the other party isn’t present. “How do you know him then?” Applejack starts to skim the letter. “A group Ah run down at the Ponyville Veterans…” she trails off with a frown, her eyes becoming more intent as the skim of the letter turns into a thorough read. The longer she spends on it, the deeper her frown becomes. My concern mounts when a curse escapes her lips. Applejack may have picked up some uncouth habits in the Service, but swearing has never been one of them. By the time she’s done reading, she’s muttering half-formed expletives to herself and stomping one hoof to the ground repeatedly. I’m about to ask what’s gotten her so angry, but then I see the pain and frustration in her eyes and I realize that she’s not angry. She’s upset. “Darling,” I interject gently, “what’s wrong?” “It’s Shoddy!” she half-shouts, half-cries, almost crushing the letter in the crook of her hoof. “It’s always Shoddy!” “What’s shoddy, darling?” What could possibly have been so shoddily made as to make Applejack of all ponies visibly upset? “Not what, Rares, who,” she explains, stuffing the letter in her jacket before she can damage it any further. “Corporal Iron Shod. ‘Shoddy.’ He’s a stallion from my old unit.” Immediately I fear the worst. “Oh dear, has something happened to him?” “You could say that!” snaps Applejack. “He got fired. Again.” She sits with a heavy sigh, running a hoof back over her head and half-pushing her hat off. More quietly, she adds, “An’ Ah really thought this job was gonna take, too.” Ordinarily I’d enjoy sussing out what exactly she meant clue by clue in the style of Shadow Spade, but, given the obviously serious nature of the matter at hoof, I elect to take the more direct approach. Sitting next to her I lay a hoof across her back. “Why don’t you start at the beginning, darling,” I suggest in a calming tone. My Marine friend hesitates, never being one for gossip. But this is different. Really, it is. Whatever has transpired with the unfortunately nicknamed Shoddy is no small matter, else she’d never get so worked up, and, as her friend, I want to help her. “Applejack, you know I’ll get the truth out of you eventually,” I remark, a touch stern. “And, besides, I only want to help, even if it’s simply to provide a shoulder to cry on.” She hesitates, then gives a reluctant nod. “Come, then. What’s the matter?” Heaving a deep sigh, Applejack begins. “War changes ponies, Rares. You know that. Course, life changes ponies in general, so change don’t mean ya can’t come home and pick yer life back up. It won’t ever be the same as when you left, but then that ain’t always a bad thing.” She digs one hoof into the soil of the acreage. “Most ponies are like me or Dash or Pinkie. We come home and get on with our lives. We get married, raise kids, have jobs, yap with our neighbors… normal stuff, ya know?” She’s not looking at me when she talks; more just looking past me. “Ah ain’t gonna act like it ain’t an adjustment comin’ home. It is.” She chuckles. “It sure as sugar is. Goin’ from gettin’ shot at day-in and day-out an’ having ta trust yer life to the ponies around you every second o’ the day, ta comin’ home an’ just,” she gestures down the road, “walkin’ down the street without a care in the world?” She shakes her head. “Ain’t no good way to describe what that feels like to ponies what ain’t experienced it. They can never understand.” I know she doesn’t mean to, but the statement still hurts. I want to understand, I want to share this with my friends, but… I keep a straight face and hide it, because I shouldn’t be feeling sorry for myself right now. Fortunately, she’s too intent on her story to notice. “But, for all that, it’s possible ta get back into the civilian swing of things. It’s hard, sure, but for most it ain’t so bad, and, like Ah said, fer some it’s an improvement. They’ve grown up thanks to the war; gotten a confidence and maturity and gratitude they ain’t never had before.” I nod, feeling that I at least partially understand. Observing my friends these many moons they’ve been back… things are different to be sure, but it’s still… them. Applejack is still a farmer at heart, Dash is still an exuberant hotshot, Fluttershy is still gentle and quiet, and Pinkie Pie is still, well, Pinkie Pie. Even if she does have a much darker sense of humor than she used to. What differences there are would mostly fall under the heading of ‘positive changes,’ I should think. Pinkie matured in ways I never would have expected, and Fluttershy no longer has any trace of her old timidity; she’s still shy with other ponies, yes, but no longer frightened of little things. They’ve all grown in some way; all have this sort of sober wisdom that must come from seeing death laid bare before you daily. It’s easy upon reflection to see how they were able to adjust to civilian life once more. But, given the nature of the telegram, it sounds as though this is not the case with Shoddy. “And the other soldiers?” I prompt. “The ones for whom it is not an easy adjustment?” Applejack sighs deeply and takes off her stetson, holding it to her barrel with one hoof. “Some guys… some guys can’t leave the battle behind, and if they don’t stay in the Service it eats ‘em up inside. Some guys, they come back with the battle still stuck in their heads, and they’re scared o’ the world, or angry at it, or just… confused. Shattered. Cracked. They got this look in their eyes, this thousand-yard stare, where they ain’t lookin’ at the world in front of ‘em; they’re lookin’ at the war.” She glances off into the trees. “Easy to see why, after what we saw over there,” she adds quietly. Shaking her head, she resumes. “Others well, they come home to an Equestria they don’t recognize and that don’t recognize them. Nothin’ makes sense anymore, nopony understands them, and nopony’s giving ‘em directions what to do anymore. They go off as colts and fillies ta fight fer their country, an’ when they get back as stallions and mares they find their country’s got nothin’ waiting for ‘em. They’ve got a stack of combat ribbons, a few scars, a lifetime o’ killin’ under their belts, and no jobs.” I feel a chill go down my spine. In hindsight, it’s obvious that returning home would be a trying experience for many, but it never occurred to me just how difficult it must be for thousands of young soldiers. I can’t help but give a guilty wince as I realize how blind to their struggles I’ve been. “And I take it this Shoddy is one such stallion?” “Sure shootin’,” nods Applejack, who now looks more tired than upset. “His home town’s tinier even than Appaloosa; he had no job prospects there, so he went to Manehatten. Ah had a vague idea he was tryin’ for factory work, but it wasn’t till a few months ago when Ah got a letter from one o’ my other devil dogs that Ah found out he was couch-surfing on account o’ bein’ homeless.” “My word!” “Ah had some words ta say at the time, Ah’ll tell you what,” she says with a bitter chuckle. “Arinze got an ejication in old-fashioned Apple cussin’ that day.” Standing, she stretches, her hindlegs popping in a way that always makes me gag. “Sorry, Ah need to be walking; get stiff bein’ one place too long these days.” Once I’ve risen, we resume our journey to the Acres. “Anyway, Ah looked into it an’ found out Shoddy’d taken and lost a string of jobs. Couldn’t seem to hold anything, and that don’t look good on no fancy résumé. So, Ah called in some favors, even got a hold o’ the Manehatten Oranges to see if they could find anythin’ for him.” I blink in shock. “And with all that you couldn’t find anything?” “Oh, we found plenty of gigs,” she clarifies, “just nothin’ he could hold down. He always says or does something that gets ‘im fired, an’ then we’re back to square one.” She pats her breast pocket where the letter is stowed. “This last job was the last lead we found for ‘im.” Letting out a long breath, she shakes her head. “Ah don’t know what else ta do, if Ah’m honest,” she admits. “Ah don’t believe in lost causes, but Ah don’t see a way out of this.” It’s frankly disturbing to see Applejack so dejected and fatalistic. She’s never been one to back down from a fight, not on any of the adventures we used to share in, not with any professional hardship, and not in any personal crisis. For her to feel this way, even unwillingly is just… unnatural. Fortunately for her, I happen to have a knack for business, so perhaps I can see something that she and her family have missed. First, though, I need a little more context. “Well, what’s he good at?” Applejack gives a snide laugh. “Well, he’s darn good at knockin’ heads together, at doin’ fancy mathematics in ‘is head ta pull off a running shot on a flying target at three hundred yards with ironsights, at clearin’ pillboxes and snapping necks and crushin’ skulls.” Her voice rises in volume and bitter intensity. “He’s good at bein’ a brave son of a mule, and at picking out enemy patrols in dense fog by their wingbeats alone, and at dragging wounded kids through the mud ta safety under heavy fire, and generally at being a scary bucking Marine, but unfortunately, that ain’t exactly a skillset that lends itself to reputable work in the civilian bucking workforce, is it?!” “Applejack!” I exclaim, horrified at the fire in her eyes. The fire cools and she rubs her eyes with one hoof. “Sorry, Rares. Ah’m just a mite sick o’ seein’ all these good soldiers getting’ screwed because they’re good at soldiering and nothin’ else. There’s no shame in flippin’ hayburgers, but a guy with two Wound Badges and a Bronze Star shouldn’t have to flip burgers because he’s got no other options, an’ he darn well shouldn’t be unable ta do even that.” “Well,” I prod, “surely he must have some marketable skill.” She shakes her head. “Not as near as Ah’ve found. He ain’t got no ejication like Big Mac, so any job takin’ book learnin’ is out. He ain’t got any trainin’ fer somethin’ like sales, and Manehatten’s too cutthroat for him to have time to learn. He’s not even a skilled laborer.” The farmer glances sidelong at me. “Turn me loose on a farm, ranch, construction site, plumbin’ job, anythin’ that involves working with my hooves, an’ Ah can git ’er done. Shoddy can’t do none of that.” I’m beginning to see how the situation has become so apparently hopeless. “Well there must be something. What of his special talent?” Applejack shrugs. “No idea. His mark’s an iron horseshoe, but he swears up an’ down he ain’t no cobbler or blacksmith. He never told me what his talent is, and if he told any of his buddies it never got back to me.” Why she can’t simply ask them now is a mystery to me, but Applejack is a smart mare, so I assume there’s a valid reason. I must say, though, I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated the length of the walk from the shooting range to Sweet Apple Acres more than this very moment. It gives me time to try and put a positive spin on the whole debacle. “So, essentially, we have a stout young stallion who’s devoted, knows how to follow orders well, and is willing to put his nose to the grindstone, making him ideal for being—” “—a blunt instrument,” finishes Applejack. I stammer in shock at the harsh pronouncement, but the retired Marine is unfazed. “That ain’t an insult, Rarity, it’s a fact. In fact, in our line of work it’s a compliment. He’s an uncomplicated and reliable stallion who gets the job done. We needed good blunt instruments, and he’s a darn fine blunt instrument.” “Well,” I reply, trying to banish my annoyance at the blunt terminology, “surely there are civilian professions where such virtues are equally valued.” “Oh, there are,” agrees Applejack. “Only problem is, Shoddy has a tendency ta say the wrong thing in front of the wrong pony. That and he… fergets himself sometimes, and, well,” she bites her lip and shoots me a sidelong glance, back to her ‘not-wanting-to-gossip-but-needing-to-talk’ stage. I patiently wait for her to resume. “Remember how I said that some guys don’t really understand civilian life when they get back?” “Yes. Why?” “Well, Shoddy’s one o’ those. He just…” she waves a hoof in the air, as though trying to grab the right words from the ether. “He just says stuff, does stuff that wouldn’t be that weird in the Service, but makes him look crazy anywhere else. Makes ponies uncomfortable. And, when ponies see something that makes ‘em uncomfortable, they tend to…” she trails off meaningfully. “I see,” I say soberly. “Look, it’s not that he’s a bad guy. He ain’t. He’s even kind of a sweetheart once you get to know him.” I nod. “But nopony gets to know him because they push him away before they can get used to his…quirks.” Applejack smirks. “Got it in one.” “Well,” I sigh, “that is quite a pickle, isn’t it?” In a remarkable impersonation of her brother, she gives a rumbling “Eeyup.” Our walk lapses into silence after that as we both turn over the problem in our heads. I now understand why Applejack was so upset by the letter. It’s enough to move a pony to tears to consider the plight of such a brave servicepony. I feel my guilt afresh as I consider all the privations he endured for my country, for me and my family, while I sat safe at home, miles from bloodshed and death. I ran shops and lived in a castle and helped a princess write love letters while he got shot at, wounded, and starved, saw the most horrific things and doubtless lost friends, and when he returned he was treated as so much surplus— “That’s it!” I exclaim, seizing Applejack with excitement and shaking her as inspiration strikes me with the force of a lightning bolt. “That’s it that’s it that’s it!” “Wha~a~aa~a~aat’s~i~i~it?” she manages, her voice distorted by the vigorous shaking. Too caught up in the moment to stop myself, I cease shaking her only to grasp the sides of her head, pulling her snout-to-snout so that I can see the reflection of my sparkling eyes in hers. “He can work for me!” Applejack extricates herself from my grip, seeming much less taken with the idea than me. “Rarity, aincha been listenin’ to what Ah been saying? The boy ain’t got no talent fer the finer things. Ah think if you had him makin’ dresses for you he’d manage ta burn down the shop.” “Oh, pshaw, darling! I don’t mean dresses!” As though I’d trust an untrained stallion with that! What a laugh! “I mean with the Quill and Sofa!” “The Quill and Sofa?” she asks, raising one eyebrow in confusion. “Ah thought you were done closin’ that place out.” My smile is prim. “Not quite. There’s still a lot of surplus inventory left from repairs and returns, and I’ve been opening the store two days a week to sell it off.” Davenport, the original proprietor of the Quill and Sofa, joined the Army the first year of the war, one of scores of Ponyville residents to do so after what happened to dear Twilight. I agreed to help his wife run the shop while he was gone; it seemed to be the least I could do. Tragically, Davenport was killed in action four months before the war ended. His widow elected to sell the place off, and I, in my assumed role as the surrogate proprietress, have been managing the entire affair. Applejack scratches her head. “Ah don’t think he’d exactly help ya sell furniture, Rares. He ain’t the salespony type.” “Oh, pish tosh, darling. I don’t mean as a salespony, I mean as a movingpony. I have plenty of clients who aren’t quite strong enough to move furniture on their own, and I can’t do it and run the store at the same time. On top of which, I have to rearrange inventory every time something sells.” Strictly speaking I don’t need to, but an artist has her principles, and a good floor plan helps shift merchandise. “True, I can move things with levitation but,” I tap my horn, “my magic is not infinite.” “Ain’t Sweetie Belle helping?” “Well of course, she is, darling, but the dear girl will be leaving for the Academy in a few months and then what shall I do?” Since Applejack doesn’t seem keen on the idea, I leave off mentioning that the Quill and Sofa will probably be sold out by the time Sweetie Belle leaves and, even if I did need movers after she left, Ponyville has no shortage of strapping young stallions looking to earn a few bits. I’ll have other options, but Applejack doesn’t need to know that. “Besides, I don’t want to take advantage of her, and she and Scootaloo and Applebloom need all the free time they can get before they ship off to OCS.” Yes. I brought up Applebloom to win my stubborn friend over. I’m not ashamed. It’s a legitimate tactic. Applejack shakes her head. “Ah don’t know… it still sounds an awful lot like busy work to me.” I roll my eyes. “It’s a job, Applejack. And it will give me ample time help him work on his interpersonal skills, as that seems to be his biggest problem anyway.” We round the last bend of the path and see the homestead lying before us, nestled amidst the Acres. A long walk to ponder matters, and Applejack is still skeptical. “Ah don’t think you quite understand what a mess he is,” she protests. “It’s not just that his filter comes off when he’s drunk or something. He don’t have a filter to begin with! On top o’ which,” she taps the side of her head with a hoof, “Ah ain’t sure he’s got his head on straight after the war if’n ya take my meaning.” “Well, all the more reason I should help him,” I declare, undeterred. “Rarity, ya don’t know what yer gettin’ into!” Oh that is it. I stop abruptly and turn, startling her with a glare. Applejack can be a stubborn nag, if you’ll pardon my Prench, but so can I! “Applejack, I am your friend, I am a loyal citizen of Equestria, I am a darned fine businessmare, and I am the blinking Element of Generosity!” I exclaim, jabbing a hoof against her chest. “When I tell you I can handle this, I can handle this.” While she stands blinking in shock, I put my usual charming smile back on and put a hoof to her shoulder. “You just have to trust me, darling. And, to be blunt,” I add with a half-hearted laugh, “what other prospects do you have?” Applejack shuts her eyes and sucks in a double-lungful of air, holding it for several heartbeats before letting it out slowly. When she opens her eyes again, her expression is a mixture of resignation and gratitude. “Yer right. Ah trust ya. I’ve gotta.” “Applejack!” calls out an accented voice from the homestead. We turn to see a muscular zebra stallion standing in the doorway waiting, a toothy grin on his lips. “Your supper is going to go into the dog if you do not come quickly!” He takes great care to enunciate each consonant and syllable, with ‘i’s becoming like ‘ee’s in the fashion of Zebras from his kingdom. My friend glances up at the heavens. “So he don’t show up at the range, you send the wrong guy late, and now he’s threatenin’ to give my supper to ole Winona? Ain’t that a kick in the teeth!” Addressing the stallion she calls out something in his own tongue that I wouldn’t know how to transcribe into Ponish if I wanted to. He replies in the same manner and ducks inside, the sound of his merry laughter drifting across the open air. Tilting my head in curiosity, I ask, “What did you two just say to each other, if I may ask?” She shrugs. “Basically means ‘beloved’ or ‘dearest.’ Ah can’t manage anythin’ fancier.” “So, you can’t learn Zwahili and you’re cheating on him with a rifle?” I tease. “My, you are a terrible wife.” Applejack gives me a frosty look. “It ain’t my fault! Ah get all tongue-tied whenever Ah try to speak it, an’ then he just laughs and laughs and laughs—” “—which you find quite attractive, as I recall.” I interject. “Which makes it all that much more insufferable!” she retorts. I titter and she huffs. “Look, we were plannin’ on Big Mac eatin’ with us, so we got plenty o’ food, but he’ll probably have dinner at Twi’s tonight. You hungry?” “If you’re still offering after all the teasing,” I joke. Applejack gives me a solemn look. “Rarity, if you can really help Shoddy, Ah’ll make you dinner till we’re both greyer than Grannie Smith.” “Deal!” I reply, starting down the path to the house. “Though only if your husband cooks.” She sputters in outrage and hastens after me. “What for? Ah’m a great cook!” “Of course you are, darling,” I assure her. Then I give a sly wink. “He’s just better.” Author's Note Princess Celestia and her cabinet had long feared the rise of the Unified Griffon Dominion and sought to dissuade them through diplomacy and the threat of Equestria’s superior military power. However, those threats began to lose their weight as the Dominion gradually came to surpass Equestria’s peacetime arsenal. Celestia and her ministers sought to modernize the military, but could not gain Parliamentary approval for anything that resembled “foreign adventurism” or a violation of Equestria’s long-standing peace. It was only with the near catastrophe of Tirek’s rise to power that the reigning princesses and their allies finally gained the support to pass the EUP Guard Modernization Act and begin a policy of firm opposition to Dominion expansion. The diplomatic efforts to dissuade Dominion expansion were spearheaded by Equestria’s newest alicorn, Twilight Sparkle. In her capacity as the Princess of Friendship, Twilight sought to build an alliance of nations into a unified defensive front to intimidate the Dominion into slowing its advance while the government deliberated how best to deal with the problem in the long-term. She focused her efforts on shoring up the support of friendly powers like Zebrica, Konikland, Maretonia, and Saddle Arabia against the common threat of the Dominion while also building a network of mutual defense amongst the griffon nation-states that had not yet fallen under Dominion control. Many of these nations had once been part of the now defunct Austail-Griffonian Empire and were populated by both ponies and griffons. It was here that Twilight attempted to create a first line of defense against the Dominion. The hope was to stop the war with a show of solidarity along the Dominion border. Diplomatic talks were proceeding well when the Hoofenberg Incident occurred. Most citizens of the former Austail-Griffonian region had learned to live in relative harmony, or at least tolerance, with the other races. However, there was enough bad blood for the Dominion’s primary paramilitary force, the feared Talon Detachment, to exploit. Though unable to gain control of the governments, but they were able to form terrorist cells. On the day of the Summit, when leaders were preparing to make a unified statement of opposition to Dominion expansion, sixty-three Talon operatives and local recruits attacked the Royal Carriage, nearly killing Princess Twilight and launching a brutal six-year war. Historians debate whether or not Twilight’s proposed defensive front would actually have succeeded in dissuading Dominion aggression long-term. The princess herself is purported to have become skeptical of the plausibility of such a success in hindsight. However, most agree that, had the Summit succeeded in unifying the nations directly along the border in a formalized defensive treaty prior to the Dominion’s invasion, their armed forces would have been better organized for mutual protection. As it was, the initiative in the early days of the war was ceded to the Dominion, who swiftly overran the disunified defenders and pushed into Equestrian territory, leaving thousands dead in their wake. —Excerpt from Spark Notes’ A Brief History of the Great War.
ShoddyHave you ever had that experience where you only come to realize the gravitas of the decision you’ve made once it’s much too late to change your mind? Where you have that horrifying moment of dawning comprehension and finally appreciate, ‘You know, I thought I knew what I was doing, but I really didn’t!’ I recall one incident a year or two before the Great War wherein Rainbow Dash and Applejack invited me to go on a Summer backpacking trip with them to Zenith Heights. For their part, it was simply another step in their ongoing efforts to push me out of my comfort zone and become more comfortable ‘roughing it.’ For my part, it was an opportunity to see the legendary Zenith Heights for myself and hopefully be inspired for a new line of dresses (my Fall line proved to be stellar that year, for the record). Our sisters wanted to come along, of course, but we elected not to bring them because, unlike our regular camping spots, Zenith Heights is deep in timberwolf country. Now, they told me about the timberwolves up front. They said, “Rarity, you know that’s timberwolf country, right?” Well, yes, darlings. I am aware. I trust we shall be packing appropriate defensive measures. When the others heard about our planned trip, they asked the same question. “Rarity, you know that’s timberwolf country, right?” Certainly. Rest assured we are taking adequate precautions. Soon the word spread to the town. “Rarity, you know that’s timberwolf country, right?” I am quite aware, and it’s not as though we haven’t faced down horrid monsters before; and those were generally without time to prepare. We shall be fine. When we’d buy supplies, the outfitters would ask. “Rarity, you know that’s timberwolf country, right?” By this point I had become rather irritated with the repeated questioning. After all, I am an intellectually capable and reasonably fit mare with some martial ability and a longer-than-average list of run-ins with monsters. I was certain we would be quite safe. It wasn’t until we’d packed our way into the mountains, set up camp, bedded down for the night, and I had gotten up to use the little filly’s room (by which I mean crouched over an undignified hole in the ground out in the open like some animal) that I finally realized, “Rarity, we’re in timberwolf country.” Nothing untoward happened, and, as I said, my Fall line was smashing that year (not to mention the excursion being enjoyable overall), but it was still a sobering insight. Until then, I hadn’t realized how easy it was to think oneself to be wholly prepared, only to discover in the moment that the magnitude of the situation hadn’t truly sunk in. Why do I bring this up? Well, because as Applejack and I wait down at the train station for Mr. Iron Shod to arrive, I can’t quite shake the sensation that I am once more crouched over that blasted hole on Zenith. Fortunately, I am quite adept at hiding my worries, and give no outward sign of tension. Applejack, on the other hoof, is pacing and muttering like a madpony. “Applejack, darling, are you trying to wear a groove in the platform?” I chide with a smile. “With all that pacing, one might mistake you for Twilight.” It’s an instinctive joke, but my grin turns sour as soon as it leaves my mouth. Twilight certainly can’t pace anymore, which is more bitter a pill to swallow than one might think. Imagine this: from the time you were a filly, your primary physical outlet to relieve stress has been to pace… and now you are invalid. Watching Twilight unable to burn stress in her preferred manner those first few years was unexpectedly painful. Applejack gives me a dry smirk and I wince, expecting a rebuke. “Well, Ah guess somepony’s gotta pick up the slack now that she can’t no more.” Ah. So not a rebuke, but a Marine’s dark humor. I suppose she knows I didn’t mean anything by it. Or perhaps to her it’s no different than calling Dash ‘Tripod.’ At least she stops pacing. Sighing, Applejack turns to look down the tracks. “It’s a heck of a thing yer doin’, Rares,” she says. “Ah just hope his uncouth behavior don’t drive ya batty.” I snort. “Oh please, Applejack. If I’ve endured you and Rainbow Dash and a host of difficult customers all these years, I think I can manage one rough stallion.” She opens her mouth as though to contradict me, then clamps her jaw shut and grunts noncommittally. I try not to take offense. The fact that my own nerves are playing up helps. By some unspoken agreement we limit ourselves to smalltalk after that. We maintain that tacitly enforced ban on serious conversation even when the distant whistle of the train announces the coming of my new project. Hopefully Applejack doesn’t see the emerging tremor in my hooves. I’d like to tell you what we talked about until the train pulled in but, honestly, I haven’t the foggiest idea. We could have fallen silent for all I remember. All I recall is the train pulling into the station and disgorging its passengers. I scan the faces for a time, looking for Iron Shod, until I remember that I don’t know what he looks like. That question is soon answered for me when Applejack perks up and barks, “Yo! Shoddy!” Commuters cast her censorious glances for her outburst, but she ignores them, trotting down the platform towards the back of the train. “Over here, devil dog!” Her pace forces me to cut in behind her to avoid getting swallowed in the crowd. At first, I can’t tell who she’s addressing, but once I get a clear line of sight through the press of bodies, I spot a likely candidate. He’s an earth pony. Grey, scruffy, slightly bigger than Applejack, with a crew-cut blonde mane, short tail, blue eyes, and battered features. He wears a green field jacket even more tattered than Applejack’s ‘Lucky,’ and looks to be carrying all his worldly possessions in two worn duffel bags that appear ready to burst at the seams. It gives me pause to realize that he probably is carrying all his worldly possessions in those duffel bags. He wears a sort of bemused smile on his face that brightens into a full grin when he finally catches site of Applejack. “Gunny!” he greets her, hastening forward while dragging his belongings behind him. “Wait one, I’ll come ta you.” His accent is a drawl similar Applejack’s, though much fainter. Applejack doesn’t bother waiting and the two meet in the middle with a fierce hug involving a considerable amount of hearty backslapping. I’d probably get a bruise if Applejack ever greeted me like that. They pull back, laughing, and Applejack ruffles his short mane. “Criminy, Shoddy, it’s great ta see ya again.” “Good ta see you too, boss. I’ll tell ya, it ain’t been the same without you around ta chew my stupid ass out.” I wince at the rather low-brow reference to donkeys and thank the heavens that Cranky isn’t in earshot. “Still, ya can’t seem to help takin’ care of yer dumb grunts from afar, else you wouldn’ta gotten me this here job. Mighty kind o’ ya, Gunny.” She slugs him in the foreleg. “You know Momma AJ’s gonna take care o’ her boys. Didn’t Ah teach ya that?” “Ya sure did, Gunny,” he smiles. Whenever Applejack is blessed with foals, I have no doubt she’ll be an outstanding mother. “Speaking o’ teaching ya,” says Applejack, turning her attention to me. “This here’s yer new boss. Say hi to my good friend, Rarity.” Despite his scruffy appearance, Shoddy seems to keep himself clean, or at least he cleaned himself up before the train ride. He trots up and politely holds his hoof out for shaking, his smile broad as he makes eye contact with me. All of these are promising signs. “How d’ya do, Miss Rarity,” he says as he takes my hoof. “It’s a right pleasure ta meet you.” His grip is a little too tight, but we’ll work on that. Perhaps he’s just nervous. “The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Iron Shod. Applejack speaks very highly of you.” Chuckling, he replies, “Oh, you can call me ‘Shoddy,’ Miss Rarity. Everypony else does.” Glancing at Applejack, he adds, “If Gunnery Sergeant Honesty here had much nice ta say about me, she’s breakin’ with her Element.” Applejack rolls her eyes. “Oh, not at all, Shoddy,” I insist. “She told me you were one of the finest Marines she ever had the pleasure of serving with.” Rather than being moved by the complement, Shoddy becomes uncomfortable, rubbing the back of his neck with one hoof and avoiding eye contact. “Yeah, well, I guess I was good at one thing.” An awkward silence follows. Clearing my throat, I change the subject. “Why don’t we head into town and I’ll show you the ‘lay of the land’ as Applejack says.” He nods smartly and almost salutes before he remembers himself. “Yes, ma’am.” Applejack tries to take one of his bags, but he flatly refuses, citing that he “don’t wanna be a bother.” With that, we head take the road for Ponyville proper. On the way I point out some of the features of the town: preferred shops, favored restaurants, and pleasant areas to relax. Shoddy takes in his new surroundings… I’d say eagerly, and that would be an accurate statement, but there’s an undercurrent of something else in his awareness that I can’t quite put my hoof on. Maybe I’m just reading too much into it. Stranger things have happened. As we pass the town hall, Shoddy stops and stares at the structure for a moment, seeming to mull something over. His face brightens with realization after a moment. “Aha! That’s what it reminds me of! Say, Gunny, don’t this place look like that observatory in that little town northwest Viennhoof? What was it called… Griffzing? Somethin’ like that?” He chuckles and turns to me. “Kinda a small town, but I remember the tower on account o’ it’s weird shape. Plus we shot the place to Tartarus and it lit up like a bucking Hearthswarmin’ Tree on account o’ the gunpowder the Buzzards had inside. Pitched one bird clear across the road and landed splat in front o’ me. Had a heckuva time cleanin’ my coat out after that.” He shakes his head, still smiling. “Boy, that was a crazy day. Anyway, sorry for the delay. Where to next, boss?” He says it so blithely that I just end up staring at him in shock, unable to form a coherent response. The other girls have talked some about the war, but usually in a more private place and often after a few hard ciders or the like. They don’t just drop some graphic story out on a busy street with no leadup because they saw a building. Applejack catches my eye and gives me a long look as though to say ‘Ah told’ja so,’ before clearing her throat. “Just a few more blocks left o’ here and we’ll be at the shop. You’ll even get a decent view o’ Twilight’s castle from there.” “That’s swell. Shall we?” Still in shock, it takes me longer than it should to realize that he’s waiting politely for me. “Er, quite,” I say, regaining some measure of composure. “This way.” Mercifully, we manage to make it to the Quill and Sofa without Shoddy making some other graphic remark about war, though he does make several disparaging remarks about the Army soldiers we pass, a rather loud question about why a stallion would wear perfume directly after passing a Canterlot noble, and, after seeing the Castle of Friendship, something about architecture and the dangers of ‘Good Idea Fairies’. Whatever that means. The last one made Applejack snort with laughter, but that’s hardly a clue as to the quality of the joke; the mare’s taste in humor is not exactly refined. Whatever the case, by the time we reach our destination I have a pretty clear picture of the things we’ll need to work on for customer service. There’s no trouble with being a largely filterless chatterbox while off the clock, but a certain degree of tact is required for steady employment with most client-facing professions. The Quill and Sofa is closed today by design so that I’ll have time to acquaint Shoddy with his duties before putting him to work. “Wow. That mare is wearing so much eye shadow she looks like she’s got two black eyes. I just about asked her if she needed me to clobber some prick of a stallion for her. That or see where the underground fights are.” I mentally tack an extra three days onto the interpersonal skills training regimen while I pull out my keys. Applejack chuckles and leans against the door frame next to me. “See what Ah mean?” she says softly. Her ‘I told you so’ tone isn’t exactly welcome. “What is it you military types say?” I ask curtly. “I’m working the problem.” The farmer smiles. “Well, Ah’m proud o’ ya for—” “Applejack,” interrupts a new voice. We turn to see Nurse Redheart standing nearby, harnessed to a supply cart for the hospital. “Well howdy, Red,” says Applejack, tilting her hat back to see the mare better. “Ah see the hip must be better if’n they’re lettin’ ya make the supply runs yerself.” Redheart flexes a scarred foreleg. “Physical therapy helps.” “Uh huh. And bein’ married to a stallion who knows how ta massage the joints probably don’t hurt either, does it,” says Applejack with a wink. “True enough,” smiles the nurse. She glances at Shoddy and I with one eye while the other remains immobile. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” her gaze flicks back to Applejack, “but I wanted to tell you we had a cancellation. We can actually get you in this afternoon.” Applejack blinks in surprise, glancing nervously in my direction for some reason. “Oh! Well that’s great! What time?” “Now. One of the orderlies called your house, but Arinze said you’d be here. Since I had to make a supply run anyway, I thought I’d swing by and grab you.” She winks with her good eye. “Sorry for the short notice, but I figured it beat waiting another few days.” I glance at Applejack, raising one eyebrow. I haven’t heard anything about this, and after certain events I’m rather… invested in knowing why one of my closest friends will be heading to the hospital, even for a scheduled appointment. Applejack licks her lips, her face anxious. “Uh… well…” How best to ask, however? She plainly does not want to speak about it, and tact must be maintained out of respect— “Hospital?” cuts in Shoddy. “You ain’t sick, are ya, boss?” —or I could just let Shoddy brazenly go where I hesitate to wander. “Well,” says Applejack, looking bashful, “The thing is, it’s well, Ah…” she perks up with inspiration. “Mare problems!” she blurts out, probably louder than strictly necessary. “Hehe. Yeah, that’s it. Mare stuff. But if’n ya really wanna know—” “I don’t,” says Shoddy quickly. “Have fun, Gunny. Miss Rarity and I got work to do.” Applejack gives a triumphant smirk. I say nothing, but mentally note that she won’t be escaping me that easily. Judging by the fact that she gulps when she meets my gaze, I think she knows that we’ll be having a serious mare-to-mare chat later. In the present, however, all she says is, “Ya’ll gonna be okay if Ah go?” Much as I would love to have Applejack’s help, I’m not going to keep her from an obviously important doctor’s appointment, whatever it is. “We’ll manage without you, darling.” After bidding us farewell and admonishing Shoddy to behave, Applejack and Redheart depart, leaving me alone with my new employee. I unlock the door and push into the shop, ready to give a little prepared introduction to the establishment before Shoddy cuts me off with an abrupt question. “Am I goin’ crazy, or was one o’ that mare’s eyes not moving?” I suppose that’s a fair question. “You were not imagining things,” I reply. “Nurse Redheart has a glass eye. She was a combat medic during the war. While treating an injured stallion the blood bottle she was holding was hit by a stray bullet, sending shards of glass into her eye.” Even telling the story makes me shudder. “She finished treating the soldier and got him back to friendly lines before having her own wound seen to. I understand she earned the Distinguished Service Medal.” Shoddy shakes his head. “Shoulda been the Star of Valor. Soldiering on through glass in the eye?” He shudders. “I don’t mind tellin’ ya, getting my eyes jacked up is one o’ my recurring fears.” For some reason the fact that an eye injury gives him the chills makes me feel a little bit more comfortable about this entire affair. I suppose it’s reassuring to know that even hardened veterans have some things which make them squeamish. I’m about to begin my introduction to the shop when he asks, “What about her leg?” Hard to fault him for being curious about the injuries of a fellow veteran. “I’m not sure of the story there. Only that she received a Wound Badge for it. Now, if you’ll turn your attention to the inventory,” I continue before he can get a word in edgewise, “I’m not sure how much Applejack told you in her letter, but the situation is as follows…” I fill him in on the story behind the Quill and Sofa and what the work will look like going forward. He pays excellent attention, to the point that I have the eerie sense of what it must feel like to be an officer… right up until I mention Davenport’s death. Then he gets off-track asking about the widow, what unit the deceased was with, what rotten luck it was that he got killed so close to the end of the war, and so forth. When I point out how far afield we’ve gone, he’s immediately apologetic and goes back to paying very close attention. I’ve just started walking him through some of the cataloguing and furniture maintenance in the back when Sweetie Belle walks in, resplendent in JROTC uniform. “Hey, sis,” she says, waving jauntily to me before trotting up to Shoddy. “You must be Iron Shod. Rarity told me you’d be coming by today. My name’s Sweetie Belle.” “Pleasure ta meet you, Miss,” says Shoddy, giving her hoof a hearty shake that makes me fear for Sweetie’s shoulder. “And like I told yer sister, ya can just call this old devil dog ‘Shoddy’.” “Well, good to meet you, Shoddy. I know Rarity’s been excited to have you come onboard. She’s been talking about it for days.” Shoddy blushes at that. I just smile. Sweetie might be better at sweet-talking ponies than me. …which now that I think about it makes a lot of sense given her name… “I’m a little surprised to see you, Sweetie,” I say. “I thought you were in class all day.” Sweetie shakes her head. “The speaker they had lined up today came down with the feather flu, so Master Sergeant Thrasher let us go early.” She shrugs. “He usually isn’t that lenient, but I’m not complaining. Next week looks like it’ll be heavier, so maybe he just figures he’ll get us then.” Shoddy chuckles. “Only a fool complains when the sergeant decides to ease up.” His eyes narrow and he gives Sweetie a searching look. “You goin’ off ta OCS soon?” Sweetie nods. “Uh huh. And what sort o’ officer you fixin’ ta be?” Sweetie smiles. “Don’t worry, Corporal. I’ll be the kind of officer who listens to her senior enlisted ponies, because they know what they’re doing and do all the hard work for green second lieutenants anyway.” The retired Marine breaks into a broad smile and he touches a hoof to his brow. “Now that’s an officer worth saluting! Glad ta see you got a brain between those ears. Nothing’s more dangerous than a fresh young officer with a good idea he didn’t run by his sergeants first.” His statement gets a musical chortle out of Sweetie. “Corporal, five of my sister’s best friends, all of whom might as well be family, are military, and all of them but Dash are senior NCOs. I’m not dumb enough to become a Cake Eater with them around.” Her answer sends Shoddy into a fit of laughter and leaves me thoroughly mystified. Before I can ask what ‘Cake Eaters’ are and why they are to be deplored, the Marine says, “Dumbest Cake Eater we ever had was this little snot from Manehatten. Most Manehattenites I know are tough, loyal, and devious fighters, but this pissant couldn’ta found his dock with both forehooves and a map. So naturally he thought he was Celestia’s personal gift to the Marine Corps. If he had been a gift I woulda returned him, I can tell ya that!. Why I thought Gunny was gonna blow as gasket the day he…” The war stories last for some time after that. It doesn’t help that Sweetie is so interested in them, or that I find myself fascinated in spite of the delay. If it weren’t for the fact that we’re ‘on the clock,’ so to speak, I would have happily listened to him for the insights into my friends’ six years of bloodshed. Unfortunately, we are on the clock, so I have to rein him in, which is easier said than done. It takes half an hour to really get him out of the stories and focused on the next task, mostly because each new topic or sight seems to trigger a different story. Each time I point this out, he bashfully apologizes and gets back to work, seeming more irritated with himself each time it happens. For my part, my irritation actually lessens, as it quickly becomes clear that he’s genuinely unaware of his distraction when it’s happening. Sweetie, ever quick to pick up on such things, manages to tactfully use the conversations to steer him back to work more than once. Between the two of us, we manage to give him the basics of what’s required at the store. One of the first tasks that needs to be done is repairing merchandise that was returned or traded in so that it can be resold. Conveniently, there’s a couch in need of basic repairs up on the work bench right now. Once he’s found something of a groove, I leave him working on the couch while I head into the office with Sweetie, ostensibly to review the books. In actuality, we need to compare notes. “The two of you hit it off rather well,” I remark. “What’s your initial impression of him?” “He seems like a nice guy,” says Sweetie. “Hard worker; clearly wants to do a good job and pay attention but…” she nibbles he lip, “… his mind is elsewhere. He has a hard time keeping himself in the moment.” “That was my thinking,” I agree. “He doesn’t appear aware of his distractions, either, which is good in the sense that he’s not deliberately slacking off, but bad in that it will require an adjustment of his awareness.” Nodding, Sweetie adds, “No matter the branch, soldiers are trained to be present in the moment. Problem is, he seems to be present in a different moment. The trick will be to get him to be present in this one.” I hadn’t considered it in quite those terms, but it seems quite reasonable. The other girls have certainly seemed a lot more focused since coming home. Shoddy must have the same skill; he just needs to learn to apply it in his civilian life. “Well, it sounds like it will simply be a matter of mental exercises to maintain organization and attentiveness to the present. Between that and some lessons on tact, I don’t see this being too complicated.” Sweetie cocks an eyebrow. “When has life ever been that easy?” “Let me enjoy my delusion for a moment, darling.” She chuckles. “Well, while you’re enjoying your delusion, I need to go meet Applebloom and Scootaloo for a study session. I wasn’t kidding when I said Thrasher’s gonna hit us hard to make up for letting us go early today.” I give her a quick peck on the cheek. “Thanks for dropping by, my dear. I appreciate the help.” Sweetie departs while I head to the back room. “Well, Shoddy, how are things coming in…?” I trail off as I see that Shoddy is still hard at work on the couch… … which he has now shifted from the bench onto the floor. “Erm, Shoddy,” I say delicately. Shoddy’s head pops up from behind the sofa. “Why, pray tell, have you seen fit to shift the couch off the bench, where it was conveniently situated at a comfortable height for work, and onto the floor, where you have to lie down and strain to get into the right position to work?” Shoddy blinks, not seeming to understand the question. Craning his neck around, he looks at the storage room’s exterior doors, large loading-dock-style fixtures which also happen to provide the room’s only natural illumination through high-set windows. He points to those windows, then turns back to me and says, “To be out of view.” I wait for him to explain why that’s relevant. He doesn’t. “And that’s important because…?” Once more, he blinks, this time looking at me as though I’ve grown a second head. “Snipers,” comes the matter-of-fact reply. A chill settles on my spine. Oh, sweet Celestia, does he really think there are snipers? What the hay am I supposed to do if— “Um, Shoddy,” I say gently, “You do know there are no snipers in Ponyville, right?” Shoddy snorts. “Of course I do, Miss Rarity. I’m not crazy.” With that, he goes back to working on the couch. “I… I see,” I reply, biting my lip. “Well… carry on then.” I leave the room at a brisk trot, heading for the back office. Opening up the safe, I pull out a bottle of Red Tail Whiskey and pour myself a dram. Being that we picked Shoddy up from the train station in the mid-afternoon, it’s now technically after ‘Miller Time,’ and so not inappropriate to drink. Even if it had been earlier, though, I’m not certain I would much care. I’m not typically one to need a little libation to steady my nerves, but that… … I’m not sure what that was. He knows there are no snipers, he knows he’s safe, so why—? An inner voice interrupts my thoughts, this nagging little thing that takes root in my head, giving words to the fear that has been growing since the train station. It speaks insistently; gloatingly. It says to me, “Rarity, we’re in timberwolf country.” Snipers. Of course, Miss Rarity. I’m not crazy. Bloody Tartarus. “Yes, Rarity” I say aloud as I sip my whisky. “We’re in timberwolf country indeed.” Author's Note Before getting into the chapterly lore bit at the bottom, a word on the two real-world stories which were almost verbatim applied to this chapter. The funny one is that the "Rarity, we're in timberwolf country" is pretty directly from an incident in my own life three years ago. Replace the ponies with myself and two old friends, Zenith with the great American backwoods, and timberwolves with bears, and you've got pretty much the same story. "Hey, you know that's bear country, right?" was heard ad nauseum for a month leading up to the trip. Given that I'd backpacked with bears before, I wasn't worried. But this was bear country, with a season for extra bears in bear country. That fact sank in when I was crouched over the privy (hole) in the middle of the night in freezing rain, when I very distinctly heard an inner voice say, "Hey, we're in bear country." The serious one is that the story about the couch and the snipers is also from my life. At the time I was a manager at a charity warehouse. One of our new volunteers was a certain couch-surfing Army veteran who unwittingly inspired a certain pony Marine (don't tell him I changed branches on him). The guy was, like Shoddy, super pleasant, a very hard worker, a genuinely moral man... and he had a tendency to get distracted and say things he probably shouldn't say in public. When I first met him, I never would have guessed he was having a hard time after the Global War on Terror, but the more I interacted with him the more I noticed things. He never had his back to doors and windows. He perpetually checked his surroundings. He tended to move near cover. That sort of thing. Talking to him, I found out he'd been ambushed a lot. The conversation between Shoddy and Rarity about the couch is almost word-for-word how the real conversation happened with this Army veteran and the warehouse manager. I saw a lot of sobering things in that job (I worked with people in pretty abject poverty, after all), but I don't think anything really compared to that moment. If there were any one thing that inspired Homecoming, it was that. *** Given the predatory nature of the species, it is hardly surprising that griffon martial tradition has always included a strong emphasis on ambush tactics. As the war dragged on and regular Dominion Army units were shattered, they compensated by shifting increasingly to guerrilla tactics. While inflicting casualties on Allied units and disrupting supply lines were strategically important to these hit-and-run methods, the psychological damage was more debilitating still. The exhaustion and fear brought on by the constant threat of raids wore heavily on Allied soldiers and forced their commanders to expend additional time and resources on setting up defenses each time they made camp, even when they were well back from the front lines. While the Dominion’s tactics were not enough to halt the Allied advance or break their morale, they doubtless added many brutal months to the war and inflicted great injury upon the soldiers who faced them. —From the abstract of Dr. Serene Spring’s “Restless Rest: A Treatise on the Psychological Damage of Ambush Tactics in the Great War”
NormalI decide it’ll be a few days before Shoddy is ready to face actual customer service. During that time, I receive a crash course in Retired Marine 101: An Introduction to Iron Shod. To start with, Shoddy appears to have a nigh pathological fear of putting anypony out. Several little moments throughout that first day hinted at the depth of his fear, but what really drove it home was when Applejack returned at around six to take him back to the Apple homestead and put him up in the guest room… and he flatly refused. “Oh no, Gunny! I ain’t gonna take no charity from ya. Besides, a bed’s too good for the likes of me.” And what was his plan in lieu of a bed? Well, as it happens, he was fully prepared to sleep in the back room of the Quill and Sofa on the hardwood floor or else set up camp in the woods near town. He assumed this. Which leads into the second lesson: Shoddy is perhaps even more stubborn than Applejack. Hard to believe, I know. Their disparate ideas on his housing situation led to a rather frank exchange of opinions (by which I mean they balled each other out). When I became fearful that the situation would devolve into blows being exchanged, I announced rather spur-of-the-moment that I would be putting him up at my residence. That at least stopped them arguing with each other so they could argue with me instead. I won that fight by pointing out that employees of small shop owners often live under the same roof as their employers, and that I had leased the basement of my house out as a single-resident flat throughout much of the war. (I made some modifications to the interior: doors between the upstairs, main floor, and basement; adding a bathroom and shower to the basement flat; putting in a back stairwell to give said flat access to the kitchen and rear exit, thus allowing the resident to come and go without passing through the shop floor. I now own a miniature apartment complex which just happens to include my residence and boutique). As soon as Applejack realized what I was doing, she threw her weight behind me and we sold him on the idea as a matter of ‘business propriety.’ He works for me, so I house him. I even managed to convince him that I was taking his room and board out of his salary, which is technically true. I just left out the fact that I’d mentally increased his salary to the point that subtracting his room and board would bring him back down to what I’d been planning on paying him in the first place. Deceptive? Perhaps, but in a rather benign way, and it satisfied his sense of honor. This, in turn, sparked the third lesson, which is that Shoddy is always up well before I am. Not exactly a surprise, given his martial background, but it was a surprise on the first morning to come downstairs to the common area and find somepony other than Sweetie Belle cooking. Apparently, Shoddy is the sort to thank people with actions, and he took it upon himself to prepare breakfast for Sweetie and I. It was a wonderful gesture, marred somewhat by the fact that Shoddy is a terrible cook. To spare Sweetie and I the results of his rather stubborn generosity in the future, I once again played the landlady card and convinced him that it is my responsibility to cook (again, technically true according to the terms I arbitrarily set) and thus is included in his ‘rent.’ I even apologized for not making that clear the night before and letting him do all the work. Then I put on a brave face and did my best to choke down the breakfast without hurling. The lessons continued to come fast and thick after that. From a practical standpoint the results are… mixed. On one hoof, Shoddy is polite, eager to please, and deferential to a fault. For all his uncouth mannerisms, he is extremely friendly and truly seems to desire to benefit other ponies. Many of his questions have been to the effect of ‘would the customer like it if we did X’ or ‘maybe I could help out by doing Y’ or ‘I could take care of Z for you if you wanted to leave early.’ In another stallion, such behavior might be mistaken for ingratiating, but I don’t think Shoddy is capable of the subtlety that would require. He’s possessed of a sort of face-value frankness which almost guarantees that, whether you like what he’s saying or not, he’s being genuine. Thus, I find his suggestions, even the impractical ones, to be an encouraging sign. He also gets on famously with Sweetie Belle, which bodes rather well. My sister is possessed of sound judgment when it comes to the character of ponies. If she thinks he’s a good pony beneath the rough exterior, then I see no reason to disbelieve her. Shoddy’s desire to be a good worker is apparent to anypony who interacts with him for more than two minutes. He’s desperate to make himself useful and listens intently to instructions. His demeanor makes it plain that he wants to get the job right, and he is very careful and deliberate about his actions… when he’s not distracted. Which brings us to the dreaded ‘on the other hoof’ portion of this description, because ‘when he’s not distracted’ is a rather significant caveat. Shoddy’s attention issues, so apparent from the start, persist throughout the week. It doesn’t take much to get him going on some anecdote or another. Now, in fairness, the anecdotes are not all gritty war stories or crass observations as I had originally feared. But there are still a lot of them, and even his most innocent ones get him off topic and waste both his time and mine. Now, I’ve certainly been guilty of being ‘that one pony’ who will talk your leg off if I get going, but I take care to not allow my verbosity to impact work, whether mine or another’s. Shoddy, however, is distracting – to me, to Sweetie Belle when she’s around, and, above all, to himself. This problem is exacerbated by his forgetfulness; he may pay close attention when hearing instructions, but he has a tendency to forget basic things when performing his tasks. Thus, even when he is being productive, he’s still underperforming. In his defense, these shortcomings do not appear to be the result of any deliberate laxity on his part. Quite the opposite, in fact. Whenever I point out that he’s let something slip or gotten off topic, he is… rather hard on himself. Too hard. His self-deprecating humor is the sort displayed by many children who are victims of bullying. He calls himself ‘stupid’ before anypony else can, more viciously than anypony else can, because he seems to expect to be called stupid; or perhaps he truly believes that he is. Either way, it’s worrying on both a professional and a personal level (the latter far more than the former). I’ll have to ask Applejack if she knows where this detrimental behavior came from. Speaking of Applejack, she’s been noticeably difficult to pin down the last few days. I had rather anticipated her haunting my every step, fearful that I might ‘put my hoof in it’, so to speak, and I looked forward to her interference with resignation, annoyance, and (if I’m being truly honest) gratitude. I confess I’d come to count on her input, even as I dreaded it. With her failing to put in more than the occasional experience, I’m not sure if I’m more relieved or disappointed. Actually, given the still-mysterious nature of her doctor’s visit, ‘worried’ might be the appropriate emotion. That mare is definitely hiding something – evasive when asked directly, careful to avoid any topic remotely relating to heath, and generally too ‘busy’ to be around for any period of time. And it’s not just me she’s giving the runaround either, it’s— “Yeah, Rarity, I get it,” sighs Rainbow, her wings fidgeting as I use her like a mannequin to mark patterns. With a number of amputees asking for dresses, it’s helpful to have one around I can call on to model for me; makes it easier to get the cut of the fabric right. “AJ’s being cagey and you want the scoop. You’ve been going on about this for three days.” I huff. “Well, I’ll stop going on about it just as soon as I get some answers!” Rainbow chuckles. “Same old Rarity.” “Wh-whatever do you mean by that darling?” I sputter. “Seriously?” she asks, cocking an eyebrow. “Come on, Rarity, you’ve always been kinda nosey about this sort of thing.” Frowning, I tug my measuring tape just a little too tight around her middle, eliciting a grunt of discomfort from my model. “And you’ve always lacked any sort of tact. Is it a crime to be curious about your friends’ lives? To care for their wellbeing?” She rolls her eyes. “Calm down, Rarity. You know that’s not what I meant. It’s just… you know… you can be kinda gossipy.” “Yes, well,” I sigh, “while I recognize that I struggle with that particular vice, you needn’t rub it in my face.” “Hey,” she shoots me a lopsided grin, “you know we still love you. Gossip or not.” I blush a little at the genuine sentiment, but it’s quickly replaced by irritation when she keeps speaking. “All I’m saying is that that you overreact to this kind of thing so often that I’m kinda numb to it.” “I am not overreacting,” I practically snarl through clenched teeth. “Frankly, I’m a little horrified that you don’t seem to care that Applejack is keeping secrets about her health.” Rainbow shrugs. “Mare likes her privacy. You know how she is. But,” her voice turns sober and she looks me in the eye, “one thing you gotta keep in mind is it could be something from the war. If she got banged up over there some way that isn’t showing up ’til now, it could be she doesn’t want anypony to worry.” Which will only make us worry more. Honestly, if Applejack wants to spare our feelings, she should start by not sparing them! Still, the idea that it’s a souvenir from the war striking her now… “It would be typical of her to keep quiet about that,” I admit as I lay out additional layers of pattern and pin them into place. “Though I’m surprised she wouldn’t say anything to you. After all, you two share all sorts of athletic hobbies; an injury would affect those.” That gets a hearty laugh from Rainbow. “Are you kidding? Those hobbies make us rivals! Sure, AJ might open up to me about a lot of things she doesn’t tell the rest of you, but I’m the last pony she’d talk to about something that messed up her body! She can’t stand to show weakness to anypony, least of all me!” “I suppose that makes sense,” I say with a sigh. Though it does make me curious what secrets she keeps with Dash and not the rest of us. Trying not to dwell on it, I continue, “I just wish I knew… something, anything about it!” My marker pen runs dry and I look over to my desk to summon a fresh one with my magic. When I turn back, Rainbow is staring at me with a thoughtful expression on her face. “You’re really worried about her, aren’t you?” “Whatever gave you that impression?” I ask dryly. Rather than retorting with some smart remark, she holds my gaze. “Rarity,” she says with uncharacteristic gentleness, “not everything that takes a friend to the hospital is gonna be some near-death thing.” The abrupt statement makes me go weak-kneed. “I-I- I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Raising an eyebrow, she keeps staring. “Rarity, I read your letters for the whole war, remember? All the ones talking about how often Twi was in the hospital that first year? How you stayed with her? How scared you were each time something went wrong that maybe this time she’d finally…” She trails off, and I’m grateful, because I’ve started trembling and, dear Celestia am I sweating? I don’t know where this emotion is coming from! It’s been years, and I’ve come to grips with it! Twilight is healthy now, or at least healthy enough! Surelyafter all this time— “Hey,” she interrupts my train of thought by stretching out a wing and brushing a tear from my eye, all without disturbing the patterns on her barrel. So very considerate of her. Good heavens, I didn’t even realize I was crying… “Rarity, look at me,” she orders. I meet her gaze obediently. Her crimson eyes say just as much as her words. “Applejack is fine. Twilight is fine. We’re all fine. You’re a good friend for caring, but you can relax. Okay?” With a shuddering sigh I swallow my worry, letting her words wash over me like a cleansing rain. “Okay,” I reply, allowing a shaky smile to come to my lips. “You’re right. Applejack is fine. I’m just getting worried for nothing.” “Yup,” she smiles. “We’ll probably have a good laugh when we hear how piddling it ends up being.” I snort as I get back to work. “I don’t know that I’d go quite that far. If it’s so piddling, why is her family guarding the secret like they’re under oath not to reveal classified information.” “Why don’t you just see if Twi get it out of Big Mac or something? That sort of gumshoe-spy-mystery thing is right up your alley.” “Yes, well,” I jot down some notes about the hemline on the side where her back leg used to be, “I actually did try that. I suggested Twilight use her ‘feminine wiles’ to tease it out of him.” “Oh yeah? How’d that go?” My chuckle is equal parts amused and pained. “Terrible,” I reply. “Watching that mare attempt to flirt the story out of her coltfriend over dinner was like watching a somepony make a dress using a sword for a sewing needle. It resulted in nothing but a good laugh for Big Mac and a migraine for me.” I glance up. “Don’t tell her I said that.” Rainbow struggles to hold still while she’s laughing so hard. “D-don’t worry! Your s-secret’s sa-ha-hafe with me-he!” “The other Apples are just as tight-lipped,” I continue in answer to the question she didn’t ask. “Grannie Smith is playing up her senility to avoid answering the question, which might be a convincing smoke screen if I didn’t know darn well she’s sharper than most ponies a quarter her age!” You don’t fool me, Grannie Smith. I’ve heard you debate Nkea about obscure Equestrian MPs over Appaloosan Hold’em and win both the argument and the game! “Maybe you should just ask Arinze. You know, her husband.” “Get it straight from the zebra’s mouth, as it were?” I reply. “Thought of that. No luck. Arinze just gets a funny look on his face and something cryptic like ‘Springtime is beautiful, yes?’ or ‘Applejack’s mane gives her a sort of glow, does it not?’ as though that’s supposed to answer my question!” Rainbow snickers. “Meanwhile, Nkea acts even more aloof than usual, and I’m convinced he’s exaggerating his accent to avoid conversation.” Rainbow rolls her eyes. “That actually might be more insulting than Grannie playing senile. He speaks plenty good Ponish.” “Indeed. Better than many teenagers.” And you, some days, I don’t add. “Well, what about Applebloom? Maybe you can have Sweetie ask her.” I scoff. “I’m a little offended you think I didn’t try that immediately. Again, no luck. She won’t tell Sweetie Belle or Scootaloo a thing!” Rainbow’s eyebrows shoot up at that. “Okay, I admit, that’s a little weird.” “Indeed,” I sigh as I finish my markings and begin removing the pattern. “But do you know what the strangest thing is?” “No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.” “Pinkie Pie and Fluttershy. Neither of them seem to know what’s going on, but I think they both suspect something specific. When I asked Pinkie about it, she muttered some gibberish about Pinkie Sense, timing, surprise parties, and not ruining things, then scurried off to go buy pickles and honey.” Rainbow smirks. “So, typical Pinkie Pie stuff?” “That’s what I would have assumed, except that when I went to ask Fluttershy about it, she just narrowed her eyes in thought, like she’d figured out the puzzle.” “Did she say anything?” My lips make a sour smile. “‘We’ll just have to wait and see,’” I quote. “Yeah, that figures,” chuckles Dash. “Well, maybe she’s got a point; don’t wanna get worked up over something you can’t control.” “I suppose,” I grumble as I remove the last of the pattern. Now free to move around, Rainbow, unsurprisingly, flaps into a low hover. “Let’s talk about something you can control. How’re things with Shoddy?” Checking to make sure the door is firmly shut, I update her on the situation. Perhaps, in lieu of Applejack, Rainbow will be able to provide a soldier’s perspective. She listens to my description of the last few days, along with a few examples, before giving her opinion. “Sounds pretty normal to me.” “‘Pretty normal?’” I repeat, raising one eyebrow “His inability to hold focus in a simple job hardly seems ‘normal.’” Rainbow shakes her head. “Not that part. I mean the fixation on the war.” I tilt my head. “I don’t suppose you’d care to elaborate.” “Well, it’s like…” she trails off, looking around the room for inspiration, then flaps over to land by my record-book. “It’s like you running a business, right?” She taps the book. “You have different things you have to do each day, some of which hold priority over others. You’re pretty organized – I mean, not Twilight organized, but who is?” I can’t help but chuckle at that. “I’ll bet you wake up in the morning, check your to-do list, figure out what’s most important, and put things in order. You end up with a sort of ‘hierarchy of tasks,’ right?” “Yes, I suppose,” I reply, more than a little surprised by her analysis. And her knowledge of the word ‘hierarchy.’ “That hierarchy determines what’s important, what’s critical, and what can be ignored,” she continues. “I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess you probably had a much heavier hierarchy of tasks during the war, yeah?” Let’s see here, taking care of Twilight, coordinating her appointments with everypony from doctors to diplomats, running my own business, managing Sweet Apple Acres’ finances and hired workers with Grannie Smith, jointly managing the Quill and Sofa… “You could say that, darling.” “And I bet it was quite an adjustment when you no longer had all those responsibilities, right? You felt like you were missing something? Like if you didn’t take care of it right away something would go seriously wrong and it’d be your fault?” Ah. “I think I see what you’re driving at.” “Good,” smiles Rainbow. “Saves me some time. Point is, combat is like that, but a million times worse. Coming back off that adrenalin high is a serious adjustment, and some ponies handle it better than others. You might not remember this, but I was pretty jumpy that first month or so back before things quieted down. Thunderlane was the same way.” She shrugs. “Shoddy’s just stuck doing threat assessment, that’s all.” I nod, understanding. For the record, I actually do remember Rainbow being ‘jumpy’ as she puts it, but I think it was partially cabin fever from being hospitalized with an amputation so close to the end of the war. “Right,” I agree. “That makes sense. One slight problem though.” I tilt my head. “What do I do about it?” “Search me,” she says with a crooked smile. “I’m an aviator, not a shrink.” I give her a sour look, and she adds, “But, based on what I’ve seen with other vets, I think doing what you’re doing is probably the way to go. Soldiers live on routine – if you establish a peacetime job as his new routine, a lot of the problems will probably fix themselves.” It sounds like good advice, and I’ll certainly be taking it, but even as I nod in satisfaction that I’m apparently already doing what I should be doing, I can’t help but marvel at the mare standing before me. “You’ve certainly grown up, Rainbow Dash,” I tease. “When did you get to be so wise?” My question was lighthearted, but Rainbow’s eyes turn to some distant place and her face falls. “Probably when I had to clean Fleetfoot’s blood off a rookie when she took a bullet for him.” My blood runs cold. “I- I’m so sorry, Rainbow Dash, I didn’t mean to—” She waves me off, blushing. “Nah, that wasn’t your fault. I shouldn’t have dropped that on you.” Chuckling humorlessly, she adds, “See? Shoddy’s not the only one who lets slip sometimes.” “You’re confiding in a friend, Rainbow,” I retort. “That’s hardly the same thing as blurting that out to a random civilian.” Rainbow opens her mouth as though to say something, then glances away. “Yeah. I guess.” What was she going to… oh my… does she feel that she can’t tell me? Is she embarrassed or afraid to… or is it because… because I wouldn’t understand… because I’m just a civilian who can never understand what one of her oldest friends— “What’s Shoddy up to, anyway?” she asks, unaware of the effect her words had on me. I swallow my emotion and turn away so she doesn’t see the dampness in my eyes. “Last I saw, he was reading a comic book in the kitchen. Applejack told me he’s sort of a comic junkie, and Spike was kind enough to donate his duplicate copies to the cause. I’m hoping the two of them will bond over the shared interest.” “Can’t hurt to have a few friends, right?” replies Rainbow. Then, chuckling, “Maybe Spike can teach him to cook.” I can’t help but chortle at that. “Having tasted Shoddy’s attempt at cooking, I can’t say I’m optimistic. But then, Sweetie Belle managed to learn the art, so I suppose anything is possible.” My eyes now properly clear, I turn to face her once more. “I just wish he didn’t try so stubbornly to be helpful. True, his generosity is admirable, but when his ‘help’ isn’t helpful, I find myself preferring that he just—" The doorbell jingles downstairs. There’s a thunder of hooves and a shout of “I’ll get it!” from Shoddy. I freeze, my eyes widening in horror. Downstairs, the door swings open, and I hear the muted sound of voices below. Rainbow gives me a quizzical look. “Um, Rarity? He’s answering the door for you.” I stare blankly at the wall. Internally, I scream. Externally, I calmly reply, “Yes, I know, darling.” More muted talking. My internal screaming jumps up an octave. “And… you’re okay with a stallion not known for tact talking to clients?” The internal screaming becomes more of a ‘shriek.’ “No, not in the slightest.” “Uh huh,” says Rainbow. “And you aren’t doing anything about it because…” More talking, followed by the sound of hoofsteps ascending the stairs. My internal shrieking reaches fever pitch. “Well you see, darling, it seems my brain has fused into an inert blob of useless flesh from the horror of it all.” “Ah,” she replies. “Fair enough.” A cavalcade of fears charge through my psyche in the eon it takes for fifteen seconds to pass before there’s a knock at the door. “Miss Rarity?” asks Shoddy. Rainbow glances at me. “Want me to get a thundercloud and jumpstart you?” Finally shaking off my stupor, I trot to the door. “Thank you, darling. Perhaps later.” After I find out he’s scared off a wealthy client or some such catastrophe. I open the door and wince at the sight of the stallion. It’s not that he’s unkempt or anything (actually, he keeps himself quite clean and shaven). No, it’s the fact that the door to a couturier’s shop was answered by a stallion wearing a loose collection of green rags laughingly called a ‘jacket.’ I force a sweet smile and ask, “What is it, Iron Shod?” I was hoping that maybe he’d pick up on the fact that using his full name signaled that I was displeased about something. Judging by the guileless look on his face, it went right over his head. “There’s a couple zebs at the door askin’ for ya,” he replies. ‘Zebs’? Seriously? Sighing, I shut my eyes. “Shoddy, you can’t just call zebras ‘zebs.’ It’s not polite.” He seems genuinely mystified by this. “But we called ‘em that all the time during the war. An’ they called us feather-brains, cone-heads, grounders, pones—" “Yes, well,” I cut him off, my grin tight, “what creatures call each other within a close circle of trusted intimates is different than what you call a complete stranger, particularly in a professional setting. You wouldn’t use the same familiar tone you take with Applejack to address a mare you don’t know, would you?” The blank look I get in response tells me everything I need to know. I cover my eyes with one hoof. “We’ll talk about it later. What do they want?” “You as a matter of fact. Well,” he amends, “all three of us, actually.” All three of us? But why— “Why all three of us?” I say aloud, abandoning speculation for speed. He rubs the back of his head sheepishly. “I forgot ta mention, but these boys are kitted out like King’s Own. As in the Zebra King’s Own.” My eyes widen as the implication sinks in. There’s only one zebra of royal blood in Ponyville, which means— Shoddy shrugs. “Seems they want us out at Sweet Apple Acres.” Author's Note “It makes a lot of sense when you stop to think about it. First off, the buzzards hated us. I mean, sure, they hated all ponies, but they really hated pegasi. We ‘violated their sacred airspace’ or some crap. Worse yet, they also saw the other races as beneath contempt (no wings, you know), meaning we were the only ones ‘worth their time.’ So they hated us and thought we were the biggest threat. With that kind of double-think, it’s no wonder we caught it coming and going. As specialized fliers, Air Corps ponies were at the top of their Must Screw List, which meant we got targeted in a way that other units just weren’t. Percentage-wise, we had higher casualties than any other branch of the Service for half the war. Second, attrition. Like pegasi, griffons have always split their soldiers between combat squadrons and infantry. Unlike us, though, their entire military is made up of fliers. So, when they took squadron casualties, they could backfill pretty easily with top fliers from their infantry, at least until we had them on the ropes. Us, though? When we took casualties, Squadron Command had to pull pegasi from the limited number of them in ground units or train fresh replacements from, again, a more limited civilian population. With the casualties we were taking, there just weren’t enough qualified fliers to go around. Most days we were fighting short-hooved with green replacements. What do you think that does to a pony’s chances of survival? I hated it, we all did, but, heaven help us, we had no better options. Third, and this is the one most ponies don’t think about, is demographics. The Air Corps’ physical benchmarks are more based on speed and agility than brute strength, so it’s always attracted proportionally more mares than any other branch of the Service. Meaning a disproportionate number of soldier mares of childbearing age wound up in the branch with the highest casualty rates. I’ll let you do the math. Bottom line, a full generation of young pegasi got put through the grinder, and there just weren’t enough of us who came out in one piece to make up the difference in numbers this decade.” —Brigadier General Spitfire, Equestrian Air Corps, in an interview with Canterlot Chronicle regarding the deficit in pegasus births following the Great War
AssumptionsI knew it, I knew it, I bucking well knew it! Just when everything seems to be going fine, some catastrophe comes along and bucks your life right in the teeth! ‘Oh, Rarity, Applejack is just peachy, no need to worry, Rarity. Don’t get so worked up, Rarity. Don’t freak out, Rarity.’ Well, buck you all, because she’s not fine, I’m not overreacting, and ponies should listen to me when I tell them something’s wrong! Why don’t these blasted guards move any faster? Honestly, I know I’m not the athletic type, but I could have run to the Acreage and back by now! At the pace we’re moving, I feel like Rainbow Dash could fly to Canterlot to summon Celestia and still get there before Shoddy and I! As it is, she’s only got her husband to collect, so she’s surely there by now! Oh, yes. Rainbow left us to fetch Thunderlane. Did I mention that? She gets to fly off at full speed while Shoddyand I mosey through the town like we’re on the way to a flipping cotillion. Sorry, I’m just… I’m having some feelings about this. Between Applejack’s mysterious hospital visit, her family’s evasive behavior, and now this – King’s Own Guards from Zebrica showing up to ‘invite’ Applejack’s intimates to the Acreage? I’m so worried that I haven’t even taken the time to examine the King’s Own uniforms, with their crimson color, ornate gold brocade, and intricate multi-colored patterns woven in swirling designs whose meaning I can only guess at but which complement the zebras’ black-and-white in a way that most ponies couldn’t manage— Okay, so maybe I examined them a little… but that in no way diminishes my fears for Applejack! “Miss Rarity, are you okay?” asks Shoddy as we trot down the road to the Acres. “Am I ok—” With a self-control born of many years as an older sister, I choke down my rather, ahem, snippy reply. “No, Shoddy. I am not okay. I am worried for Applejack.” “Why?” I actually trip there, almost face-planting into the dirt before I recover. “Why?” I repeat, incredulous at the blithe expression on his face. “Shoddy, can you honestly tell me that all this,” I gesture to the silent guards, “doesn’t have you the slightest bit worried for her health?” “Yup,” he says bluntly. “And what’s more, I’ll tell ya why.” That’s a wise choice on his part. If he hadn’t told me, I might have throttled him. “I saw Arinze just the other day, and he looked as happy as I’ve ever seen him.” Shoddy winks. “If something was wrong with Applejack, His Royal Stripy-ness would be crawlin’ the walls.” It’s a fair point to consider, but before I can, the younger of the two zebra guards snaps into place in front of Shoddy, barring the stallion’s path and glaring at him. “You will refrain from calling Prince Arinze ‘His Royal Stripy-ness!’” Shoddy blinks, surprised by the guard’s ire, then smiles, unconcerned. “No disrespect, buddy. I shared a trench with the stallion and we used to call him that to his face. He thought it was funny. Just ask him.” “It is not proper to address a prince that way!” “Look, pal, I got nothing but respect for the guy. Not just anypony gets ta marry the Gunny.” The guard looks like he’s about to give Shoddy an earful, but the older zebra addresses him in his own tongue. I don’t speak a word of Zwahili, but I know a rebuke when I hear one. The younger guard gives Shoddy one final glare before backing off. The argument averted (or at least ended), we resume walking. The older guard smiles at Shoddy and I, saying, “Please forgive my young compatriot’s enthusiasm. He did not have the privilege of serving the Prince in our homeland, and he is unused to how familiar he can be with commoners. To those who have not served the young lord before, his behavior may seem… odd.” “Eh,” shrugs Shoddy. “No worries. If I were in your shoes, I would think it odd that Arinze was buddy-buddy with a guy like me too.” “He is a magnanimous stallion, our prince,” says the guard proudly. “I am glad he has chosen to make his home with as fine a mare as Lady Applejack.” Shoddy chuckles. “You’d best get used ta callin’ her plain ‘Applejack.’ I don’t think Gunny’d take well to bein’ called ‘Her Ladyship.’” With a glance at his compatriot, the guard replies. “I imagine there will be an adjustment period for us all. Ah, but where are our manners.” Without slowing his pace, he dips his head to myself and Shoddy in a slight bow. “We know your names, but have not given ours. I am Kafil. This is Mwamba. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” I mentally kick myself. Worried out of my mind or not, there’s no excuse for being discourteous. “The pleasure is ours, good sirs,” I say, making a little bow of my own. More pointedly I add, “I only wish I understood the circumstances behind our meeting.” Kafil gives an enigmatic look that’s so like the one favored by Zecora, Arinze, and Nkea that I wonder if perhaps it’s just a Zebrican trait. “All will be revealed in due time, I assure you.” Typical. Shoddy picks that moment to strike up a conversation with Kafil about his sidearm, leading to a spirited discussion about the merits of Equestrian and Zebrican service revolvers. After a while, Mwamba is grudgingly drawn into the conversation. Ordinarily, I’d be celebrating that Shoddy seems to be making connections without prompting or direction, but as much as I’d like to pay attention, I can’t. My mind is too busy reviewing all that I know about Applejack. Firstly, it’s certainly nothing life-threatening. Shoddy is correct in noting that Arinze wouldn’t be so cheerful if it was. Secondly, the Apples are equally content, suggesting that they think that whatever is happening is good for Applejack. Thirdly, Applejack herself seems happy (which, upon reflection, is probably genuine rather than simply her putting on a brave face), yet she seems nervous and evasive as well, indicating that perhaps she fears telling the rest of us what is happening. Fourthly, zebras from the King’s Own are here, which is rather… abrupt. From what Applejack has told me, Arinze is far enough down the line of succession that he is permitted to reduce his personal guard to only three soldiers. Nkea is the first and, through some rather complicated backroom legal maneuverings, Applejack and Big MacIntosh are (on paper) retired reservists of the Zebrican military personally asked by King Ammon to assume the duties of honorary members of the King’s Own attached to the personal retinue of Arinze while holding no further duties to the Zebrican Crown— Honestly, the explanation went over my head. I’m fairly certain Twilight is the only one of us to understand. The point is, it’s odd that these guards are here. Something has to have changed. As I wrack my brain to figure out what it might be, my attention is drawn back to the conversation. “… thought about visiting Zebrica after the war,” Shoddy is saying. “Was too broke to afford it, though. Not because o’ the tickets, ya see, but the doctor’s visits.” Suddenly, he has my full attention. “I had no idea customs would be so picky,” he’s lamenting. “Who knew you’d have to get so much medical clearance just to change countries? They wanted to stick me so full o’ needles I woulda looked like a pincushion.” Medical clearance to change countries… that would explain… Kafil shrugs. “One cannot be too careful when travelling.” Travelling… or moving! Shoddy snorts. “Shoot, I was in Buzzard-land for years an’ the only shots I got were lead, know what I mean?” I don’t hear the rest of what he says, because I’m too busy telling myself that I have to be wrong. Arinze loves it at Sweet Apple Acres. Applejack said so the other day. But then, she also said that he loves his homeland, and it could be that he’s been called back. No, Rarity, they could just be travelling. That’s probably all there is to it. But if so, why are all the Apples so seemingly happy about it? Happy like something has changed. That’s ridiculous! They’d be devastated if she left! Then again… Big Mac may well be proposing to Twilight soon, and there’d be more than one Royal in the family. Perhaps he’d appreciate having a friend amongst the Zebrican Court… and he is fiercely proud of his sister. He might consider it her due. Grannie Smith certainly would, and for all I know she’d accompany them. As for Applebloom, well, she’s always had a bad case of hero worship where her sister is concerned, and she’s leaving for OCS soon, so she’ll be bidding farewell anyway. At least this way Applebloom sees her sister becoming the Great Lady she always thought she was. B-but what of the rest of us? What of her friends? She wouldn’t just… … she’s been so evasive, so afraid to talk to us… … she left for all those years, she wouldn’t just… she couldn’t just leave us to… ‘Make his home with as fine a mare as Lady Applejack.’ That was what Kafil said. Which means that she, she— I break into a gallop. This can’t happen! Not again! Behind me, Shoddy cries in alarm. “Miss Rarity, where are you going?” “Rarity, where are you going?” I turn to see Applejack standing there, resplendent in her Equestrian Marine Corps uniform. Behind her the sending off party rages on, alight with pride, passion, and patriotism – three things that fill me with self-loathing because I can’t feel them tonight. “I’m just… stepping away for some quiet, Applejack,” I reply. “No need to fuss.” “Yer steppin’ out on a sendoff party fer all the Ponyville ponies who’re enlisting,” says Applejack, unconvinced. “Ah think maybe a little fussin’ is called for.” “Tch!” I snort. “Yes, heaven forbid I take a little breather from a party for all my friends who are going off to war because it might be a tad overwhelming! Might feel a little sick after Twilight was sh—” I shudder, unable to finish the word. “I just need some quiet. Is that so wrong?” Applejack cocks an eyebrow. “So yer leaving?” “You’re the one who’s leaving, Applejack!” I snap before I can stop myself. “You and the other girls, running off to fight your cacked-up war, leaving me here with—” Tears choke off the rest of my rant and I look away, ashamed. Behind me, Applejack sighs. She plods over and throws a hoof over my withers, pulling me into a hug that’s both gruff and gentle. “It ain’t like we wanna leave, sugarcube,” she says. “Just thinkin’ about leavin’ you an’ Spike an’ Applebloom an’ Grannie…” her voice breaks a little, “…and Twilight… well… Ah don’t rightly know how Ah’m gonna manage.” I sit down so I can wipe at my tears. “I’m sorry, darling, I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I just… I just wish you didn’t have to go.” Applejack sits next to me and strokes my back. “Me too, sugarcube. Me too.” We sit wordlessly for a moment, listening to the wake-like revelry behind us. “Celestia!” I exclaim, half-shout, half-sob. “I feel like such a coward.” “Hey!” chides Applejack prodding me gently. “None o’ that! We asked you ta stay, remember? Ain’t nopony else can take care o’ our families and Twilight by her lonesome! Spike may be mature for his age, but he’s still a kid. Twilight needs you here more than we need another trigger-puller.” ‘Trigger-puller,’ eh? Already she speaks a different tongue. “Besides,” she continues, her tone somber, “If anypony’s the coward here, it’s me.” “What?! Applejack, you’re joining the Marines, not a sewing circle! I fail to see how you could possibly be a coward!” She gives me a wan smile. “Gettin’ shot at don’t scare me none, Rarity. Danger never has. But being here with Twilight? Seeing her like this? Ah’ll be honest with you, Rares,” tears well in her eyes, “that terrifies me.” I don’t know what to say to that. The idea of Applejack being scared of anything is just, well, ridiculous. Maddening even. But then, the world has gone mad, by all accounts. Perhaps this is the new normal. What else will change before this blasted war is over? “Applejack,” I swallow the bile rising in my throat, “you will come back, won’t you? You and the girls? I… I can’t imagine Ponyville without you.” She gives me one of her patented Big Sister Applejack smiles. “Course Ah will, sugarcube. We’ll all come back ta Ponyville, safe and sound. And don’t you worry – when we get here, Ah don’t plan on leavin’ ever again.” She can’t be leaving! She promised! “Miss Rarity, slow down!” shouts Shoddy, galloping up next to me, the zebras flanking us. In spite of the exertion, I somehow manage to snarl, “You’re all fit young military stallions! Keep up!” Shoddy looks helplessly at the guards. Kafil chuckles, “The female of the species, my friend.” “Darn right!” I pant. The last couple miles to Sweet Apple Acres pass in a blur. I barely register my straining muscles, or the lather I’ve worked up, or the bemused looks of the pair of King’s Own lingering at the entrance. All I can think about is finding Applejack and hearing her tell me that it isn’t true – that I won’t have to say goodbye again. Following the sound of voices, I rush to the living room. Bursting through the doorway, I see Applejack and Arinze sharing their favorite loveseat. Arrayed around them are the Apple family, along with Nkea, Spike, Bud, Thunderlane, and the girls. Not surprisingly, Shoddy and I are the last to arrive. Those present were conversing when I entered, but they stop abruptly upon seeing me. Applejack gives a surprised laugh. “Rarity, are you okay, girl? You look like you sprinted the whole way here.” My attempt to reply is impeded by the fact that I am panting too hard to speak. In my defense, it’s been a few years since we adventured regularly. Shoddy makes himself ‘helpful’ by remarking, “Yeah, she just sorta took off and sprinted the whole last leg o’ the journey. Ain’t sure what got into her. Is that a lady problem thing?” If I weren’t so out of breath, I would slap the crap out of him for that. Fortunately for him, I’m too busy sucking down air to kill him, and most of the other ponies in the room either react with laughter or exclamations of concern for his health when I recover. Blinking, he tilts his head and asks, “What’d I say?” While a bewildered Shoddy receives a brief lesson in etiquette from the husbands in the room, Fluttershy quietly passes me a glass of water. “Thank you, darling,” I manage before guzzling the refreshingly cool contents. As I rehydrate, I keep watching Applejack over the top of the glass. My embarrassing entrance and Shoddy’s subsequent blunder served to distract me briefly, but now that I’ve had a moment to catch my breath and quench my thirst, my thirst for answers has returned. Apparently sensing my scrutiny, Applejack addresses me with a half-smile. “Rares, why’d ya sprint all this way?” Her brow furrows in concern. “And why d’ya look so worried?” I choke on the water, half-gagging myself to avoid spraying it everywhere. Ignoring the pain, I croak, “Why do I look so worried?” Massaging my throat with a hoof, I indicate the zebras with a tilt of my head. “These stallions show up out of nowhere, your family says nothing about what’s going on, you refuse to say a thing about your doctor’s visit… Applejack, why wouldn’t I be worried?!” The farm mare recoils slightly, a guilty look on her face. There – she knows what she has to say will hurt! Oh, Celestia, how I hate being right! The others are staring – her family with the same guilty look as Applejack; our friends with horror. They’ll be more horrified yet when they hear the inevitable news! “Just get it over with, Applejack!” I cry. “You can’t spare us the news, so out with it! However much it hurts!” Total silence greets me as everypony and dragon stares at me open-mouthed. Applejack and Arinze in particular seem dumbfounded. They share a long look, and I bite my lip, dreading what their response will be when they eventually reply. … Roaring gales of laughter were not what I expected. Now it’s my turn to be dumbfounded as the couple practically fall off their loveseat. Perhaps the others are reacting in some way as well, but I’m too caught up watching the pair to notice. Eventually, Applejack regains enough control of herself to speak. “Rarity, Ah don’t know where you got the idea that we had bad news,” she chortles through tears of mirth, “and Ah’m mighty sorry if’n we got ya worked up fer nothin’, but there ain’t no great catastrophe to tell ya’ll about.” I taste copper in the back of my throat. “There… isn’t?” “No, silly filly,” the farmer laughs. More soberly she adds, “In fact,” Arinze loops a foreleg over her shoulders and the two share a soulful look, “it’s somethin’ real beautiful we’ve got to share.” Some distant part of me is aware of Pinkie making a giddy ‘eeee!’ sound like she’s about to burst, and that Applebloom is practically prancing in place, but my mind is so adrift that whatever else is happening in the room barely registers. “Oh?” I breathe. “Yup,” smiles Applejack, her smile the warmest I’ve ever seen it. She and Arinze share a kiss, then turn to us and chorus, “We’re pregnant.” To say that Applejack and Arinze’s announcement was greeted with much excitement would be something of an understatement. Between Pinkie Pie, Fluttershy, myself, Pinkie Pie, Applebloom, Twilight, and Pinkie Pie, I’m frankly surprised we didn’t shatter any windows with our collective ‘squee.’ Big Mac is still rubbing his ears when he thinks no one else is watching. Poor boy always had sharp ears. On the upside, we confirmed that old Winona isn’t entirely deaf, as she began yelping when we hit top pitch. Not to be outdone, Shoddy and Thunderlane gave war whoops while Bud rattled off something that sounded like it was part of the Marine’s Creed. The Apples already knew, of course. Grannie Smith looked like the cat that ate the canary, Applebloom was bouncing around like a puppy, and Big Mac… well… the big softie was bawling his eyes out. Nkea who, like the Apples, had already known, was grinning ear-to-ear – the first such smile I’ve ever seen on his face. It’s frankly a miracle Applejack and Arinze didn’t get smothered beneath all the hugs. They themselves started crying pretty quick after the happy news was out. Then Pinkie Pie started in, Big Mac was already well underway, and pretty soon there wasn’t a dry eye in the room. Not even Nkea’s. I’d try to repeat all the beautiful things that were said – all the many ways we told them how proud we are, how thrilled we are, what a marvelous blessing this is – but, in truth, I couldn’t do it justice. Mere words, even direct quotes, do not convey the depth of what was said. Just as what we said could never capture the beauty of the miracle in our midst. Applejack and Arinze are parents. How magnificent that is! No artistry in the world can compare to what love creates! Once the tears have been (mostly) dried and the excitement has (relatively) quieted, we get a bit of an explanation about the extra guards. “It’s Zebrican law,” admits Applejack sourly, though Arinze just looks amused. “Before Ah was pregnant, some loopholes let me call myself one o’ Arinze’s bodyguards. Once Ah became pregnant, though, Ah became part o’ the Royal Bloodline, meanin’ that not only does he get another guard, but Ah need three for me, and the baby needs another three.” Arinze nuzzles her. “It is well that we were already planning on additional construction around the farm. We shall need more room.” She rests her head against his barrel. “And room ta grow.” “That is also why we could not tell any of you sooner,” explains Arinze. “Until enough members of the King’s Own were present, we were not permitted to tell any outside the immediate family. I apologize for any distress this may have caused.” “May have caused?” laughs Rainbow, pointing at me. “Uh, dude? I think you mean did cause.” I flush red. “Yeah,” chimes in Applebloom. “What was all that about anyway?” Clearing my throat nervously, I attempt to explain. “In my defense, darlings, I had a lot of circumstantial evidence…” One rather embarrassing explanation later, I am greeted with a mixture of sympathy and amusement. To the credit of the latter, they at least try to smother their laughter. Applejack and Arinze chuckled here and there, but for the most part they just looked sorry for me. Applejack in particular. “Oh, Rarity,” she says gently, “we’d never make a big decision like that without telling ya’ll about it long before deciding anything. Ah’m mighty sorry you were so worried.” I wave her off, hoping I look convincing. “It’s perfectly all right, Applejack. Not your fault I worked myself into a tizzy over nothing.” Twilight gives a weak laugh and scratches the back of her neck. “Yeah, that might be my fault.” In response to my quizzical look, she explains, “You lived with me for six years, Rarity. I think you might have picked up some bad habits from me.” The suggestion sends a chill down my spine because, while she’s right, she’s also wrong. Unable to say as much aloud, I force an amused smile. Spike flies up to perch on the back of Twilight’s chair, his deepening voice amused as he quips, “At least she hasn’t started singing freakout arias yet.” “Hah!” guffaws Pinkie Pie. “Imagine Twilight and Rarity both Twilighting at the same time! They’d break into a duet that’d put Bridleway to shame!” Everypony laughs at that; even I manage a weak chuckle. Twilight laughs with them until the statement registers. “Hahaha, that’s… wait, ‘Twilighting?’ You made me a verb?” “Of course, silly filly,” says Pinkie, poinking Twilight on the nose. “Did the rest of you know about this?” Ponies suddenly find fascinating parts of the rustic decor to contemplate. “How long have you all been doing this?!” While the others attempt to explain the origin of ‘Twilighting’ and its companion term ‘Twilinanas’ to the mare herself, I excuse myself to the kitchen, ostensibly to get a drink. In truth, I just need a moment to compose myself. I flip on the tap and watch the water flow. Twilight is right; I did come to my present capacity for panic thanks to her, but not in the way she thinks. I can trace the exact moment it started. I can still see her blood spray when I close my eyes. “You alright, Miss Rarity?” I nearly jump out of my skin. “Shoddy!” I shout, wheeling to see him standing in the doorway. “I didn’t hear you come in!” The retired Marine stares intently. “Miss Rarity, if you don’t mind my saying, I didn’t expect you ta be the sort ta lose yer cool.” Oh wonderful. Now the stallion who’s come to me for stability is realizing that I have issues of my own, though nothing so dramatic as to be unmanageable. “It’s nothing, darling,” I lie. Realizing I’ve left the water running, I shut it off with a twist of my magic. “I just have a tendency to assume the worst these days.” Shoddy nods, sympathetic. “I can understand that. ‘cept I’ve always been that way. Likely ’cause that’s usually been my lot in life, I s’pose. But you shouldn’t feel that way, Miss Rarity.” He gives a rueful smile. “Unlike an ol’ plodder like me, you’ve actually got something going for ya. Don’t go throwin’ away all the good things ya got just because some things ’ave gone wrong for ya.” His statement leaves me wordless. It would seem there are hidden depths to the stallion; it’s a pity he doesn’t seem to see his own qualities. “You’ve got something of the sage in you, Shoddy,” I remark. “You’re right, of course.” Glancing out the window, I take in the Acreage beyond; or, more accurately, I stare past it, off in the direction of the way things used to be. “There was a time I was an optimist, you know. I suppose, somewhere along the line, that started to slip away.” I turn back to him with a smile. “I guess I’ll just have to start counting my blessings more often.” Reaching up to prod him once in the chest, I add, “As for you thinking you’ve got nothing going for you, I think you’ll find there’s more to you than you think. We’ll just have to bring it to the foreground.” At first, he doesn’t seem sold on the idea, and he glances away like he always does whenever somepony says something complimentary of him. This time, though, inspiration seems to brighten his eyes, and he turns back to me, saying, “Well, if’n you can help me, maybe it’ll help you too.” I can’t help but smile. “Indeed.” In fact, I’d say we’ve already started. “We should probably get back before they miss us,” he suggests, tilting his head to the doorway. “Quite right. Lead on, my good sir.” We re-enter to see the explanation of ‘Twilinanas’ and ‘Twilighting’ winding down. Fluttershy is comfortingly rubbing Twilight’s back while the alicorn buries her face in Big Mac’s fur to hide her embarrassment. I must say, her blush matches his coat rather nicely. Then Pinkie, changing conversational gears without prelude, zips over to Arinze and presses a box containing jars of pickles and honey into his hooves, charging him, in no uncertain terms, to open them for Applejack in precisely three months, twenty-one days, and forty-seven minutes. At first the zebra laughs, but the laughter swiftly dies under Pinkie’s piercing gaze, and he humbly promises to follow her directions. Bud remarks that this is a wise course of action. Applejack watches with a chuckle, then turns to me with a kindly gaze and winks. I smile as her message comes through loud and clear: Don’t worry. Everything’s gonna be okay. Author's Note Just a friendly reminder that not everything in this story is dark. Just complicated. Like life. Also, I didn't have as much time to edit as I usually do, so please point out any mistakes. *** “King Ammon’s decision to enter the war came as a complete shock to most every creature when it happened. After all, Zebrica had been a famously reclusive nation, largely keeping their own counsel and staying removed from the affairs of the world, to the point that zebras were largely unknown in the less travelled parts of Equestria. However, the politically and historically savvy would not have missed the long, quiet friendship between Princess Celestia and the Kings of Zebrica. The two realms had a long-standing practice of mutual defense in times of war and aid in times of peace, most often accomplished through subtle means and direct action on the part of the ruling bodies. Royal Expeditionary Force soldiers operating directly on Celestia’s orders to intervene in Kudanda, Zebrican Mwindaji troopers rescuing Equestrian nationals captured by extremists, REF and Zebrican soldiers cooperating on joint operations to combat sentient trafficking, these are but a few examples. The history of friendship between Equestria and Zebrica is as old as it is subtle. This practice of discretion was a deliberate choice on the part of both countries – a lack of publicity meant a lack of red tape. The attempted assassination of Princess Twilight Sparkle and the resulting war put an end to any hope for subtlety. Recognizing the threat that the Unified Griffon Dominion would pose to all free nations and angered by the attack on one of his oldest allies, King Ammon broke with centuries of tradition and boldly brought Zebrica to the aid of the Allies, with some of his own sons leading the charge. The influx of Zebrican troops under Prince Arinze in support of the Equestrian 4th Marine Brigade at the Battle of Keselyű led to the success of the Allied September Offensive, which emphatically claimed strategic initiative for the Allies on the Southern Front.” —Lieutenant General Poneshing, reflecting on the partnership between ponies and zebras in the Great War.
The VisitorBuoyed up by Applejack and Arinze’s happy news and by Shoddy’s and my little kitchen chat at the Acreage, I threw myself into preparing Shoddy to face customers for the first time. Already this project is taking longer than I might have hoped, but then, worthwhile things often do. When I finally opened the doors of the Quill and Sofa the Monday following our visit to the Acreage, I was tentatively confident of his ability to not completely shoot his mouth off or ramble on about the war. The day was… tentatively successful. “If you don’t mind my saying, ma’am, I think this here couch would serve you even better,” he observes to a stoutly built mare. “And why is that?” she replies. For whatever reason, I feel a chill down my spine. “Well, ma’am,” he says with a genuine intent to be helpful. “It has a much heavier frame.” Ah. That’s the reason for the chill down my spine. The mare’s eyes narrow. “And just why do you think that would be helpful?” she inquires. Blissfully unaware of the danger and guileless of any offense, he opens his mouth to reply. Depending on one’s definition of ‘shoot his mouth off.’ I never quite mastered Twilight’s teleportation, despite having spent many an hour with her attempting to learn it in an attempt to distract her from the pain and depression those first couple years. All the same, I manage to appear beside the mare and Shoddy before he can send the conversation from the current dangerous waters into the approaching hurricane. “Why, to keep it from being knocked about, of course,” I finish for him. “Don’t you just find it aggravating when you have guests over and every time one sits down the couch gets pushed back a few inches? Terrible for the floorboards and it throws off the entire room’s symmetry.” Admittedly, I sometimes had to smooth over his, shall we say, rough patches. “Shoddy,” I begin after the customer had gone, looking him dead in the eye, “You never, ever, ever, comment on a mare’s weight. Ever. For any reason.” He shuffles one hoof. “I was just trying to be helpful.” Celestia, he looks pitiful. I pat him on the shoulder. “I know you were, darling, but it’s a touchy subject for many mares.” At least it provided the opportunity for object lessons. He brightens up with sudden inspiration. “Would it help if I said that I like mares with some meat on their bones?” A lot of opportunity for object lessons. “What? Why the face? I do! Really! Scrawny mares always make me want ta feed ’em a sandwich. They just gotta be hungry all the time. Naw, I think heftier gals are much prettier. They look healthier.” I’m torn between finding his perspective refreshing and finding his gaucheness horrifying. “Shoddy, while I’m sure many a mare would appreciate being told you find her genuinely pretty, it’s not generally appropriate for work conversation. And when you do have such conversations you should, ahem, perhaps consider some slight adjustments to your delivery.” He managed to maintain focus on what he was doing… “Shoddy, darling?” “Mm?” “You’ve been staring out the window for the past five minutes.” “Ah, bu— er, I mean, shucky-darns. I’m sorry, Miss Rarity.” … mostly… “Horseapples, have I really been sweeping this same spot that long?” “I’m afraid so, Shoddy.” “Son of a mule.” “Language, Shoddy.” “Right, um, gun. Son of a gun. Yeah. That.” And he kept a lid on his war talk. “So, anyway, I that’s how I got this scar here and… what was that, Miss Rarity? Oh! Crap— crud, I mean. Sorry, sir, I’ll load yer table out right now.” Except when he didn’t. “… is part of why I think this’s a nice pick on the couch. You know, the print on this thing also sorta reminds me o’ one me an’ my buddy Sure Shot got pinned behind in Budapone. Boy, wasn’t that day one Charlie Foxtrot after another! See, the cook had made us fried beets for breakfast that morning, which was bad enough since, you know, beets, plus Rocky couldn’t cook for jack. Seriously, he’d burn a salad. Literally – he burnt an actual friggin’ salad. And another time he made this puke-colored daffodil and bean casserole that gave us all the muddy muss if know what I mean, so…” Still and all, a day has passed since then and I haven’t gotten any complaints from the customers. He made the work go faster than if I had to shift the furniture myself or hire outside movers, validating my statement to Applejack that he wouldn’t be a burden. And, when one of the King’s Own zebras came in today to buy a couch for the guard quarters they’re building at the Acreage (still strange to think about that), he managed to help the chap all by himself. What’s more, he managed to do it without calling the young fellow a ‘zeb’ or any other such less-than-polite term. Celestia help me, he came close, but he caught himself in time and I don’t think Corporal Adla noticed. Granted, it probably wouldn’t have mattered anyway, since I gather that Arinze and Kafil already had a word with the other zebras; something to the effect that Shoddy doesn’t mean anything by it when he utters what might be a slur in other contexts. The fact that he and Arinze are plainly friends who engage in a fair amount of good-natured ‘slagging’ probably helps. For all that, it’s gratifying to see Shoddy remembering his manners. Maybe I ought to ask Spike if one of the superheroes in those comics he gave Shoddy is particularly genteel and personable. Or if they ever took a classical debonair character like the Crimson Pimpernel and transcribed him into one of those… oh, what were they called again? ‘Picture novels’ or somesuch? ‘Illustrated tales?’ ‘Graphic stories?’ Ah, well, I’ll just ask Spike next time I see him. I fear it must assuredly lose something in the transcription, but even a watered-down version might prove useful. Anything to help Shoddy think through personal interactions. The front bell of the Quill and Sofa jingles. Looking through the back-office window, I spy Applejack. “Darling,” I greet her, rising from my desk and entering the main room. “Your timing is impeccable. I just finished the last of the bookkeeping.” “That’s swell, Rares,” she says with a smile. “Shoddy in the back?” I shake my head as I cross the floor to her. “He’s helping one of your guards cart a couch back to the Acreage.” We exit the store and I lock the door behind us. Nearby, I see Kafil lingering unobtrusively; he gives me a genial wink that the other guards would never break character to deliver. I nod back and continue filling Applejack in. “Honestly, Adla probably didn’t need the help, but Shoddy insisted. I’m surprised you didn’t pass them on the way in.” Applejack snorts unhappily as we start walking. “Maybe Ah would’ve a few years ago, but this town has got so flippin’ big that Ah still get turned around now an’ then. Ah woulda been early otherwise.” I feel oddly comforted that there’s something that she finds jarring and unfamiliar after all these years. It makes me feel less left out when I feel that way constantly. Then I feel guilty because her discomfort shouldn’t be comforting, even to validate my own discomfort with how things have changed. “Certainly not the Ponyville we grew up in,” I remark as we sidestep a pair of colts from JROTC. “No, it ain’t,” she says with a melancholic sigh. Then a smile warms her face as she swishes her tail against her pregnant belly. “Lot o’ the changes are good, though.” Her cheer is infectious. “True enough.” Changing the subject, I ask, “So, where are we dining this evening?” “Well, Ah was thinkin—” Whatever Applejack was thinking is cut off by an imperious challenge from behind us. “You thought you could escape my notice, Applejack?” With inequine speed, Kafil has turned to face the challenger, his face flat, his hoof gripping the revolver in his holster. He hasn’t drawn, because like a good professional he’s still assessing the threat, but I’m frozen in place. I know that mare’s voice. It’s burned into my memory – a tale of pettiness and deceit. Judging from the frozen expression on Applejack’s face, she remembers too. “You thought you could simply return home to family and farm and leave me behind?” Wrenching my head free of my stupor, I turn to see a familiar hat and cloak mantling her – that arrogant antagonist, that spiteful nag. I’d thought her repentant, but her challenge suggests otherwise. My eyes widen in horror, but her eyes are fixed entirely on Applejack. She approaches imperiously, a triumphant smirk twisting her features. “So foolish you were,” continues the mare in her trademark sing-song stage voice as her steps bring her to us, “to think you could escape the Grrrreat and Powerful Trix—” Before she can finish, she is cut off by a mighty grapple. In a trice, Applejack has pinned the interloper in a grip that leaves her immobilized and at the earth pony’s mercy. Even so, I move to intervene, terrified that the baby might be injured if the mare is foolish enough to fight back. Applejack has pinned her in a way that keeps her well clear of the child, but if she uses her magic— —wait… …wait, why are they laughing? “Trixie, you crazy fuse head!” cries Applejack, roaring with mirth as she embraces the unicorn, “You scared the living daylights outta me! Come ’ere, you!” she laughs, maneuvering her into a friendly headlock and administering a fierce noogie. Trixie protests with equal ferocity, though her own laughter diminishes the effect somewhat. “Unhoof Trixie you uncouth jarhead! If this is how you treat your friends, it’s a wonder you became a Bearer of Harmony! I’ll have you clapped in irons for assaulting an officer!” Beg pardon? Friend? Officer? Applejack maintains her noogie offensive. “Sorry, Trix, but Ah’m a princess now. Ah think ‘royalty’ beats ‘colonel’ any day.” Royalty beats whatnow? Trixie snorts. “So, the hillbilly becomes royalty and the Great and Powerful Trixie continues to waste away in the squalor of the army.” She throws a dramatic hoof up as though swooning. “Will the injustices against Trixie never cease?” Then, all humor fading, she says, “Seriously, though, get off. You’ll muss Trixie’s uniform.” Muss her whaaa? “Whoops, sorry,” says Applejack contritely as she releases Trixie. “Still, serves ya right fer always wearin’ yer mess dress under that stupid hat and cape.” The unicorn brushes the dust off her cape. “Trixie must maintain a certain standard, Applejack,” she replies frostily. “Still, I suppose with so many troopers around it would be proper to reveal myself so they may properly salute the Great and Powerful Colonel Lulamoon.” With a flourish, she throws off her cape, revealing an army mess dress uniform bristling with decorations, including the Distinguished Service Cross, the Imperial Bloodstripe, and two Wound Badges. Gabawhuhuuuh? Kafil clears his throat meaningfully. “Can I assume this mare is a friend?” he asks with metered calm, tapping one hoof on the grip of his pistol. Applejack glances over and blushes. “Oops. Sorry, Kaf. Still not used to the whole ‘bodyguard’ business. Sorta forgot ta warn ya.” “Trixie did sneak up on you,” interjects the mare herself. Applejack gestures to the unicorn. “Rarity already knows her, but Ah’ll introduce you. Kafil, this here’s Trixie. One o’ my best friends from the war.” Oh is she now?! “You have bodyguards now?” asks Trixie, her voice at once mocking and jealous. “Well, haven’t we moved up in the world. A princess proper now, and not just a prince’s consort.” She clicks her tongue. “Typical. Who next among you shall rise where Trixie cannot? Uncouth Rainbow Dash? That madmare Pinkie Pie?” “Well, they both married commoners, so Ah doubt it,” chuckles Applejack. “Still, that leaves Fluttershy and Rarity on the table. Rarity always did mean to marry up in the world.” She winks at me as she says this, as though expecting me to weigh in. Sorry, Applejack, I’m still too busy not comprehending what’s happening in front of me. Trixie glances in my direction and nods thoughtfully. “A fair assessment, Trixie supposes. Fluttershy is the darling of the Armed Forces, and, as for Rarity, there is certain to be many a fit young lord who would seek the heart of Princess Twilight Sparkle’s right-hoof mare.” I’d be flattered if I understood what I was seeing. Applejack smirks. “Of course, Dash or Pinkie could always become alicorn princesses.” “Ugh! Don’t even joke about that!” says the unicorn sourly. “Though, if it does happen, Trixie’s money is on Pinkie Pie. It would be in keeping with her flagrant defiance of the laws of reality.” True enough, Trixie, and I’d love to say as much, but all I can think is what the buck is going on?! “Trixie?!” exclaims a raspy voice from overhead. Finally, somepony who sounds as surprised as I feel! Please, Rainbow Dash, come and save me from the madness that has engulfed my life! My cyan savior flaps down and stares open-mouthed at Trixie. Yes! That’s it, Rainbow! Demand an explanation on my behalf! You know you want to! The horned menace to my sanity smiles and waves. “Trixie greets you, Rainbow Dash? Have you heard Trixie’s joke about the three-legged squirrel?” I fully expect Rainbow Dash to demolish Trixie for that slight about her amputation. Instead, she demolishes my fragile grip on reality by bursting out laughing. “Same ol’ Trixie! Tongue’s still sharper than your wit, I see.” Trixie smirks. “An adequate retort, Rainbow. Did Twilight help you come up with it?” Rainbow’s laughter intensifies as she lands and grips Trixie in a comradely hug. “You jerk! Come here!” “Watch Trixie’s uniform, please!” Pulling out of the embrace, Rainbow’s face is lit with inspiration. “I gotta go tell the others you’re here! They’ll be stoked!” “You’ll find my husband at the Acres,” says Applejack, looping a hoof over Trixie’s withers. “Shoddy too. Gad, it’s been so long since we all seen each other! We oughta celebrate!” “Trixie agrees,” agrees Trixie. “She also proposes a grrrreat and powerful feast, perhaps…” her eyes light up with pleading eagerness, like a filly begging for sweets, “at the castle?” “Pff!” scoffs Rainbow. “What, the Great and Powerful Trixie couldn’t get an invite?” “It must have been lost in the mail,” sniffs Trixie. “You just want to sample the royal kitchens,” teases Rainbow. “Don’t take this from Trixie! Unlike you, she’s still on barracks food!” Applejack chuckles. “Ah think we can swing that. Heh! This’ll be an interesting conversation for more than one reason, but,” there’s a twinkle in her eyes, “Ah think it’ll be worth it.” Trixie smiles demurely and starts towards Twilight’s castle with Applejack. “Trixie happily concurs with Princess Applejack’s wisdom.” “Oh, so now Ah’m wise Princess Applejack and not a country bumpkin? That’s some change o’ tune there, Trix.” “Trixie is not above begging to get quality food in a refined setting.” “Ah’m well aware. Ah seem to remember a little incident in Saddlehurst—” “Trixie thought we had agreed never to speak of that again…” Their voices trail off as they round the corner out of sight. Kafil follows, his head shaking with the barest hint of visible annoyance. Rainbow lingers a moment, still smiling at the prospect of seeing her war buddy again. A war buddy named Trixie. Trixie. Trixie. “Criminy, it’s good to see Trixie again,” gushes Rainbow. “I mean, sure, Twilight’s gonna have a conniption fit when she shows up unannounced, especially with guests, but, eh, what can you do?” She turns to me, her face becoming concerned. “You okay, Rarity? You seem a little… um… slack-jawed.” A little slack-jawed. Yes. Just a little. I pour years of schooled etiquette into my features, putting on a refined smile, an air of studied calm, and a careful measure of mild interest, all to show that even such a remarkable turn of events cannot erode my composure. “Well, Rainbow Dash,” I say with regal tranquility, “I must confess that I do have one little question.” “Yeah? What?” I take in a ladylike breath before asking, with utmost equanimity, “WHAT IN SWEET CELESTIA’S BEER-BATTERED SUNDAY TEACAKES IS GOING ON?!” Author's Note "I'm not sure whether to have that mare promoted or shot." —Lieutenant General Poneshing, remarking on then-Captain Trixie Lulamoon after the Second Battle of Trotter's Hill
Baggage of TricksIt would seem that after her brief Reign of Error in Ponyville, Trixie saw fit to join the Army, become a war hero, save my friends’ lives, and generally make a name for herself as fearsome, if eccentric, paragon of Equestrian martial virtue. That’s the gist of what I extract from Rainbow before she decides discretion is the better part of valor and takes her leave of the ground, zipping off through the sky to gather the others. Personally, I believe her hasty exit has more to do with avoiding my wrath than any sense of eagerness to accomplish her task, but it’s hard to say. She is genuinely excited to see her friend Trixie. The war hero. Celestia, that’s going to take some getting used to. I can’t even imagine what it must have been like for Twilight when she first heard… … wait… “Merciful Luna, she’s going to have a stroke!” Ponies spring to get out of my way as I sprint after Applejack and Trixie. The chase makes it clear that it’s high time I start exercising again. I never realized how much I took my adventuring physique for granted back in the glory days. It’s unseemly to be panting like this. It takes me a few twists and turns to find them, but once I get the right street they’re easy to spot. Between Kafil’s garb and coloration, Applejack’s stetson, and Trixie’s blasted wizard hat, the trio is not exactly subtle. “Applejack!” I cry out, trying to ignore the hoarseness in my voice, “Hold on a moment please!” They obligingly wait for me to come trotting up. Applejack raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Sheesh, Rares, you been sprintin’ again? Twi’s castle ain’t goin’ nowhere. You gotta slow down, girl.” “Believe me, Applejack,” I pant, “I’d love to. But I had to catch you before you reached the castle in order to clarify something.” She tilts her head. “Okay. What?” I just about ask, “When exactly were you planning on telling me that Trixie flipping Lulamoon became Captain barking Equestria?” but that would be neither polite nor politic. Instead, I opt for a much more measured, “Trixie, plainly, has rendered noble service unto Equestria and unto you and our friends, yes?” Applejack frowns confused. “Yes…” she replies uncertainly. “I see. And, perchance, were you under the impression that you had informed myself, and Twilight for that matter, of this heroism she has displayed?” Trixie snorts. “Trixie should hope the jarhead told you.” “Of course Ah did!” exclaims Applejack. “Ah wrote to ya right when it happened during the Balcant—” her eyes widen with sudden realization, “—Campaign.” Shock grows into horror, “Which is when they put the stop on the mail, and half the mail got mixed up afterwards, so that means… oooooh no.” “‘Oh no?’” repeats Trixie, paling. “Applejack, do you mean to tell Trixie that Twilight doesn’t know about me? As it, at all?!” Applejack sits heavily and pulls down the sides of her hat. “Sweet apple cider, Ah almost took Trixie right ta Twi’s door without so much of a howdee do.” “Indeed,” I reply with a smirk. “Quite a trick to pull on a mare with only one functioning lung.” I expect Trixie to rail against Applejack for daring to give her lèse-majesté, but, to my surprise, the magician seems to grow even paler. She glances nervously in the direction of the castle and takes a step away from it. “You know, Applejack,” she says with false unconcern, “it occurs to Trixie that it is somewhat less than polite to simply drop in on a mare unannounced.” Another step back. “W-why don’t we convene at your house instead.” She pivots away from the castle and starts to walk away. “Trixie will generously spare the p-princess the responsibility of hosting the magnificence of her Great and Powerful self—” “Now hang on a minute, Trix,” interrupts Applejack. “—out of consideration for her condition of course—" “Trixie…” “—wouldn’t want to impose—” “Trixie,” snaps Applejack. The mare obediently stops, but doesn’t turn. She just stands with her back to the castle and, my word, is she shaking? She is! Trixie Lulamoon, grand Ego of Equestria, war hero, legend, is shaking and stammering at the prospect of seeing crippled, half-invalid Twilight Sparkle. I… I’m not quite sure how to take this. Applejack steps up beside the showmare, dipping her head to look her in the eye. “Trix, what’s gotten into ya?” The magician takes several steadying breaths. Then, barely above a whisper, she replies, “I hadn’t counted on her not knowing.” She just said ‘I.’ Trixie just said ‘I.’ Applejack nods slowly, then loops a leg over Trixie’s withers. “Sorry, sugarcube. Ah… Ah didn’t know. Ah thought she knew, but… Ah’m sorry.” “It’s not your fault, Applejack,” replies Trixie gently. “Just… could… could we maybe not do this today?” Her voice is so soft. So vulnerable. In that moment, something in me shifts. Ever since Trixie blew into town, I’ve been struggling to reconcile what I’ve been seeing with the mare I knew. The last I saw Trixie, she was an egotistical, vain little showmare with a petty streak longer than the Equestrian border and the humility of a diamond-encrusted peacock. She insulted and put down everypony she saw. When that caught up with her, she hunted down a magical artifact of dangerous power for no reason other than to punish Twilight for daring to be better than her. Yes, the Alicorn Amulet was warping her actions, but it was still her. She still chose to put it on. I saw a brief moment of decency in her when she apologized to Twilight after the Amulet, but that was quickly followed by yet more self-aggrandizing. While I firmly approved of Twilight’s magnanimity towards Trixie, the fact remains that the experience of being ousted from her home left a mark on Twilight. She once confided to me that being cast out was a recurring fear of hers. Spike even let slip that it had been what Sombra showed her. Trixie made that fear a reality. Twilight, virtuous mare that she is, forgave Trixie, in spite of the pain. Because it’s the right thing to do. Because that’s who Twilight is. But not me. I lacked Twilight’s charity, and was never a big enough mare to forgive Trixie for that. It was shameful of me. I should have forgiven her years ago and moved on, whether she was truly repentant or not, but I was never willing to look past her ego and see the mare beneath. Even when Applejack and Rainbow Dash told me of her qualities, even with Equestria herself stamping Trixie with marks of heroism on the field of battle, I couldn’t see her. I see her now. “We don’t have to see Twi today,” Applejack is telling her. “We can do it when you’re ready—” “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” I interrupt. Both mares look at me, one in confusion, one in fear. “Rainbow Dash is already rounding up the others to go to the castle, and none of us can possibly hope to intercept her, especially once she finds Pinkie Pie.” Applejack’s brow furrows and Trixie sags. “But not to worry,” I add with a warm smile, walking over to stand in front of them, “because Twilight is going to be delighted to see you.” Trixie is stunned. “Sh-she is?” “Yes,” I reply firmly. “And do you know why?” Trixie shakes her head, and I smile. “Because Twilight is the best of us. She forgave you when she had no earthly reason to, back when you were still a conceited, selfish pony who cared only for herself.” I reach up and prod her in the chest, my hoof brushing against her Distinguished Service Cross. “You are not that mare anymore, and if it’s one thing Twilight loves, it’s a good redemption story. And making new friends, of course.” Trixie stands silent, too stunned to speak, but a hopeful light fills her eyes and a smile tugs at her lips. “Plus,” I chuckle, “from what Rainbow Dash tells me you saved our friends’ lives, so, you know, bonus points.” The showmare-turned-colonel stares, her jaw flapping open and shut as she struggles to find the words. “That’s…” She glances to the side, a suspicious moisture appearing in her eyes. “That’s really… I’m…” Trixie blinks and rubs at her eyes, then meets my gaze openly, her stage smile back. “What Trixie means is, of course the princess will be happy to see the Great and Powerful Colonel Lulamoon!” I can’t help but smile at the irrepressible mare. “Of course she will.” Reaching out a hoof for shaking, I say, “It’s a pleasure to meet the new you, Trixie Lulamoon.” “Likewise,” she replies, her voice thick with emotion. Leaning in to whisper in her ear, I add, “You should still probably let me warn our infirm princess first, just to be safe.” “Agreed,” she chortles. Trixie’s usual aplomb has returned by the time we reach the castle. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that such a lapse of confidence as she displayed earlier would be impossible for her. Since I do know better, I find myself wondering how she will react when she sees Twilight. Ah well, as Pinkie always says, we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it. We reach the perimeter defenses to the Castle of Friendship. Armed guards in the purple livery and ceremonial (but highly functional) armor of the Harmonic Guard check Trixie’s and Kafil’s papers, then wave us through. Another pair check their papers at the door itself, but make no further move to dissuade our passage. I knock on the door and wait. For all the changes that have happened to the castle over the years, Twilight has still tried to keep it as much of a ‘home’ and as little of a ‘palace’ as possible. Thus, there’s no formal doorkeeper laid on to answer. The few castle staff do their best to respect this and, odds are, Spike will answer, just as he always has. Twilight almost certainly won’t unless she happens to be passing by, though it does occur to me that perhaps I should have told Trixie to hide in the bushes just in case. My fears prove to be groundless, as the door is answered neither by Spike nor by Twilight, but by a massive, scarred, bearded stallion with legs as big around as my barrel. “Big MacIntosh,” I greet him. “A pleasure to find you here. Been well?” “Eeyup,” he replies. The huge stallion nods warmly to myself and Applejack, then catches sight of Trixie. At this his stoic face becomes sorely perplexed. I must admit that I smile at that. Finally, somepony else is confused! Trixie, for her part, regards the stallion before her with great interest. Great interest. Great interest in the large, handsome stallion, whom she probably only saw once or twice in passing many years ago and thus probably doesn’t know that he’s— Oh dear. Unaware of the look Trixie is giving her brother, Applejack introduces them. “Big Mac, this is Trixie. Trixie, this is Big Mac.” “It is a pleasure,” says Trixie demurely, taking a slow step forward as she gazes deeply into his eyes. “If Trixie had known Ponyville held such interesting stallions, she might have stuck around.” Big Mac’s eyes widen. “Um…” I move to stop this trainwreck before it can start, but Applejack is already on top of it, hauling Trixie back with a laugh as she starts to creep forward. “Woah there, missy! Before ya go an’ say somethin’ you’ll regret later, the big lug’s spoken for.” Trixie visibly deflates. “Oh, phooey” she pouts. “A shame. Trixie is sorry.” “Sorry he’s taken, or sorry for flirtin’ with him?” “Eh. Little of column A, little of column B.” Applejack chuckles. “Mare, we gotta find you a husband.” “Trixie concurs.” Still shaking with amusement, Applejack turns back to her brother. “Anyhoo, Big Mac, we’re here to see Twilight. The others will be along soon as Rainbow can round ’em up. Since Ah assume you didn’t get my letters, the short version is Trixie turned a new leaf, saved my life, became a war hero. You know the bit.” Big Mac blinks. “Um… eeyup?” I chuckle. “Don’t worry, Big Mac, I had much the same reaction.” Except, you know, more enthusiastically. “We’d like to all have dinner, compare notes, catch up, that sort of thing, but I think it wise if I, shall we say, soften the news for Twilight first?” He nods sagely. “Eeyup.” “Capital. Could you please point me to her and then inform the Chef to anticipate a crowd?” “Eeyup.” “Thank you, darling.” In other contexts, I would not have dared invite myself into another pony’s home and declare “you’re having company and here’s what your staff is doing.” However, this was my home for the duration; I know how things work. Chef loves his job and thrives on such challenges (mostly he enjoys cussing and carrying on about how ‘impossible’ it will be while he effortlessly does it). As for Twilight, I know her well enough to know that she will want to make a Friendship Event out of this when all becomes clear. Like a good Stewardess of the Castle (which, in a way, I was), I’m anticipating her desires. And giving Chef more time to moan and cuss. He’ll probably come chew me out later, in keeping with our long-established dance. But, as Spike would put it, “That’s future Rarity’s problem.” Present Rarity’s problem is how to tell Twilight about our unexpected guest without giving the poor dear a heart attack. Not surprisingly, Twilight is in the library. The walk there is spent pondering how best to broach the topic. Thankfully, it is a long walk, giving me plenty of time to consider my options and oh look we’re here. Hm. That walk is not nearly as long as I remember it. Applejack and I exchange a glance at the door. “So… do you want to or should Ah?” “Darling, please! I have this well and truly in hoof.” “Ya’ll have no idea what yer gonna say, do ya.” “Not in the slightest.” Taking a deep breath, I push into the room, leaving Applejack, Kafil, and the mare, the myth, the Great and Powerful Trixie outside. Twilight, to the surprise of exactly zero ponies, has her muzzle buried in a book. “Hello, darling,” I half sing as I enter. “What are you reading today?” Twilight looks up from the tome as I enter. “Hi, Rarity. I was wondering who was at the door.” She holds up the book for me to see. Not that it helps much – the title is in a language that looks like it dates back to Old Pegasopolis. “The complete works of Aristotail,” she announces happily. Then, with a shy blush, “Big Mac and I are reading it to each other.” “Aw, that is so precious,” I gush. Hopelessly nerdy and oh so precious. “Well, I regret to interrupt such a romantic evening, but I’ve come to you with something rather… unexpected.” “Oh?” inquires Twilight, setting the book down. “Nothing bad, I hope.” “Not bad, no. Just, as I said, unexpected. To put it mildly.” I purse my lips. How the blazes did I manage to walk here without a script in mind? “Darling, allow me to propose to you the following hypothetical question.” She claps her forehooves together. “Ooh, I love hypotheticals. Hit me.” Yes, this will hit you all right. “Well, darling, it’s like this,” I begin. “Suppose you were to have a guest one day. Say, a pony who once wronged you.” Twilight rubs her chin thoughtfully. “Okay. Somepony specific, or just a generic hypothetical.” “Specific,” I say. With the affectation of an afterthought, I add, “In fact, for the sake of argument, let us suppose that this hypothetical pony is, oh, I don’t know, Trixie.” The princess raises a regal eyebrow. “That’s some hypothetical.” “Yes, well, it’s just something that’s been on my mind lately,” comes my flippant (though technically factual) reply. “Now, for the sake of this hypothetical, let us suppose that Trixie is somewhat different than when you last saw her.” “Different, like, ‘personality change’, or different, like ‘grew a second horn’?” Wouldn’t that have been a sight! “The first one,” I reply. “Now, let us suppose that her personality shift is rather dramatic.” Twilight giggles. “You mean like she stopped using the third person?” She did use the first person once earlier, so maybe. “Erm, not quite, darling. I was thinking more along the lines of, well, that is to say…” My restraint evaporates and the worlds tumble out, “Let us suppose she found her patriotic spirit and became a great and legendary war hero who saved our friends’ lives on the battlefield.” For a moment, Twilight simply regards me with a blank expression. Then she almost falls out of her wheelchair laughing. And we’re talking long, hard laughter, complete with snorts. It is amazing how much volume that one lung is generating, truly. Several times she tries to get words out, only to dissolve into snorting hilarity. I am really, really glad Twilight put soundproofing spells on the library walls. The lavender laugher finally gets her guffaws under control and grins at me, wiping a tear from one eye. “That was a good one, Rarity. Hoo boy! I was laughing so hard I thought you were gonna have to call the doctor. Trixie? A war hero? Serving with the girls on the front line to defend the free world from the Dominion menace? That would be something to see!” She giggles another few times. All things considered, I think this is going rather well. Once her giggles die down, she turns thoughtful. “Though, when I stop to think about it, perhaps it’s not charitable of me to laugh. After all, any pony can be a hero – all it takes is a willingness to do the right thing when the decision requires great sacrifice or risk. I could see Trixie making that choice. Sure, she’s a selfish mare, last I saw anyway, and heroism requires selflessness. But, hey, ponies change. If she saw an evil she couldn’t ignore and did something selfless once, maybe she caught the bug. Maybe she realized how much happier she could be if she started looking to something higher than herself to find happiness…” Twilight shrugs. “When you consider it in those terms, it doesn’t seem so farfetched. And, as to saving our friends, there was a lot of overlap with the different theaters of war, and transfers weren’t unheard of. Several years of fighting means she gets moved on occasion, winds up with each of the girls at one time or another. Given that serendipity follows the six of us around, well, it might play havoc with statistics but the chances of it happening are probably decent. So, yeah, I could hypothetically see that.” I raise an eyebrow, finding myself wondering how much of Twilight’s educated guessing lines up with the path the real Trixie took. “Interesting analysis,” I say. “Interesting hypothetical,” replies Twilight. “I have to ask, though, what spawned the question? You see an ad for one of her shows in the paper or something?” “Not… exactly. Twilight, darling,” I run my tongue over the back of my teeth while I choose my words, “let us consider another hypothetical… one wherein the first hypothetical… was… not… hypothetical.” Twilight tilts her head curiously. “Wouldn’t that just bring us back to the original question? I mean, if the you’re asking if, hypothetically, the first hypothetical isn’t a hypothetical, then it’s still hypothetical because…” she trails off, her eyes widening, “wait… unless…” her stare fixes on me, “unless this is your way of cuing me in that this isn’t hypothetical at all, which means that…” her hooves fly to her cheeks, “oh, Celestia, this is real.” I clear my throat. “Well, darling—” “A-and Big Mac hasn’t come back yet, which means you probably asked him to do something first, and you’re here with the hypothetical instead of heading to dinner with Applejack like you’d been planning for days, which means that she really became friends with our friends, which suggests you probably bumped into her which means,” her bulging eyes lock on the door, “war hero Trixie Lulamoon is right outside my door, isn’t she.” My gaze moves from Twilight to the door and back to Twilight. I click my tongue and rock on my hooves. “Hypothetically yes.” Twilight falls utterly silent. She just sits there, staring at the door with mouth agape and eyes wide. Honestly, she’s silent for so long that I’m starting to consider actually calling the doctor when she blurts out, “I really flipping hope I remembered to renew the soundproofing spell on the library this month.” Once Twilight’s had a few moments to collect herself, her thoughts, and her tattered sense of reality, I explain the mailing mixup that led to our present predicament. When I’ve finished, she snorts in irritation. “Never would have happened if Ditzy Doo hadn’t gotten embroiled in that whole business with Daring Do, Caballeron, and the Goblet of Infinite Possibilities.” “And that business with the Talon operatives that followed,” I add. “What with the Casque of Forlorn Dreams and all. I shudder to think what the Dominion would have done if they’d gotten their claws on it.” Twilight shudders. “Then there was Blue Falcon Incident in Stalliongrad. I understand the griffons not knowing better, but the ponies should have known to leave that artifact buried. If Daring and Ditzy hadn’t fulfilled the Prophecy of the Doers…” “Not to mention Budapone.” “We never mention Budapone.” “Right. Sorry.” Twilight massages her eyes. “Even with a war on, there’s still no end to the crazy adventures. I guess we should just consider ourselves lucky Ditzy proved to be unnaturally suited to the task.” I nod. “Agreed. If I hadn’t been convinced of destiny and Providence long ago, that mare would have won me over.” Looking up, Twilight notes, “She’s still on the Crown payroll, you know. From what I hear, she and Daring have made quite the name for themselves in Intelligence circles.” Shrugging her one remaining wing, she remarks, “Ah, well. All things considered, having the mail be late was probably worth it to not have to worry about, you know, magical catastrophe. Even if it meant having,” she gestures to the door, “this sprung on me.” “Agreed. Though at least this is a pleasant surprise.” “And, if it’s one thing Ditzy taught me, it’s that heroes can spring from anywhere,” says Twilight with surety, nodding in confirmation to her own words. “Okay. I’m ready. Let’s do this.” I make my way to the door admit the others. Kafil, unsurprisingly, is standing at attention with a bland expression of professional disinterest on his face. Applejack is sitting, twirling her stetson on one hoof while she watches Trixie. The mare of the hour is pacing nervously back and forth. At least, she appears nervous for the split second between when the door opens and when she rears to her stage pose. “Well? Is the princess ready to receive the Greeeeat and Powerful Colonel Lulamoon?” Is anypony ever truly ready? “Right this way,” I say with a gesture. As she falls in next to me, I ask, “So, did you hear anything out here?” “Trixie did not. Why?” “Oh, no reason.” We reenter the room and Twilight starts to pull her wheelchair around the table, a cheerful smile on her face as she prepares to greet Trixie casually. She doesn’t get the chance. Trixie marches to a precise position on the floor, one she seems to know by instinct, and snaps to full attention, right hoof raised in salute. “Colonel Trixie Lulamoon, 35th Field Artillery Regiment reporting, your Serene Highness.” Twilight blinks rapidly, rearing back in surprise. She’s gotten much more comfortable in her royal duties over the last few years, but at heart I think she’ll always be a town librarian. “Erm, thank you, Colonel Lulamoon. As you were.” Trixie relaxes into parade rest. Twilight pulls her chair back to her previous position and gestures to one of the other chairs. “Please, sit.” Trixie does as she’s bade, and Applejack and I find seats of our own; Kafil opts to stand. Even sitting, Trixie looks like she’s at attention. Despite knowing why, it’s still rather bizarre. Borderline unsettling. Twilight seems to agree. “At ease, Trixie,” she says. “And permission to speak freely while I’m at it.” With a wry grin, she adds, “Something tells me we’ve got a few things to discuss.” Trixie relaxes, answering with a wry grin of her own. “You would be correct in that assumption, Princess Twilight Sparkle. Congratulations on that, by the way. You’ve earned it.” “Thank you, Trixie. It’s…” she chuckles, “I’ll be honest, it’s a little odd to hear you say that so genuinely, but thank you.” “It is odd, Trixie will grant you that,” concurs the showmare with a smirk. Then, more soberly, “Or perhaps it is simply odd that it took so long.” Twilight cocks her head and Trixie looks down, the brim of her non-regulation hat obscuring her eyes. “This conversation has been a long time coming, Twilight Sparkle. The fact that it almost didn’t happen only makes that more apparent.” She looks up, an intense light in her eyes. “But we have to have it out, Sparkle. We have to clear the air. Trixie needs to. Before the others arrive, before we sit around and tell war stories and you are regaled with the tales of the Great and Powerful Trixie, you need to hear some things.” “O-okay,” stammers Twilight, paling at the intensity of the stare. “If you think that’s necessary.” “It is,” sighs Trixie, reaching up a hoof to take off her hat. “It really is.” She sets the hat down and toys with the point, a thousand-yard-stare in her eyes. “What Trixie has to say is not something that comes readily to her, Twilight Sparkle. Even after all this time. She’ll have to admit some rather… ugly things about herself.” Her eyes flick upwards. “Promise Trixie you will let her finish before you interject. Either of you,” she adds, fixing me with a firm look. “Applejack already knows this story, but Trixie can’t be interrupted with words or hugs or songs or anything until she is finished.” Twilight nods. “I promise.” “I promise,” I echo. “Thank you,” she says, before letting her eyes drift back into the distance. “Trixie never liked you, Twilight Sparkle,” begins the mare. “You were smarter than her, more powerful than her, greater than her in every respect.” Dryly, she continues, “You were also a much better pony than Trixie, but she didn’t really care to think about that at the time. It was hard enough looking at all the other ways you were better. Hard enough knowing that you were a superior magician without considering that you were better at heart.” Trixie snorts. “But hiding from your vices forever is difficult to do. The blasted Amulet made that painfully clear. Such petty vengeance to wreak against a mare whose only crime had been to save me from my own arrogance.” She shakes her head. “It’s a terrible thing, Twilight Sparkle, to think the world revolves around you. Every imposition is an insult, every reversal a blasphemy. To play at being the Creator is to make your own pathetic, flawed self the center of the universe.” I can see her muscles tensing and untensing. “And what a miserable universe it is.” Trixie brushes an imaginary speck of dust from her hat, then regards Twilight with a level gaze. “When you forgave Trixie for what she did to you and your friends, you showed a far greater mercy than merely that of the law.” Her eyes flash. “You showed her the mercy of ripping away the veil, so that she might see her vices in all their nakedness.” She leans forward, her eyes locked on Twilight’s. “Do you have any idea how many years it was since Trixie last examined her actions in the light of any morality other than her own crude selfishness?” Twilight mutely shakes her head. “Neither is Trixie,” admits the mare frankly. “It had been so long. And she didn’t take it gracefully, oh no,” she chuckles, leaning back. “Trixie still tried to blame it all on you, on your friends, on bad luck, on the cruel whim of fate, anything but herself. She couldn’t bear to look in the mirror and see such ugliness. So,” shrugs Trixie, “she didn’t. Trixie poured herself into restarting her career, branding herself as penitent and humble, but still unchanged, except in one respect.” Her lips curl in a bitter smile. “Now, the lies she told herself haunted her in the loneliness of the night.” Trixie closes her eyes. “Jealousy had been there from when Trixie first saw your power, Twilight. Petty hate, too, after the Ursa. Now, though, the hate was deeper yet – a complex hate, born of debt and guilt and the brutal knowledge that the hate was wrong, that Trixie was wrong.” She swallows. “That she had been wrong for a long time.” Opening her eyes, her gaze traces the lines in the ceiling. “Trixie hated feeling like she did. She hated you, and hated that she hated you. So she got this crazy idea: return to Ponyville with some great show, some magnificent act that even the legendary Twilight Sparkle would be impressed by. Then, when Trixie finally had some way to say that she was truly better than you, she could stop hating and move on.” The showmare snorts. “Foolproof, eh? No way that could possibly go wrong. Anyway, Trixie threw herself into the scheme, sweating night and day over it, determined to one day return and best the legend. She was actually in Manehatten working on the performance when a special bulletin came over the radio.” Trixie licks her lips. “They… they said there’d been an attack at the Hoofenburg Summit. They said Princess Twilight Sparkle had been shot, and that she probably wouldn’t make it, and that we were now at war, and there was Trixie…” tears form in her eyes, “and there was Trixie…” she half sobs. The mare breaks off and gives a great, shuddering sigh as the first tears fall. “And there I was, sitting on my flank in Manehatten, scheming, plotting to show up the mare who saved me from myself, all because I was too much of a coward to look myself in the mirror.” Trixie Lulamoon hangs her head as the tears fall. Every instinct in my body is screaming at me to go embrace her, to hold her as I would Sweetie Belle and stroke her mane until the crying stops. Twilight is in similar anguish. But a promise is a promise, and Trixie has more to tell us. After a time, she resumes, her voice shaking. “I’m not sure how long I wandered the streets. Minutes? Hours? It could have been days for all I saw of the world around me.” She looks up with tear-stained eyes. “All I could see was you, Twilight. The mare who had shown me a way out of myself, a way to happiness, if only I’d looked, and now… now I’d never get to thank you for that. So, I wandered. I wandered until I found my way into a recruiting station. Signed the papers the same day.” Trixie reaches up a hoof and dries her eyes, her sobs receding. “With my knack for pyrotechnics, they assigned me to the artillery. 977th Battalion. We hit a lot of heavy fighting from the get-go. It was awful and yet…” a fond smile touches her lips as she looks heavenward, “I had the strangest sense of peace. For the first time in heaven knows how long, I was living for something bigger than myself, and it felt good.” She nods in satisfaction. “What’s more, I was good at it! So good that I was a sergeant within a few months. A few months later, they’d given me a field commission. Within a few years, I was commanding the battalion. There were citations, medals, the accolades of my fellow soldiers… I was getting the recognition I’d always craved, and yet,” a beatific smile brightens her face at the memory, “none of that compared to that feeling I got in Basic when they told us you were going to live, when I found out I hadn’t missed my chance to tell you all this.” The colonel brings her gaze back down to earth and rests it on the astonished Twilight. “So, now that we’re here, all I can say is… thank you. Thank you for everything.” Now, she is finished, and the silence that follows is weighty. I’m not surprised to discover that I broke down crying in the midst of that and simply didn’t realize. I try to think of something to say, some profound response to all the profundity our old antagonist has displayed, but I can’t. Twilight, though, knows what to say. Or, rather, what not to say. She wheels her chair over to Trixie, her eyes wet with tears, and embraces her. Twilight, it seems, is still wiser than me, as the Princess of Friendship should be. When the long, sisterly hug finally comes to a close, Twilight can’t help but make a humble admission. “Just so we’re clear, since you really seem to have put me up on a pedestal, I truly did forgive you back then, but I’m not a perfect mare. I harbored plenty uncharitable thoughts about you for years after the fact, and, full disclosure, when Rarity told me you were here, I thought she was joking and cracked up.” Trixie chuckles. “Perfectly understandable, Princess. And oddly comforting in a way. It’s good to remember the saints are sinners too.” Twilight blushes. “Oh, I’m not a saint.” “Then how do you explain your role in saving my soul?” retorts Trixie. Blushing even more furiously, Twilight wheels back. “Look, can we drop this, please? I’ll make it an order if I have to, Colonel.” “Cheater!” accuses Trixie, sticking her tongue out. “I’ll lodge a protest!” “And for Celestia’s sake,” laughs Twilight, “now that we’ve had the heart to heart, can you please drop the first-person thing? It’s freaking me out.” “Trixie happily obliges. It freaks her out too. Also,” she licks her lips, “Trixie was promised fine castle fare in lieu of Army food, and believes it should be approaching dinnertime.” “Oh, certainly,” replies Twilight, deadpan. “I’m sure Chef has whipped up some incredible barracks gruel.” Applejack snorts with laughter and I can’t help but titter at the imperious frown on Trixie’s face. “You are a low and evil mare, Twilight Sparkle.” The princess cackles and starts wheeling towards the door. “Come on, Great and Powerful. Chef’s about to knock you clean out of your hat.” “Trixie looks forward to it.” With that, the pair set off down the hall, the rest of us trailing behind. Murmuring so as not to be heard by the vanguard, Applejack remarks, “Mercy’s a heck of a thing, ain’t it?” “A blessed thing,” agrees Kafil. Watching the two former foes chat amiably, I can’t help but smile. “Well, darlings, you know what they say: Friendship is Magic.” Author's Note I can’t help but smile at the irrepressible mare. “Of course she will.” Reaching out a hoof for shaking, I say, “It’s a pleasure to meet the new you, Trixie Lulamoon.” “Likewise,” she replies, her voice thick with emotion. Leaning in to whisper in her ear, I add, “Hail Harmony.” I wound up listening to House of Glass a goodly number of times for this chapter, both the 4everfreebrony version and the Aviators version. Next chapter: war stories and a little more insight into Shoddy's troubles. The Equestrian military was woefully understrength before the war. Generations of peace led to fewer and fewer resources being allocated to national defense. This created the joint problems of, firstly, limited personnel and funds and, secondly, the fact that what few personnel and funds they had were spread too thin, with substandard equipment, green units, and poor logistics. When Celestia and the sitting Government finally managed to ram the EUP Guard Modernization Act through over the intense objects of the Opposition, they began to solve the problems of outdated equipment and neglected logistical infrastructure. Unfortunately, the greatest problem of all went unresolved: personnel. Even as the Guard finally received modern weapons and proper funding for the coming war, they lacked the numbers to use them. Despite numerous recruitment campaigns championed by all four princesses and each branch of the Service, the numbers remained low in most provinces. This changed abruptly with the assassination attempt on Twilight Sparkle. Outraged ponies flocked to recruitment stations across both Equestria and the Crystal Empire. Soon the EUP had more applicants than it could process. However, training these ponies still took time, and in the early days of the war the mostly green Equestrian units suffered massive casualties at the claws of veteran Dominion soldiers. This created a desperate personnel shortage even with the windfall of new recruits, which led to a lowering of standards at the recruiting offices. Common jokes of the time included, “Eye tests? We don’t check ’em, only count ’em,” “Live ponies pass,” and “If you can carry a tune, you can carry a gun.” —Excerpt from Victor Hoofsen’s Casualties of Peace
Missing the MarkThe rest of the dinner party passes in a blur for me. I have a vague notion that the conversation winds back to more pleasant topics, but they could be talking about tapdancing penguins for all I know. To be honest, I’m not certain I say anything beyond rote responses. Even Chef appearing with my favorite tiramisu is not enough to reclaim my focus. Sloppy on my part; now he’ll worry and feel obliged to check in on me later, and we both know how much he hates dropping our façade of mutual antagonism. I’ll have to slip him a bottle of Doublewood Scotch with a backhooved compliment on the attached note to forestall his concern and save us both the trouble. I’m not sure who among the others notices my distraction – with such a large and exuberant gathering it’s possible that my quietude has gone largely unnoticed, or at least been relegated to the status of unremarkable. I’d prefer that, honestly. The last thing I want is one of my friends asking about what’s bothering me when what’s bothering me is… well… them. Well, not them per se, it’s just… … after all the pain, all the misery… … I simply don’t understand. Maybe I can’t understand. I’m not sure if that makes the situation better or worse. Fluttershy probably notices my silence. On top of the fact that she’s sitting next to me, she also spends most such gatherings quietly observing others. Out of all of them, it would bother me least if she asked what the problem is. After all, Fluttershy was not in the practice of… well, it was never her job to… as a medic her role was not… Oh, the hay with it! There’s no nice way of framing this: Fluttershy never killed anyone. All she did in the war was save lives, and I find the fact that she can miss the war a little easier to swallow than the notion that my other friends… … I mean, I can understand the reasoning, even appreciate it to a degree, and I know that none of them miss the killing and death, but… It’s a lot to process is all. The notion that such kind, gentle, noble souls as my friends could miss something so terrible for any reason is a lot to fathom. And with Shoddy, especially with Shoddy, coming home with his mind so in pieces that he can’t hold down the most basic of grunt work… how could any rational being miss something that hurt so much? Yes, I can see the logic that one would miss the comradery and the clear sense of purpose and the familial love. Celestia knows I’ve missed our adventuring days for the same reason! Thus, I can accept, at least at an intellectual level, that my friends could miss war. But to accept it at an emotional level, especially to accept that Shoddy of all ponies misses it, that is a bridge too far! Or perhaps I just feel that way because it’s still fresh. Not an everyday occurrence to have your worldview upended, after all. Maybe it will make sense in a week or two. Or maybe I’ll be left on the sidelines wondering. Again. I try to focus on enjoying my tiramisu (Chef is a culinary artist) and rejoining the conversation, but inevitably my thoughts return to the rut of my unfathomable quandary. It’s exhausting. By the time the dinner finally winds down, I feel ready to sleep for a week. When Twilight suggests that the group adjourn to the library to continue the evening’s festivities, I spy my chance to escape. Citing several poor nights of sleep (I’ve struggled with periodic bouts of insomnia ever since the attempt on Twilight’s life), I beg leave of the merrymakers to depart early. My polite exit is greeted with urgings to tough it out and stay, mostly from Applejack and Rainbow Dash, whose teasing tone suggests they’re distracted enough to miss my discomfort. In fact, only Fluttershy seems to pick up on my ulterior motive, though, true to form, she stays quiet about it. (Big Mac and Bud might see through my façade as well, but it’s hard to tell with strong silent types). Then, as I’m leaving, Shoddy offers to walk me home. The genteel offer takes me off-guard. Shoddy’s standard lack of any filter sometimes makes it hard to remember that he has a courteous heart. He may lack certain social graces (okay, he lacks many social graces), but that’s more down to him not being able to judge time and place than it is to any lack of respect for others. I’ve known plenty of ponies with much technical politeness but precious little regard for courtesy. Shoddy, with his offer, reminds me that he’s practically the opposite. At first, I try to refuse – I don’t really want company right now and, in any case, it’s been good to see him really enjoying himself for a change. But he’s insistent and, given that this is one of those rare times where his courteous instincts line up with a technically polite action, I accept his generosity on the condition that he return to the castle to enjoy himself after seeing me home. The long walk back to the boutique is quiet at first, but that doesn’t last long. “Miss Rarity, what’s wrong with—” Shoddy begins to ask with his usual brashness, “—er, what I mean ta say is, can I ask what’s botherin’ ya?” Sweet Luna, he actually changed what he was going to say to be more appropriate! Magnifique! I mean, terrible time for it, since I don’t want to talk about this, but magnifique all the same! “Shoddy, I’m…” I stop short of denying that anything’s wrong. On top of the fact that I’m trying to be better about not using even little fibs, I don’t think it would work anyway. “It’s not something I’d like to discuss in public,” I say instead. The stallion raises an eyebrow and looks around at the streets, lit by the rising moon and the lamp posts. Empty streets. Looking back to me, he says, “If ya don’t mind my sayin’, we ain’t exactly out in public right now.” Yes, well, I suppose that Ponyville is still a country town, recent and rapid wartime expansion notwithstanding. Ordinarily I like the small-town feel, but right now the lack of busyness is decidedly inconvenient. I heave a sigh, weighing whether or not to ask him to drop it. He probably would, but something tells me it would come up later in ways he no doubt thought were subtle but would, in fact, be about as subtle as Trixie and Pinkie juggling fireworks. While on fire. Ultimately, I decide that it’s better to lance the boil now. “I truly haven’t slept well lately, but you’re right; something is bothering me. I—” “Yer wonderin’ how we can miss the war, aincha?” “Well… yes,” I admit, biting back a correction about him interrupting me because now isn’t the time. “Intellectually, I can accept missing comrades and cause, but to miss something so terrible as war, I don’t…” I look up at him. “I don’t understand it, Shoddy! How can you miss war when it—?” I chop the question off before I finish it with an overly blunt question, but Shoddy seems to hear it anyway. “How can I miss war when it left me bucked in the head?” he asks. “Not quite how I would have put it,” wincing at my mistake as much as his coarse language, “but I suppose that’s the gist of my question, yes.” Shoddy shrugs, showing no offense. “Fair question. I’d ask it in your shoes.” He’s quiet a moment, showing unusual thought before speaking. “Miss Rarity, when did ya find out what you were good at? Yer special talent and whatnot?” Not the direction I expected this conversation to go, but let it never be said that Rarity cannot adapt. “Well, it started when I was making costumes for a school play. You see, I had made serviceable costumes, but I wanted them to be exquisite. Then, later that night, my horn started glowing…” I tell him the story of how I got my cutie mark. He listens attentively, not getting sidetracked like he usually does, and interrupting only to ask a few clarifying questions. Did my parents understand my aspirations? Well, no, not really. But they supported me anyway? Well, yes, I suppose they did. Was it clear from the start what my special talent entailed? Mostly, I suppose. It became more nuanced with time but, yes, I had a clear idea almost immediately. Have I always been able to pursue my special talent? For the most part, yes. True, it’s been a long and arduous process developing my business, with multiple false starts, failed investments, and botched deals, but Equestria is friendly to entrepreneurs and I’ve always been good at learning from my mistakes. Throughout the conversation, he stays on topic. Ordinarily, I’d rejoice in this, but currently his intensity fills me with disquiet for reasons I can’t put my hoof on. By this point, we’re close to the boutique, but I’m no closer to hearing his explanation. My first instinct is to pry it out of him – I have a certain talent for getting stallions to open up – but in this case I think it’s best to let him tell me when he’s ready. With his final question answered, Shoddy takes a moment to think before saying softly, “Yer a real lucky mare, Miss Rarity. I hope you know that.” I nod. “I am aware, and I am very grateful for my many blessings.” He nods silently, then speaks while staring at some unseen point in the distance. “I grew up in the Middle of Nowhere.” He snorts. “Literally. Some jackass thought ‘Middle of Nowhere’ would be a funny name for a frontier town.” Well, that’s donkey humor for you. “I didn’t get no schoolin’,” he continues, “an’ I didn’t have nopony to learn me a trade. Ma and Pa were farmers, like most o’ the town, but I never had no talent for it. I could kill crops by lookin’ at ’em. Folks used ta say I was a busted earth pony.” I bite back a horrified remark for fear that interrupting him would cause him to clam up. “I tried minin’,” Shoddy says. “Thought maybe if’n I couldn’t make nothin’ grow from the earth, I could at least work rocks, but I couldn’t tell coal from granite. All I was good for was bustin’ rocks, an’ even then I wasn’t as good as ponies with marks for it.” He sighs. “That’s how it was with just about everythin.’ I’d find a job, try it, an’ either screw up big time or just be no better than a dumb grunt who couldn’t do much but hit things or move things. But I had ta find some work, ’specially while my siblings were too little ta work much. Pa often took sick, an’ Ma had ’er hooves full with the others tryin’ ta run what little land we had. We needed the money for medicine, bad harvests, and fixin’ busted equipment. So, I ran all over town findin’ any grunt work I could. When the work ran out, I walked ta other towns and did grunt work there, sent money back.” We’ve reached the boutique by now, but we don’t go inside. I don’t even pull out my keys to unlock the door for fear that if I make any noise I’ll silence him forever. “I can’t tell ya how many miles I walked, how many rocks I broke or carts I pulled. I weren’t good at none of it, but boy howdy I worked. Some places I don’t even remember the names; I wasn’t there long enough, an’ nopony needed me to stay around when the job was done.” He laughs bitterly. “But you know what the craziest part is?” He waits until I shake my head. “Craziest part is, my cutie mark showed up somewhere in that mess.” “‘Somewhere in that mess?’” I can’t help but repeat. “But where? Doing what?” “No buckin’ idea,” comes the bitter chuckle. “Ain’t that just a kick? An iron shoe shows up on my flank one day without so much as a ‘by the by,’ and I got no idea when. Coulda been any one of a dozen er so odd jobs. An’ nopony noticed, ’cause I weren’t never around long enough ta make friends. I tried ta figure out what it meant – a farrier maybe, or a miner? But no matter where I went, what I did, I was no better at it after I got my mark than before.” “Then, one day, my kid siblings weren’t kids anymore. They all got their marks in farmin’ stuff like my folks, and suddenly the farm weren’t strugglin’ no more. They had money, they had workers, they had talents and…” he shrugs and looks away. “They didn’t need me.” “Oh, Celestia,” I breathe, my heart breaking. “When the buzzards almost killed the princess, well, it weren’t hard for me ta enlist. I wasn’t good for anythin’ but gruntwork, so I figured I’d do gruntwork for somethin’ that mattered.” There’s a flash of a patriotic smile on his face. “For my country, for my princess. Plus,” he shrugs, “ain’t like I was worth much at home.” Oh, that is far enough! “Shoddy, surely you must know you’re worth more than—” “But then somethin’ crazy happened!” he says, not seeming to hear me. “I join the Marines an’ I find out… I’m good at something! For the first time in my life, I’m really, honestly good at something! I’m so good that ponies want me around! I got ponies who want me, ponies who need me! I get brothers and sisters and family like I never—” Shoddy stops abruptly and he looks away, swallowing his emotion. In the evening light it’s hard to tell, but I could swear there’s moisture in his eyes. “But I can’t do that no more,” he says, his voice shaky. “The one thing I ever been good at, and I can’t do it no more. An’ the family I made, my brothers, I didn’t…” He blinks and rubs a hoof across his eyes. “So… yeah. That’s why I miss the war, Miss Rarity.” It’s not the first time today I’ve been utterly at a loss for words, but none of the other times left me feeling so devastated as I do right now. Only through sheer force of will and the knowledge that he’d be mortified do I prevent myself from flinging my forelegs around him and crushing him in a Pinkie hug. “Shoddy, I…” tears tug at my eyes, “I don’t know what to say. I’m so terribly sorry.” Shoddy shrugs, and I can tell he’s blushing even without being able to see clearly in this light. “Ain’t yer fault, Miss Rarity. Not like it’s a big loss anyway. Like I said, I’m just a worthless grunt who ain’t never been good for—” “NO!” I shout, jamming my hoof over his lips. “That’s enough Iron Shod!” His eyes are wide as I declare, “I’ll not have you say such lies in my presence. Just because you cannot see your own value does not mean that it isn’t there! You are far from worthless, and I will not tolerate you speaking ill of yourself! Am I understood, Marine?” I take my hoof away from his lips so he can speak. “Yes, Ma’am,” he manages in shell-shocked voice. “Good,” I say. Hard to judge how deeply that lesson actually sank in, but it’s a start. “You’re lucky you said that to me and not to Applejack. Your old Gunny would have kicked your tail up between your ears for being so down on yourself.” I jab him in the ribs. “So don’t make me have to report you.” He swallows and weakly says, “Yes, Ma’am.” Allowing my voice to soften, I ask, “Shoddy, do you trust me?” “Yes, Miss Rarity,” he replies, some strength returning to his tone. “Then trust me when I say that I will help you see the value that I already see in you.” Even in the dim light I can see the hesitation in Shoddy’s eyes – the inner war between hope and despair. He swallows, shuts his eyes, and takes a deep breath. When he lets it out, he meets my gaze. “Okay, Miss Rarity. I trust you,” he says. There is fear in his eyes, but also trust. Good. I can work with that. Author's Note One thing that I see frequently in my patients, especially those struggling with some form of depression, anxiety, or survivor’s guilt, is that they often have a low sense of self-worth. They say and think horrible things about themselves because they don’t see their own intrinsic value. Often the traumas or hardships they’ve suffered have created this false sense that they are worthless, that they don’t deserve help. This lie must be addressed early on so that they can embrace the healing process. In these cases, one thing I often do is ask them about someone else in their lives – ideally someone they deeply care about, or else some hypothetical innocent who has suffered a trauma or endured a hard life. I bring up a fellow soldier, or a sibling who suffered abuse, or a child who was traumatized. I ask my patients how they would feel if I were to say horrible, uncaring things about that friend, that family member, that innocent who had suffered so much. Almost without fail, my patients immediately become indignant, even furious at the notion that I would treat someone so badly. They tell me in no uncertain terms how wrong it would be to treat anyone like that, especially someone who was struggling. They tell me that people deserve better, and that those who have suffered deserve our patience and support, not our condemnation. I commend my patients for their instincts. They are right to feel so strongly that we ought to treat our fellows with respect. Then I work backwards from that point to help them see that they themselves deserve the same respect. —Dr. Serene Springs, PsyD, speaking on the treatment of veterans and civilians who suffer from a lack of self-worth. Just a friendly reminder that not being able to see your own self-worth doesn't mean you're worthless. We all need reminders of our own value from time to time. If you're having trouble remembering your own worth, please talk to someone who can remind you of it. Your life matters, and the world will be emptier and darker if you are gone. Even if by some twist of fate no one noticed (and it's almost certain someone would know and care), there would still be a phantom pain - an absence that no one would know the source of, but would be felt all the same. We would be diminished by the loss of you. If that wasn't true, then why is it that people willingly choose to spend their days professionally helping complete strangers to realize their own self worth? You matter. Never stop believing that. Suicide Hotline: https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org List of International Suicide Hotlines: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_suicide_crisis_lines
The CMCs and the Case of the Missing Mark‘The morning after the dinner party I wake up at the crack of dawn and immediately head over to Sweet Apple Acres at a brisk trot with a clear plan of action to address Shoddy’s difficulties’... is what I would say if that were true. It is not. In truth, it is mid-morning as I take a walk – a slow walk – to Sweet Apple Acres. I did not get much sleep last night, as I spent a good deal of it tossing and turning as my brain wracked itself trying to come up with a solution. To be clear, my brain wracked itself. I did not wish for my brain to wrack itself; I much rather would have put the problem out of my mind until the next day and thus faced it with a conscious consideration made fresh and lively by a rejuvenating sleep. Sadly, this was not to be, as my thoughts very much took on a life of their own and dragged my mind along for the ride, giving no consideration to the fact that my brain is, well, mine, and you’d think that would give me first pick of its activities. The decision of one of my members to act in a fashion detrimental to the whole is lamentable. But then, it is an imperfect world. All of which is to say that I haven’t the faintest notion of a plan, save only a general sense that perhaps Applejack can offer some insight into Shoddy based on her own history with him. This vague idea is complicated by the fact that what he told me last night was, implicitly, told to me in confidence. I do not wish to break his confidence by indulging in the vice of gossip, nor do I wish to break his trust by divulging that which he may not want others to know. On the other hoof, there are times when it is necessary, even morally obligatory, to break confidence so as to keep someone safe. Things (fortunately) are not so bad at this time, but… are they at least bad enough to justify my telling Applejack at least some of what I know? That is a difficult question to answer. It would help if I knew if there were parts of his story she was already aware of. Unfortunately, I have no idea how much of his past Applejack knows. They served together for years, which suggests he probably told her something. Cagey though he may be, in my experience most soldiers will let slip something now and then, even if they don’t mean to, and Applejack is an easy mare to trust. That said, I very much doubt he told her everything he told me. For once, I may well know more about the situation than one of my veteran friends, and I can’t help but find it cruelly ironic that, for once, I wish for them to know more than me. By the time I have reached the Acreage, I have decided that I can tell Applejack some details as it relates to him struggling to find something he’s good at. His vocational struggle, at least, she is aware of in general terms. I think I can safely tell her he’s not sure what his special talent is or where he got it without telling her all the heartache and personal sacrifice which created the situation. Beyond that, I have no idea. Two zebras are visibly on duty as I approach the farmhouse, though it’s entirely possible there are others around whom I simply don’t see. It’s still odd to me seeing so much security around the Acreage, odd in a way that seeing the security around Twilight’s castle never really was. I know it’s still early in the process, but I somehow suspect that this’ll be a longer adjustment, for me at least. After all, Twilight is an alicorn princess who lives in an honest to goodness castle, albeit an architecturally unusual one. Once I got used to the castle, it wasn’t a hard mental jump to think “castle = more security.” Honestly, it was more surprising to me that it required any mental jumping at all. But Applejack is... Applejack. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to her having a royal status comparable to Twilight or Cadence. Though, to be fair, I’m not sure she ever will either. Good heavens, listen to me ramble! I must be more tired than I realized. You’d think after all this time, I would get to the point, even if only in my own mind. I’m as tangential as Shoddy right now. The two guards let me approach the house without incident, and Kafil meets me at the door with such speed that I feel confident he was discretely watching my approach from within the farmstead. He greets me with his typical warmth, and his ready smile and cheerful demeanor are enough to lift my spirits out of the disordered musings of my tired mind. “Lady Rarity, it is a pleasure to see you again,” he says with a courteous dip of his head. “I trust you are feeling better after a night’s rest?” Not hardly, but it’s kind of him to ask. “Oh, I doubt I shall be running any marathons today, but then, I’ve hardly had adventures to keep me quick on my hooves lately,” I reply truthfully. A touch evasive, but I must save some face. “Well, your presence was missed, but none begrudged your wise choice to take a restful evening. After all,” Kafil adds, “they are wise who seek rest when life makes great claim to their energy.” On the surface, that sounds like a platitude, but there’s a deep undercurrent to his words and a subtle gentleness in his tone. It strikes me this is his diplomatic way of checking up on me because he hears the things I’ve left unsaid – a keen judge of character and a true gentlecolt. It’s easy to see why he was picked for this assignment. “I don’t know that I have any tasks which constitute a ‘great claim’ on my energy,” I reply. “It is not as though I’ve been on any world-saving adventures with my friends of late.” Probably just as well, given that two are pregnant, one is an invalid, and they all earned a rest from their labors. But a small, jealous part of me desires some friendship-related crisis which would necessitate our intervention so that we may end some grave threat by making it ‘taste the rainbow,’ as I’ve heard our use of the Elements pithily referred to. For the first time in my life, I sympathize with Twilight’s compulsive desire to ‘make a friendship problem’ all those years ago. “Perhaps you are not galivanting about the countryside on a quest,” Kafil acknowledges, “but then... I have always found physical exhaustion to pale in comparison with other forms of exhaustion. Folk often talk their bodies tiring, yet keep silent over tiredness of mind and spirit. Ironically, it is the latter tends to be the deeper strain.” Once again, I detect a sympathetic undercurrent to his words. Written in text and read in monotone, his words would be rather innocuous. Yet in his kind voice, his open body language, and his inviting gaze, they take on another meaning. He quietly offers me the opportunity to share some of my worries if I wish, while keeping his remarks open-ended to allow me to keep such thoughts to myself if I don’t. It’s... rather touching, really. We met not too long ago, yet he freely offers his time and a listening ear. A kind and generous stallion indeed. With that said, I have no desire to bare my heart right now. Instead, I say, “Well, perhaps I have been burning the midnight oil overmuch of late. Speaking of the midnight oil, how late did the others stay out last night?” Politely following my transition, Kafil replies, “Oh, the festivities lasted another few hours. Colonel Lulamoon, Princess Twilight, and Pinkie Pie wound up delving into a scientifically complex discussion of the chemical components in fireworks, which no one else could really follow—” Sounds about right, I think. “—so the rest of the merrymakers wound up watching Her Royal Highness Applejack engage in a ‘Battle of the Boasts,’ with Rainbow Dash.” “That somehow doesn’t surprise me,” I remark wryly. I guess I didn’t really miss much then. “The truly impressive thing is that Trixie managed to join the Battle of the Boasts… while maintaining her conversation with Princess Twilight and Pinkie Pie.” Okay that I would have liked to see. “What time did Shoddy return to the party?” I ask. In my head, the question was more along the lines of ‘Shoddy better have gone back to the party last night like he told me he would or so help me…’ Fortunately for Shoddy, Kafil answers, “He came back a couple hours later and spent much of the time listening to the Boasts. From what Her Royal Highness Applejack has told me on other occasions, he could easily have joined in himself, but he opted to remain quiet.” Of course he did. Did he stay quiet the whole time, I wonder? Kafil, once again seeming to hear my unspoken question, answers “After the battle ended, Spike bent his ear about some ‘comic books,’ I believe. He seemed to quite enjoy himself.” Oh, bless that little dragon! I have a pile of gems with his name on them! “That would explain today,” I say aloud. “This morning, Shoddy told me he’d made plans with Spike to raid the local comic book shop.” Or rather, he left me a note because I got up so late. Not that I’m about to admit that. “I thought I’d take the opportunity to come out and bend Applejack’s ear, but,” I sigh, “she’s not here, is she.” “She is not,” confirms Kafil, “though, if you’ll forgive my curiosity, how did you know?” I smirk. “Because you said ‘Her Royal Highness Applejack’ twice and didn’t get a bushel of apples hurled at you from the other room by an irate royal redneck.” Kafil chuckles. “Most perceptive of you, and not much of an exaggeration. She will likely not be back for another hour.” “Typical,” I snort. “And after I trudged all the way here. Would it be all right if I waited for her to return? I know I probably should walk back to town – Celestia knows I could use the exercise with the dearth of adventuring in my life – but I’d much rather not exert myself today.” “Make yourself at home,” smiles Kafil. “I think Her Royal Highness would, what’s the expression… ‘box my ears’ if I turned you away.” “And that’s if she was feeling generous,” I confirm as I walk inside. “Thank you kindly, Kafil. Always a pleasure.” Fiddlesticks. I’d rather counted on finding her here. Ah, well, c’est la vie as they say. At least the Apples are known for hospitality. I take my seat on the green couch in the living room. It’s a hideous old thing – threadbare, scratched, faded, stained, and beaten down by generations of farm life. Hardly the sort of furniture one would expect to find in a royal household. Yet, for all its multitude of faults, in defiance of all laws of engineering and entropy… it’s perhaps the single most comfortable piece of furniture I’ve ever sat on in my life. Not even Celestia herself has such splendid sitting comfort at her disposal. It’s like a novel that’s so exceptionally poorly written that it turns into a comedic masterpiece of legendary proportions. Somehow, the Apple Family managed to craft the magnum opus of living room seating, a magnum opus which, in an act of either mastermind-level pranking or supreme irony, happens to be one of the ugliest crimes against living room décor I’ve ever sat on. The fact that I do sit on it, with only the barest hint of a shudder no less, is a profound testament to the magnificence of their accomplishment. It is such a comfortable couch, in fact, that I find myself yawning as I sink into its depths. Not that I plan on napping, of course. It would be rather uncouth to pass out uninvited on a friend’s couch like a vagrant, a slovenly roommate, or Rainbow Dash. “Hiya, Miss Rarity— oops! Sorry! Didn’t realize you were sleepin’.” I categorically deny that Applebloom woke me from a doze. I was merely resting my eyes and most certainly did not jump half a foot in the air at the abrupt sound of her voice disturbing my sleeping mind. Further, I did not let out an unladylike whinny of consternation, and any suggestions to the contrary are simply slanderous. “Not at all, Applebloom,” I manage, keen to make it clear that any perception which contradicts my official statement is merely the result of an overactive imagination. “I was merely resting my eyes.” Applebloom has the grace to show no sign that she doubts the official report. “What brings you out here today, Miss Rarity?” she asks as she wipes some motor grease off her brow with a rag. I belatedly realize she has a fair amount of grease and oil splashed on her coat and a toolbelt around her barrel, suggesting she’s just come from her workshop. “Well, I was hoping to bend your sister’s ear, but it seems she will be out for another hour or so.” Applebloom grins. “And so ya decided to, uh, rest yer eyes a spell?” she suggests innocently. “Quite,” I reply evenly. “Fair enough,” nods Applebloom. “Say, since yer out here anyway, ya wanna see what me an’ the girls ’ave been workin’ on out in the shop? We’ll clean up the space before ya come out,” she hastens to add. “Ah think you’ll be mighty impressed.” I’m just impressed that the three of them have matured to the point that they’ll offer to clean up without being prompted just to spare my cleanliness compulsion from going into overdrive. “That sounds delightful, darling. I’d love to.” “Great,” beams Applebloom. “Give us ’bout ten minutes ta get h’er all cleaned up. Ah’ll come get ya when we’re ready.” As she departs, I am startled to notice that she’s grown to be as big as Applejack was at that age. With the lean muscle and frightful fitness of a farmer and the toned physique of a soldier-in-training, she could easily pass for a mare several years older. Her comportment is likewise one of a mature adult, rather than a young mare still finishing high school. I suppose it should not be any great shock to my system. After all, farmers tend to be matured quickly by the responsibilities of working for a living from a young age. Furthermore, with her older siblings called to the front, Applebloom – and Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo for that matter – had to grow up quickly. As one of the only members of our little friend-group to remain in town throughout the war, I had the distinct privilege of seeing the Cutie Mark Crusaders grow into fine young mares. So, again, you would think that I would not be startled to notice how much they’ve grown, especially since I realized that obvious fact long ago. You would be quite within the realm of sensibility to think that it would not faze me. You would be wrong. It is true that I was there to see them mature. It is true that I got to see them earn their cutie marks. In fact, in an odd twist I was quite literally present for all three marks, despite them coming on separate occasions, and found myself in the role of being a sort of sisterly stand-in for Applejack and Rainbow Dash. That was a welter of emotions, I must say. On one hoof, I was tremendously honored that they granted me that role. On the other hoof, I couldn’t help but feel like a usurper, partaking of moments that belonged to others. Fortunately, Applebloom and Scootaloo both were grateful I was there, and said as much at the time. Getting their marks was bittersweet for both of them. Sweet for the success, and bitter because their siblings were away at war. My presence helped alleviate that sorrow, it seems. For their part, Dash and Applejack both reassured me – repeatedly and emphatically in the face of my worries – that they were thankful that I was there to represent them from afar. Intellectually (and, to an extent, emotionally), I believe them. I know them to be telling the truth. Yet there is that part of me – a small, self-conscious, internally judgmental part of me that feels like I was an outsider trespassing where I had no place – that refuses to go away no matter how much I know it to be a liar and a fraud. Ah, well, at least the gratitude of my friends has helped quiet the wretched little thing. And it was a wonderful experience to see them find their marks. After all those years of searching, they finally succeeded. It didn’t all happen at once – close, but not quite. Each filly earned her mark while doing her part to help out around town during the war. Applebloom had taken to tinkering with mechanization of equipment around the farm. With her older siblings gone and so many farmers going to war, the Apples were making do with inexperienced workers, aging workers, and 4F workers (whose physical limitations had kept them from going to war in the first place). Applebloom found herself doing a lot of the work by herself, assisted by Scootaloo and my own dear sister. To compensate for the dearth of able farmers – and the other Crusaders’ enthusiasm at times *cough* let’s say outstripping their qualifications – she built machines to make the work more efficient, less strenuous, and more foolproof. She took existing tracked vehicles – mostly slow-moving construction vehicles or tractors, such as were occasionally found in Ponyville even before the war – and modified them to be better suited to farming and less temperamental. When her first prototype got up and running, she was so excited that it was helping out around the farm that it took a while for her to even notice her mark – three gears, each with an apple at the center, and each with a color that seems to correspond to… well, I’ll get to that. Sweetie Belle put her musical talents to work singing to cheer up the town. When those newfangled radio stations started being put in, the station manager asked her to lend her beautiful voice to the airwaves to cheer up the countryside. She made quite a name for herself, and found her special talent in the process – three musical notes, representing her talent for reaching ponies with her voice, and also representing another connection. As for being a singer known throughout the country, she remains more anonymous than you might think. Wisely, she used a stage name, so most ponies (including her JROTC classmates) don’t know Sweetie Belle and the famous ‘Serenada’ are one in the same pony. Being a radio personality had the unexpected side-benefit of exposing her to the inner workings of radios. The station managers were only too happy to show her how to operate them, and she proved to have quite the knack for it. As radios become an increasingly important part of the military (and civilian life for that matter), more opportunities for specialized work will be open to her. And – heaven-willing – those opportunities will keep her away from the front lines should conflict flare up again. Scootaloo, for her part, took to tinkering right alongside Applebloom. Except instead of focusing on farming equipment, she’d take cast off, broken equipment and put it through its paces, trying to make speedier contraptions for daredevil stunts and trying to copy some of the ‘autocarriage’ designs that we’re seeing here and there, especially in bigger cities. Personally, I’d be content for such contraptions to stay in the cities and racetracks, and – fortunately – that has been the case in Ponyville so far. The autos remain out on the dirt tracks where they belong, and ponies continue to use their hooves. I’ve heard the mayor and town council are even passing ordinances to ensure that it stays that way, at least in Old Ponyville and other historical sections of the city, which most everypony seems happy with. That said, I’ve also heard that many returning war veterans are interested in the autocarriages and Scootaloo’s… creative interpretation of the designs. I have further heard that there’s some sort of auto sport in Appleoosa. ‘NASCART’ or some such. I can’t say I see the appeal but, well, to each their own. Actually, Sweetie Belle has mentioned to me that she and the Crusaders have been working on some sort of armored autocarriage for the military. Doubtless the military is also working on such things, but the fillies have a mind to throw their own hat in the ring. Applebloom and Scootaloo are handling the engineering and Sweetie is lending her knowledge of radio equipment to try to give it the capability to communicate in the field. Mind you, I have no idea if they’re making any headway, but I prefer the idea of them getting jobs in military R&D to the idea of them serving in a combat regiment, so I’m not objecting. Ah, but I realize now I forgot to mention Scootaloo’s cutie mark. Three wings arranged with their bases meeting at the center and their wingtips outstretched. If you were to draw a line from wingtip to wingtip, it would form a perfect triangle. Now, you may have noticed a pattern: three gears for Applebloom, three notes for Sweetie Belle, and three wings for Scootaloo. This wouldn’t ordinarily be too unusual, as many cutie marks have three component pieces. But this case is a little different, because each young mare’s mark has one other similarity: color. Specifically, a tri-color of orange, purple, and maroon, with each filly having all three in equal measure. It seems evident that their marks are linked somehow. What exactly that means can only be speculated at – and I must say Twilight has done a lot of speculating – but it seems clear that the three are meant to work together. So perhaps their crazy inventions aren’t so crazy after all. I fear in my mental rambling about their accomplishments, their maturation, and their vocational discoveries via cutie mark, I have strayed from my original point. That point is this: Despite being present for all of this, present for their growth, present for their self-discovery, present for their maturation into fine young mares, I still can’t seem to believe it. I still can’t get over how quickly they’ve grown up, how it seemed like only yesterday that the tiny fillies were underfoot, their squeaky voices eager with excitement as they darted about seeking new and inventive ways of turning my mane grey with their madcap schemes. I feel like if you could just turn the clock back a day, Sweetie Belle would still be small enough for me to give her piggyback rides without giving myself a hernia, Applebloom would scarcely be bigger than Big Mac’s hoof, and Scootaloo would still be zipping around on a scooter that the big farm stallion could use as a roller skate. Of course, if we could turn back time that far, I suppose we’d have to go through the last few years of misery again. I, for one, would rather cut off my horn than endure that again. Although… I wonder if perhaps Shoddy wouldn’t mind another pass at it. Applebloom’s return puts a halt on my perhaps unproductive musings on time travel, which is probably just as well. At her invitation I follow her out to the workshop. It might be more accurate to call it a ‘garage’ or ‘machine shop.’ Roughly the size of the old barn (and, thankfully, with a much better track record of remaining intact), the workshop looks like another standard farm building until one goes inside. There, one is greeted by the presence of farming vehicles and related machinery in various states of assembly, repair, and storage. It has been a while since I’ve come out to the Crusaders’ workshop, and I must admit that I’m not quite sure what to expect. All I know is that Applebloom and the others have come a long way from constructing an admittedly impressive semi-motorized parade float and the associated traps they’d meant for Babs Seed. Hm. I wonder how Babs is doing these days? Upon entering the workshop, I am welcomed by the sight of Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle, who are grinning with eager anticipation and standing beside a great… something. I presume it’s a machine of some sort, but with the tarp covering it in its entirety I can’t say for certain. Applebloom trots over to join them in both the anticipatory grin and in the obligatory ‘prepare to see my greatness!’ that comes before the unveiling of one’s masterpiece. “Well, girls, don’t keep me waiting,” I prompt. “Show me what wonders you’ve created!” The CMCs need no further bidding. Sweetie Belle clears her throat and begins dramatically, “Lady Rarity and assorted farming implements,” she begins, addressing her ‘audience.’ She rolls on, unbothered by my eye roll, “Presenting for your viewing pleasure, the latest in Equestrian force-multiplying technology…” she gestures grandly to the veiled invention, “… an advanced machine years in the making…” the other two young mares stand by to fling off the tarp, “… the pinnacle of Ponyville mechanical ingenuity and modern military versatility…” Applebloom and Scootaloo fling back the tarp, “… the PV-1 Landcrawler!” My jaw falls open. How shall I describe the PV-1 Landcrawler to you? If I were to pick a single word, it would be a toss-up between ‘ingenuity’ and ‘insanity.’ Imagine, if you will, a tread-driven tractor or construction vehicle, one of those monstrous mechanical wonders with thick metal tracks and a great roaring engine running on some incomprehensible mixture of machinery and magic such as Dr. Time Turner and Twilight were wont to tinker with when they sought to see how science and magic together could optimize power-output. Add one iron box, set between the treads and covering the engine block and Celestia-knows-what-else. Cut a hatch in the front of it. Then, take a metal washtub, turn it on its head, and bolt it to the top. Add a cannon-like perturbance to the front, a hatch to the top, and a tall wire mast to the rear. Finally, hold the entire thing together with a truly staggering number of bolts, welds, and probably a half-dozen other attachments that I have neither the engineering wherewithal nor the patience to list. Absurdly, the Landcrawler reminds me of the Apple Family couch – it’s ugly, grim, and seemingly forged from cast-off scraps and junk; yet, simultaneously, it also looks functional, ably assembled, and probably accomplishes its designed role better than its outward appearance would lead you to believe. “I… I… I don’t know what to say, girls,” I say honestly. “I’m… I’m beyond impressed!” The trio beam. “It seems like only yesterday you were… and now this…” my eyes moisten with pride. In the past, they’d always modified existing equipment; this looked to be something new. “You’ve certainly grown into fine young mares.” I step forward to give my sister a hug, then invite the others into a group embrace. After the congratulations, I move up for a closer look at the machine itself. Again, the engineering goes over my head, but I’ve seen enough of the tractors and similar machines around town to realize this is a similarly professional quality, yet different from other models. “You built this all out here in the barn?” “Well… not all of it,” clarifies Applebloom. “You know the South Gorge FleetFarm Factory?” Indeed I do. Ponyville never had much need for construction equipment or tractors before the war. What cranes and such as they used – such as the one which malfunctioned and led to Pinkie saving the construction workers during the Mare Do Well incident, back in much simpler times – were few and far between. They could move at little more than a crawl and were seldom used. They also tended to be temperamental – again, like the one that caused the near disaster at the construction site – and were seldom seen save in big cities. The war changed that, as it did so many things. With ponies needed on the front, increased mechanization was needed to handle farmwork, construction, and so on. There also needed to be a greater refinement of the processes to make the equipment better and more reliable, leading to a demand for more prolific and more advanced machines. With Ponyville becoming something of a hub during the war, it made sense to build a factory to meet that demand, which would create jobs and ensure that people who moved to Ponyville (as well as current residents) could create wealth that would continue even after the war ended, rather than risk becoming a ghost town with the cessation of hostilities. However, the citizens of Ponyville did not want a big loud factory built straight in town. We’re still a small town at heart, even with the growing population and passage of trade. To balance the rural character of the town and the need for mechanization, we built the FleetFarm Factory further down the rail line at South Gorge. It’s a fairly short commute – and some of the distant Ponyville suburbs are actually as close to the factory as they are to the town square – but far enough away to preserve something of the small town feel even with modernity. “I am familiar with it,” I say, belatedly answering the question as I struggle to comprehend the vehicle before me. “It would be hard not to be, what with the factory owner helping you patent some of your inventions.” “Right,” blushes Applebloom, still embarrassed that she has actual patents on the books. “Well, as you know, Steel Mill has a deal with the Apple Family where we get discounts on parts and tractors in exchange for FactoryFarm getting first crack at licensed design improvements—” “And for your help troubleshooting their new designs,” I add with a smile. I helped engineer that deal, but it’s really Applebloom’s genius that made it possible. Blushing more deeply, Applebloom continues, “He also helps us machine new parts for testin’. We bought a tractor from FleetFarm as a test bed and started makin’ changes. Anything we couldn’t handle with tools here in the shop,” she gestures to the mechanical equipment taking up much of the wall space, “we get machined at the factory. Mill’s been helpin’ us work on this fer ’bout two or three years now, ever since the DARD Challenge fer a mechanized combat vehicle got announced.” My gaze flicks to Sweetie Belle. “And you wait until now to tell me?” I ask archly. Sweetie Belle plays with a lock of hair nervously. “We, uh… we weren’t sure it was going to work.” “I was sure,” insists Scootaloo. “That’s because ya don’t do so good in math, so ya don’t really comprehend the laws of physics we had ta cheat ta get this thing movin’,” remarks Applebloom dryly. Scootaloo smirks and buzzes her wings. “Well, I was right, wasn’t I?” Applebloom sucks in a frustrated breath of air. “Ye~eeah…” she finally admits, stretching the word into two syllables. “And it does work, then?” I ask. “Oh, yeah, it runs,” smirks Applebloom, rapping her hoof on the side of the hull with a dull *clang*. “She ain’t gonna top more’n about four point two miles-per-hour, but, hey, that’s still more’n Leoneighdo da Vinci ever managed,” she says, referencing the Renaissance pony inventor who’d inadvertently inspired Rainbow to name her tortoise ‘tank.’ “To be fair, he was working with a purely magic engine, not a hybrid magi-mechani like ours,” notes Sweetie Belle. “Eh,” shrugs Applebloom. She gestures to the tubing sticking out of it. “Obviously, there ain’t any real guns on ’er—” “Not for lack of trying,” grumbled Scootaloo. “Can’t believe the CO said ‘no.’” “—but,” continued Applebloom pointedly, “she’s fitted to carry a 37mm cannon with thirty-three shells, with two .30 cal machineguns to back it up.” My brow furrows. “Machineguns?” “New automatic weapon to replace Chatterguns,” explains Sweetie Belle. “Same rate of fire, but one barrel so it’s more portable, smaller, and has fewer mechanical breakages.” “Mm,” I nod, trying to sound enthused. I must admit, as impressive as their invention is, I don’t like thinking about what it’s built to do. In an attempt to distract myself while remaining polite, I turn to Sweetie Belle. “And your part in all this? Forgive me, but by your own admission you don’t share Applebloom’s and Scootaloo’s proclivity for engineering.” Sweetie smiles proudly. “I can’t do tractor treads and armor, but I can do radio.” I tilt my head to the side quizzically. “I thought radios require groundlines.” “Current models do,” explains Sweetie, “but they’re working on developing wireless radios using magic to make the connection.” She gestures to the antennae-looking contraptions protruding from the back. “Twilight and Time Turner let me sit in with them working on the new designs. I’ve, ah…” she blows on her hoof and polishes it against her coat with a satisfied smile, “made some improvements of my own.” She gives me a technical explanation which – I admit – goes mostly over my head. The gist of it, however, is that she suggested a different alignment of the crystals for greater durability of the radio and smaller overall volume needed. “At this point, the wireless radio is a just working prototype,” she says. “It barely reaches ten pony-lengths, and bad weather makes that even shorter; not exactly field-ready. Frankly, the whole Landcrawler is a working prototype. Four mph is still slow, and it’s got a lot of teething troubles.” I raise my eyebrow. “Teething troubles?” “Technical difficulties,” she clarifies. “It breaks down. A lot. Still, it’ll probably be ready for the battlefield before the radio is. But,” she regards the tank with a satisfied smile, “the design is already future-proofed, since we were able to work out the ergonomics of the radio. Plus, we got an in-tank radio system set up for crew communication, so they can talk to each other over the noise.” My lip curls slightly before I can stop it. “So it’s loud then?” The girls laugh. “Oh yeah it’s loud!” chuckles Scootaloo. “Why do you think we didn’t fire it up for a demonstration? The crew has to wear helmets with built-in ear protectors if they don’t wanna be deaf by twenty-five, and that’s without firing the cannon or machineguns.” “Honestly, that crew comms invention o’ Sweetie’s may have a better shot at getting adopted than our tank,” says Applebloom, throwing a hoof over Sweetie Belle’s withers. “It ain’t like we’re the only ponies workin’ on makin’ a tank, and a lot o’ the other designers got more resources than we do. But Twilight says the other teams entering the DARD Challenge ain’t done a crew comms fix yet. Sweetie here made somethin’ new.” Sweetie Belle blushes. “Twilight and Time Turner figured out the technicals. I just had the idea and helped them tinker.” I smile proudly and trot over to put a hoof to her shoulder. “Your modesty is very becoming, Sweetie Belle, and I admire your humility.” I tap her on the sternum. “But you had the thought to work for the comfort and capability of the crew. That’s no small thing.” I look over her shoulder at the tank. “Whatever else, your invention will most certainly save lives, and hopefully get us through…” I stop short of saying ‘the next war,’ because my throat catches at the words. “… get ponies like Shoddy through easier,” I say. Now why did I suddenly jump to Shoddy? “How’s he doin’?” asks Applebloom, either not noticing my discomfort over the thought of another war or – more likely – choosing not to comment on it. “He’s… he’s adjusting,” I say, trying not to divulge more than I ought. “I think he would benefit from having a… clearer idea where he’s going. He needs—” My train of thought derails mid-sentence, knocked off track by the blindingly obvious. How could I have been so stupid!? “Tell me, girls, in addition to schooling, Junior ROTC, and designing weapons with the help of local geniuses and factory managers, do you still help ponies with cutie mark problems?” After finding their special talents, the old ‘CMCs’ had spent many an afternoon helping their classmates and younger ponies find their own. They proved to have quite the knack for it, to the point that it seemed to be a part of their own, oddly-synchronous special talents. Twilight has long speculated it’s part of their special talents, or at least related to them. I must confess, however, that between helping Twilight, managing my own business, and helping manage two others throughout the war, I lost track of whether the three of them were still pursuing that endeavor. Based on the eager glances the three of them shoot each other, the answer is ‘yes, yes they were.’ Sweetie Belle gives me a sly grin and says, “Miss Rarity, why don’t you step into our office.” I blink in confusion. “Into your what?” They gesture to a side door to which I had not been paying particular attention – a door rather resembling a private investigator’s office door, with wooden frame, a large glass pane inset, and bold-printed lettering reading: CUTIE MARK CRUSADER PRIVATE VOCATIONAL CONSULTING, LLC My voice lowers an octave as I say the only thing I can under the circumstances. “What?” Well. This is surreal. My astonishment at discovering that the girls have had yet another extracurricular activity that I’ve been blissfully unaware of delayed my entry into the room long enough that they had time to set up. And what a setup it is. The Cutie Mark Crusader Private Vocational Counseling (LLC) office looks like its straight out of the pages of a Shadow Spade novel. A ceiling fan operating on a small magic motor spins lazily overhead, while filing cabinets and shelves full of what look to be case files dominate the walls. A hat rack in the corner is dominated by a plethora of bell hats, fedoras, trilbys, bonnets, homburgs, feathered headbands, wide-brimmed sunhats, and a variety of other similar accoutrements. A heavy wooden desk with an antique lamp and blotter fill the far side of the room opposite the door, along with an ashtray (thankfully empty) and what I sincerely hope to be a prop smoking pipe. Two chairs sit before the desk, with a wheeled chair behind it. The grimy window centered behind the desk looks to have been pried straight from the set of a detective play lets in natural light behind the desk while obscuring the world outside to the point that it could just as easily be in a big city as in the country. The three girls somehow managed change their attire before I entered, each donning either a period dress or a feminine long-coat, with each being expertly paired with either a feathered headband or a cap. Sweetie Belle sits behind the desk, leaning back in the chair with a hood-eyed, sharp-edged look on her features. Applebloom leans against the wall behind her like a bodyguard, flipping a coin to herself and blowing bubblegum, which I suppose is better than chewing tobacco. Scootaloo sits perched on a short file-cabinet by the window, playing soft jazz on a saxophone, because of course she is. Oh, did I mention everything is black and white? And I do mean everything – the room, the furniture, the girls, and – most disturbingly – me. Yes, the moment I stepped through the door, I became black and white. Before I can even get a dazed query out, Sweetie begins monologuing to an invisible audience to the tune of Scootaloo’s jazz. “It was a cool fall day when the fashionista blew into my office like an autumn wind,” she narrates. “I could tell by the look on her face she had something on her mind…” “Sweetie, what in—” “…Either that or she’d once again forgotten where she left her reading glasses.” Oh I’m going to kill her later. “Sweetie, what on earth is going on?!” Unmoved by my ire, she monologues on, “The fashionista was inquisitive. Perhaps too inquisitive.” My jaw hardens. “Sweetie, why am I black and white.” In her normal voice Sweetie replies, “Twilight put a glamor enchantment on the room. Like it?” I sigh and shut my eyes tight against the oncoming headache. As I massage my temple with a hoof, suddenly in need of a cup of black tea – or perhaps a shot of brandy – I say, “Remind me to never loan you my Shadow Spade books ever again.” “We find the setting helps put our clients’ minds at ease,” remarks Sweetie primly. “Oh it does, does it?” I ask dryly. “A glamor enchantment and saxophone music?” Applebloom shrugs. “Ain’t had any complaints.” “Well, points for unique marketing I suppose,” I sigh. Glancing at Scootaloo, still softly playing jazz, I ask, “And since when do you play saxophone?” She stops long enough to look up, saying, “You don’t know everything about me.” Feeling quite like I’ve stumbled into a bizarre alternate timeline, I square my shoulders and make my way farther into the room. “You know, under ordinary circumstances I would have many, many questions for you, but at the moment I’ll just ask the one before availing myself of your services.” “Ask away,” prompts Sweetie Belle. “How in the wide world of Equestria do you find time for school, work, designing a mechanized vehicle, farmwork, Junior ROTC, and this…” I gesture to the room, “bizarre approach to vocational training?” The girls exchange a glance, then Applebloom replies, “Pinkie Pie… may have helped us plan our schedules.” I blink rapidly for several moments, pondering the various implications of that answer, including the fact that Pinkie Pie was overseas until relatively recently, the various times each of these activities entered their schedules, and what exactly a Pinkie Pie time-management plan would entail. I quickly decide that my headache is bad enough as it is and I don't need a migraine. "Fine,” I snap. “No further questions. Let’s talk about Shoddy.” Sweetie gestures to one of the guest chairs. “Please take a seat, Miss Rarity.” My eyes narrow. “Don’t push it.” Sweetie dips her head contritely. “Sorry.” With that, I take my seat and begin the narrative. I lay out the circumstances of Shoddy’s difficulties in much the same way I would have for Applejack – describing what he’s struggling with while leaving out the things too personal to include. Right at the start, Scootaloo exchanged her saxophone for a typewriter and took notes like a stenographer, while Applebloom occasionally paused my narrative to collect another ‘case file’ to use as reference, which the three of them would review mostly in silence, broken only by hoof-written notes scratched on writing pads, presumably for reference to similar cases. Overall, the process is intensely surreal, but I find myself weirdly drawn into it to such a degree that I scarcely notice after a time. As absurd as it is to say, I find myself strangely comfortable in the setting. Perhaps there is something to the noir approach to vocational counseling after all. Either that or there’s something in the water at Ponyville, and we’re all just crazy. To be honest, both explanations are equally plausible (and arguably complimentary). Once I’ve gone through as much of the explanation as I can give without violating Shoddy’s confidence, the three of them sit back and ponder. “Well,” I prompt, “what do you think.” There’s a brief silence before they begin making suggestions. “Ah get the impression the answer is right under our noses,” suggests Applebloom. “Like… maybe the mark ain’t about the work per se, but somethin’ more basic.” Scootaloo nods. “Right, like the Diamond Tiara case. It wasn’t jewelry-related like the mark would seem on the surface – it was persuasion skills, which had only incidentally been discovered when she persuaded her father to carry dress-up tiaras in his stores. The tiara wasn’t the special talent – the skill behind it was.” “That makes sense,” says Sweetie Belle. “Shoddy worked so many jobs that focusing on any one of them would be a dead end. We have to find the common factor. He moved around from place to place…” “… working different jobs…” continues Scootaloo. “… but always moving,” concludes Applebloom. “Right,” says Sweetie Belle. “So maybe it’s not the work, but the moving, or, more accurately…” “… endurance,” chorus Applebloom and Scootaloo. “More precisely, the endurance needed to power through manual labor and the mental fortitude to endure repetitive, heavy work,” expands Sweetie. “That’s why it showed up on a long hike between towns.” “A back country road like that is just a long, mindless walk,” says Applebloom, sounding to speak from ready experience. “There’s a special kind of strength ta just put one hoof in front o’ the other on a long road, then work for hours on end day-in and day-out when ya get where yer goin’.” Scootaloo smiles. “He’s a ground pounder,” she says. “Built for all the grunt work Marines do.” “Long marches an’ heavy lifting,” says Applebloom. “Powering through pain,” says Sweetie Belle. “Crushing skulls,” says Scootaloo. The other two glare at her. “What?! It’s true!” Applebloom rolls her eyes and continues, “Point is, his thing seems to be mental tenacity, physical endurance, and mind-over-matter-but-the-matter-is-still-crazy-tough.” Sweetie nods and turns to me, saying, “That’s our initial assessment. What do you think?” What do I think? I think I’m at a loss for words for the fifth or six time this week, and about half of those were today with the three girls. I also think I’ve got a speck of sentiment and familial pride in my eye, based on the sudden moisture I detect there. “I think…” I say a touch huskily, “that I am very proud of the three of you. Sweetie, you told me a little while ago that I’d done a lot during the war; I think the three of you have just as many accomplishments under your belts.” Smiling, Sweetie Belle replies, “Well, when we’ve all got such great, affirming older sisters and friends to look up to, who tell us that you believe in us – and mean it – it turns out we can accomplish a lot.” Yes, definitely a few specks of sentiment and familial pride in my eyes. Having significantly dampened my kerchief, I say, “I think you girls have gotten right to the heart of the matter. You seem to have figured out the mystery of Shoddy’s special talent, as well as revealing why he excelled as a Marine.” “Well, sure, that skill set’s perfect for a grunt,” Applebloom agrees, “but it’d be perfect for other stuff too if’n ya can figure how ta apply it.” “Yeah,” agrees Scootaloo. “Plenty of jobs require that kind of grit, doggedness, and mind-over-matter determination to push through.” “Ya just need ta find somethin’ that’d let him exercise that talent, bring out that sort of ‘just one more mile’ mindset, an’ Ah think that’d really help him find job satisfaction.” “And,” adds Sweetie Belle, “it would sort of let him ‘redeem’ that mindset from only being in a warrior context. Don’t get me wrong, it’s perfect for a warrior, but even a soldier shouldn’t only be applying that kind of skill in war. Sergeant Hardline says that leads to combat fatigue. My guess is he needs to learn how to exercise his talent in more than just one context again.” “I couldn’t agree more,” I reply. “Now the only question is how to help him exercise it.” Hm, ‘exercise.’ That reminds me how much I’ve missed the exercise I got back in our adventuring days. I could stand to start exercising again. Exercise, exercise. Wait… A slow smile spreads across my face. “That gives me an idea…” As soon as I get back from my visit to the Cutie Mark Crusader Private Vocational Consulting (LLC), I make my proposal to Iron Shod: Be my personal fitness trainer. “Aw, shucks, Miss Rarity,” Shoddy says, rubbing the back of his head anxiously. “I don’t know the first thing ’bout bein’ a personal trainer.” “Oh, pshaw, darling,” I scoff. “It’s perfect! I need to get back into shape, and you know how to get into shape. That’s the first rule of business, darling: find a demand, devise a solution, and meet the demand.” “But… but…” he protests. “I ain’t got no trainin’ ta be a fitness trainer!” “Oh, I don’t see any problem with the idea Shoddy. You can just…” I trail off as something outside the window catches my attention. Namely, a red flag waving outside my window. “You can… um… one moment please, Iron Shod.” I trot over and throw the window open to peer outside. There I spy Pinkie, waving a red flag as if in warning. Seeing me, she waves cheerily. “Hiya, Rarity!” “Hello, Pinkie Pie,” I reply. “May I ask why you’re waving a red flag?” “Eh,” she shrugs. “Just seemed appropriate.” “O~kaaaay,” I say. “Well… you have fun now.” “Yuppers!” Shaking my head I turn back to Shoddy and say, “You can just take what you learned in the Marines—” I am cut off my ominous music playing outside. Once more, I throw up the sash and peer out to find Pinkie Pie, this time playing… “Pinkie, darling, why are you playing a pipe organ?” A newcomer to Ponyville would have asked, ‘How did you get a pipe organ into the street.’ Such newcomers either learn not to ask such irrelevant questions or else they don’t last long. “Eh,” replies Pinkie with another shrug. “Just ’cuz.” “… Okay, Pinkie. You enjoy yourself.” “Thanks! You too!” Shaking my head, I return my attention to a rather bemused Iron Shod and say, “You can just take what you learned in the Marines—” I don’t even turn around when the organ hits a note that sounds rather like “Doom.” “—and apply that to training me.” Shoddy winces and scratches the back of his head. “Well… if you say so, Miss Rarity.” “I know so, darling. Trust me, this is a wonderful idea.” My room, Ponyville, 0600 hours the next morning… At 0559 hours, I am sleeping peacefully. At 0600 hours, the shriek of a drill sergeant’s whistle levitates me approximately six feet into the air. “GET THE LEAD OUT, RECRUIT! IT IS 0600 HOURS AND YOU ARE LATE FOR OUR FIVE MILE WARMUP! LET’S GO! GO! GO!” As Shoddy launches into a slew of Drill Sergeantese, a single, solitary, introspective realization crosses my mind: This may have been a bad idea. Author's Note In hindsight, the premise seems obvious. Artillery and automatic weapons are very effective at killing the enemy, but they’re heavy, and the enemy naturally targets them. Artillery must stay far back and under guard, and chatter guns are often reinforced with sandbags and bunkers to protect the crews. The only problem is, then they can’t go on the offense. Sure, you could put a chatter gun on a wagon and drag it forward (and sometimes we did), but even armored war wagons have many vulnerabilities, especially for the poor sods who have to pull. So, what could be the solution? Well, a cart that could be driven from the inside, for one. Not something that would require tracks like an armored train, but something that could drive around the countryside like an automated cart or carriage. Leoneighdo da Vinci’s armored mobile fighting vehicle is a step in the right direction, but it operated on unicorn magic to keep it running, or on having a mighty earth pony to push it around from the inside. Fine over short spurts of even terrain, but painfully slow and utterly worthless in uneven terrain. Also, the crew would burn out from the exhaustion in short order. This means it needs an engine – a mechanical engine or at least a magi-mechanical hybrid (though the former would be preferable as it would be immune to a Tirek-like event). It needs to be powerful enough to handle the drive train while carrying the weight of the armor, weaponry, and crew. It needs to be large enough to carry at least one automatic weapon, ideally two or more, and should if possible allow for a small cannon capable of firing explosive shells. We already have a variety of tracked and wheeled automated vehicles, but most are either too slow or too underpowered to provide what we need. We need to innovate, to build better engines and more reliable means of locomotion to handle the harsh terrain and heavy load at a combat-ready speed. If we can unlock the potential of our existing technology, I believe we will produce a significant force-multiplier that will give us the upper hoof in any future conflicts. —Colonel Full Arsenal, Department of Arms Research and Development, Equestrian Armed Forces, in a briefing to the Equestrian Royalty and Cabinet Ministers, shortly before launching the DARD Armored Warfighting Vehicle Challenge.* *DARD Challenges were a brainchild of Princess Twilight Sparkle, and exist as a means for the Equestrian government to offer contracts to private inventors and companies to develop technologies useful to the Armed Forces, thus increasing the number of available options for military modernization. By leveraging Equestria’s robust free market, the Challenges enable the government to incentivize various industries to develop the tools they need to better equip their soldiers. Previous DARD Challenges of note include the Next Generation Rifle Challenge – which lead to the adoption of such weapons as the Spader rifle and the Turner carbine by the Equestrian Armed Forces – and the Advanced Protective Gear Challenge - which led to the improvement of combat armor worn by Equestrian troops prior to and during the war with the Dominion. I am immensely grateful for the patience you have all shown in waiting for the next installment. I am not happy about the long delay, and I won’t make excuses. I’m getting back into a better rhythm. I don’t know when the next chapter will be, but I’m at least glad to have this one up and running. While waiting for the next chapter, a historical interlude to tide you over and give you a little insight into my world-building (for those who are interested). I hadn’t originally intended such a long tangent on weapons development, but once the idea came to me it just kind of took over. Plus, I think it’s important to give the context that “other people do things besides the main characters.” We see much of the story from Rarity’s perspective, and part of that perspective is the astonishment at how quickly the world around her changes; that’s something we experience a lot today, but I don’t think we can really comprehend how much more disorienting the change must have been to those who saw the advance of technology from the late 1800s to the mid 1900s. One thing that is often glossed over in history is the rapid evolution of technology. There were veterans of the American Civil War who, in their own lifetimes, saw the evolution of technology from muskets and breech-loaders and telegraphs and steam engines to Korean War jetfighters and the engineering that would put men into space. Imagine that for a second – you took a muzzle-loading rifled musket to war as a young adult, and by the time you were old there were jetfighters and plans to put men on the moon. That’s insane. War in particular often causes technology to jump forward a decade or two in just a couple years. World War I began with some armies fielding Napoleonic-era artillery and ended with tanks, fighters, bombers, modern artillery, machineguns and sub-machineguns, and a whole host of other technological advances in everything from medicine to communication to automotive industry advances. Some of these inventions were done by pretty young inventors; there’s a whole generation of planes where one guy would cobble together some parts to make a functional aircraft in the back shop, along with all kinds of groundcar modifications, motorcycle innovations, and more, so the idea of the CMCs building a tank isn’t as out there as you might think in this early era of modern machining. Canon Equestria is the sort of setting that has some wild possibilities for technological evolution. On one hand, it would be easy to let it sit as early industrial, with trains, steam engines, and some magic engines (or magic-tech hybrids) for airships and some basic ground conveyance. We see motorized cranes (one of which catches fire and prompts a building collapse, as alluded to in the chapter), a few basic autocarriages (Flim Flam’s Super Speedy etc., the CMC’s semi-motorized float, and so-on), and the comics mention telegraphs. They also have cannons which appear to have evolved past Medieval cannons into at least Renaissance era, possibly Industrial era. In the Homecoming-verse, I’ve expanded this to note that muskets, rifling, and early breech-loaders were in existence in roughly season 1’s timeline, but that advances beyond that were ill-funded and mostly in prototype stages. Tirek’s *ahem* shenanigans (as well as concerns of rising dangers from other nations) lead to a rapid arms development. I’ve covered the small-arms side of this before in various in-chapter tidbits and canon lore snippets in authors notes. But two things I haven’t covered yet are communications and vehicles. Communication is among the most important aspects of warfare – your troops need to know what to do, when to do it, and how to accomplish it in the most efficient manner possible. Clear communication is often the difference between life and death, and bad communication spells disaster more often than not (see The Charge of the Light Brigade). Thus, if Equestria already had the telegraph (at least in comics), radio and the like is not that crazy of a step to consider, especially with magic in play. Automation is another vital piece of modern war planning. Trains were often the difference between victory and defeat in history. Prussia won the Franco-Prussian War in large part because their superior rail network let them mobilize troops and get them to the front faster, even though France had a much larger army. They often outnumbered the French in early battles because they had more people there, even if the French had more overall. Automobiles add considerably to logistical capability, as they don’t need rail networks to transport troops and supplies. In WWII, the Americans and British had a serious advantage over the Germans once their logistical capabilities hit their stride because they had approximately ALL OF THE TRUCKS (and also supplied the USSR with a massive number of trucks) whereas the Germans were often using horse-drawn transport even into 1945. It was one of the many reasons the German logistics fell apart the longer the war dragged on. Further, automotive transport lends itself naturally to the following premise: machinegun kill people, put people kill machinegunner. Put armored box on machinegunner, but then he no reach people. So put armor box on wheels, then machinegunner go kill people. (credit to Potential History for that one). This is where we see the creation and evolution of armored warfare. So, with Equestria having at least some automotive capability and artillery even in canon, and also possessing more modern artillery and even automatic weapons in the Homecoming setting (which are no doubt being improved upon post-war), that leads to the following natural question: What if we make horse-tank with horse-radio? And that’s where we get into the CMCs entering a DARD Challenge. Back before the episode where the CMCs got their marks aired, there was a lot of speculation that AB would get her mark in engineering. While I actually really enjoyed the episode, I also liked that older idea (and some others that went with Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo), so I resurrected it for this story.
Heart to HeartDid you know that being a pony comes with certain natural advantages when it comes to soldiering? I’m not talking about pegasi flight or unicorn magic or earth pony strength and connection to the earth; I’m talking about how our brains develop. You see, ponies are, by our nature, herd animals. Now, this admittedly does come with certain challenges which must be overcome in order to develop a pony into a good soldier. The chiefest among these is the fact that our fight or flight response tends to default to the latter and prefers to shift to the former only when there are no other options. Ponies can be ferocious when backed into a corner, and training – or an inborn talent – can control the flight impulse, making it a decision rather than a default action. This allows a pony to go into a combat mindset as easily as one might flip a switch. Still, it is generally a learned behavior. I am told that pony soldiers tend to take longer to train than certain other races – like griffons – but that we become quite the force to be reckoned with when we are trained. And this is where being a herd animal has its advantages. You see, when ‘the herd’ unites behind a motivated leader, the herd will simply go. Oftentimes there is little verbal explanation needed, as ponies have a variety of nonverbal cues natural to our communication, as well as a certain single-mindedness when we are caught up in a grand action by ‘the herd.’ While this can certainly be abused, a good leader can inspire followers to accomplish things they’d never thought possible. I remember Twilight telling me one story from the early days of Equestria. A warband of griffon raiders had swept down on a rural settlement. All that stood in their way was a hastily organized band of townsfolk. They weren’t professional soldiers, and were more or less expected to run or die. What they did have though were two critical assets: their personal armaments, such as are sensible to keep for self-defense, and a leader. One, single, solitary pony with the grit to stand firm. While most of the ponies were in full panic mode, the town blacksmith – just a common earth pony with a little experience in weapon-handling – bellowed at the hasty militia until he got their attention. Then he told the militia that the griffon raiders would kill their families if they didn’t kill the raiders first. He said he was going to ram his spear down the throat of the first raider he saw, and said anypony among them with a shred of love for kith and kin would do the same. At his words, the townsfolk shifted from fear to ferocity. Historical accounts differ somewhat on the details, but most agree that the militia waited near the edge of town until the griffons got close, then sprang an ambush, fired such arrows as they had, and charged. Apparently, they killed the raiders almost to the last griffon, leaving a few survivors to limp home and tell their chieftains that Equestria would not be easy prey. Note how history turned solely on the courage of one pony and the herd mentality of the rest – he asserted his case, gave an order, and it was followed without question. Having been swept up in more than one herd movement – for better or worse – I can confirm that it is difficult for a pony not to get swept up in the heat of things. Thankfully, ponies are not typically the violent sort – and that we have a tradition of hooves off government – or else this sort of collective action would likely be abused far more often than it is. As a people, we are quick to ‘follow the leader,’ and that leader can be just about anypony with the presence to command respect. Thus, if a pony were, hypothetically, to ask a retired Marine to undertake – just as an example, you understand – the task of helping her get back in shape as a sort of experiment in alternative career paths, and then that Marine were to, say, wake said pony up at the crack of doom with a veritable cavalcade of bellowed orders, it is very likely – again, hypothetically – that those orders would be followed. All of which is a very long way of saying that I spend a good half hour – give or take a year – being put through my paces by Fitness-Sergeant First Class Iron Shod before I even think to question what’s going on. Of course, by that time at least a decade seems to have passed, and I’m much too out of breath to say anything anyway. “GET THE LEAD OUT, RECRUIT BELLE!” roars Iron Shod, his words driving me down the track with all the force of a hurricane at my back. Did I mention we’re on a ten-mile run? We’re on a ten-mile run. “YOU CALL THAT A RUN?! MY GRANDMOTHER – CREATOR REST HER SOUL – CAN RUN FASTER THAN THAT AND SHE’S BEEN DEAD SIXTEEN YEARS!” I say ‘we’re’ on a run, but Shoddy appears to be strolling. “I DID NOT GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO STOP, RECRUIT! WE’VE STILL GOT THREE MORE MILES TO GO!” Backwards. Strolling backwards and still ahead of me at a run. “PICK UP THEM HOOVES, FILLY! THIS AIN’T NO SUNDAY CANTER!” I have not been able to feel my hooves for the last fifteen eternities. “I CAN STILL SEE YOUR WHITE COAT UNDER THE DUST! THAT MEANS YOU AIN’T MOVIN’ FAST ENOUGH!” Time loses all semblance of meaning as a morning jog quickly turns into a death march. “KEEP YOUR PACE STEADY! FIND YOUR RHYTHM!” He breaks into a marching cadence at the top of his lungs – still running backwards mind you – and bellows: “I DON’T KNOW BUT I BEEN TOLD!” To my immeasurable horror, my vocal chords go AWOL from my mental faculties and gasp out: “I dOn’t KnoW bUt Ai bEen tOlD!” Did I forget to mention the herd mentality applies to singing? “THEM ROY’L MARINES IS MIGHTY BOLD!” The herd mentality applies to singing. “th~EM ROyal marINES iS mI~ghTy BOld!” It’s something ponies take for granted… “AN’ UP UPON THEM BOLDEN SCENE!” But I’m told it’s shocking or even horrifying to outsiders. “An’ uP upON t~Ehm bWOld~en SEe~En!” A single voice is raised in song… “STANDS THA ’QUESTRIAN ROY’L MARINES!” … and hundreds may join the refrain… “sTan’s thUh KehstryAhn rhOil Mu’rEens!” … whether they know the song, as in Shoddy’s case … “SOUND OFF!” … or don’t know the song, as in my case. “ONe tWo!” And, like any other herd mentality moment… “SOUND OFF!” … it is nearly impossible to resist… “thREE FwWOR!” … even if one really, really wants to. “ONE TWO THREE FOUR!” “ROY’l KEhstpREEAn Mu’RIne KWor!” Just so we are absolutely clear, I have never once, in my life, heard an Equestrian Royal Marine Corps cadence, still less the specific one Shoddy chose for today. That said, I am fairly certain we made it through the entire thing. “ONE TWO THREE FOUR!” “ROYL KEQUESTPRIAN MUREEN KWPWOR!” More or less. “KEEP GOING, BOOT! YOU’VE ONLY GOT A MILE TO GO!” My life flashes before my eyes in a blur of color and sound that makes me keenly aware that I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time dealing with monsters of supervillains, all of whom I would rather be fighting blindfolded than run the next mile. “SWEET BEER-BATTERED CELESTIA, HAVE I BEEN STRUCK BLIND FOR MY SINS, OR AM I NOT SEEING ANY MOVEMENT?! PICK UP THE PACE, RECRUIT! GO! GO! GO!” As I finally collapse in the muck after pushing my body beyond all previously held physical limitations and discovering that I appear to be capable of violating the laws of physics to please the drill sergeant, I come to an important, introspective realization: Ow. I blink my eyes for a thousandth of a second, and Iron Shod is on the ground in front of me, eye to eye with me, the smell of his breath seeming to bespeak ‘IMPROVISE, ADAPT, OVERCOME,’ which I did not realize was a particular scent up until that moment, but now seems so obvious that I wonder how I could have missed it all these years. “Recruit Belle, why are you on the ground?” he demands. Strangely, he is not shouting, and yet his question feels more pointed than a fresh sewing needle being jabbed into the frog of my hoof. Deciding that such a question merits a direct answer, I eloquently respond, “Legs *gasp* naw *wheeze* move.” “You can’t move?” “*gawheeze* no *hackspittle* I *wheezespittlegasp* can’t.” “Could you move to save a brother Marine?” Iron Shod asks, his voice sober, intense. He’s not shouting like he was, he’s not even raising his voice, yet he conveys the gravitas of family, love, and loss. “Your brother needs you to move,” he informs me. He points over the low hill up which the path runs a few meters ahead of us. “Your brother is bleedin’ out over that hill. He needs you. You gonna leave him bleedin’, or you gonna get ’im?” Warm bile rises in my throat as energy flows back into my limbs. Pain which debilitated me a moment ago now galvanizes me. The agony in my legs and gasping in my lungs cries out not for relief, but for movement. My suffering becomes my friend. Needs me. Brother needs me. I am back on my hooves before I realize what I’m doing, scrambling up the slope. My legs threaten to give out, and I nearly plunge back into the dirt, but I wrench myself onwards through sheer will. I will not leave him. My hooves eat up the ground before me, clawing me up the hill, moving me with a sort of shambling locomotion I never knew I possessed. I don’t think; I just do. I manage to crest the hill and start down the slope before my limbs fully give out. Shoddy is next to me in a heartbeat. The dread anticipation of his next words – no doubt words saying that I failed to get to my brother – does not allow me to rest. I scramble forward, intending to use my forward momentum and the downward slope to come out of my fallen posture and into a run— Oof! Legs aren’t working. Have to try agai— Ow! Still not working. Improvise, adapt, overcome. If I can’t run to him, I’ll crawl. Dirt and grit scrapes my underbelly, but I won’t stop, I won’t give in, I won’t— be able to move, apparently, because I can’t even crawl. Maybe if I shift my weight around I— “Okay, Miss Rarity, I think that’s enough for today,” says Shoddy gently. He stoops over me and reaches for something in his satchel. “It’S rEkROot BELle, FITnESs-S’rgeant Shawd, an’ Ah’m nAwt dUn Yett,” I say, which is rather remarkable when my verbal capabilities are essentially parked at the corner of Wheezing and Gasping right now. My further attempts to crawl further meet with an insurmountable obstacle: the gentle push of Iron Shod utterly negating all forward momentum on my part. “Miss Rarity—” “R’breeCRoot BwElle,” I insist. There’s a pause before he says, “Recruit Belle, you have completed training for the day.” He pulls from his satchel a flask marked with a red cross and a little tin of what looks like mints, though are probably medicine given that they bear the same red cross. “Natural Zebrican anti-inflammatory and energy restorer,” he says, shaking the tin, “and a few gentle sips o’ this tonic – mostly water, but some other stuff that’ll help rehydrate ya without shockin’ yer system.” I’m proud to say that Fitness-Sergeant First Class Iron Shod barely needs to assist me in opening my mouth to administer the medical supplies (or, as I like to think of them as I feel their pain-relieving effects, as he administers the ‘Sweet Nectar of the Heavens’). Standing still proves a challenge though. Not that it matters because standing is apparently not a part of the Fitness-Sergeant First Class Iron Shod’s battleplan. Instead, he gently manages to drape me over his back so that he may carry me to town. Feeling rather like a little filly who’s been out playing all day and needs her big brother to carry her home, I start feeling drowsy. Not so drowsy, however, that I can’t ask an important question about our mission. “Did Ah get ta him?” I ask, coming closer to Applejack’s drawl than I ever manage when I’m actually trying. “Get ta who?” asks Shoddy. “Mah brother Marine,” I clarify. “Did Ah get ta him in time?” Shoddy is silent for so long that I actually start to nod off. The last thing that I hear before dozing off is his answer. “’Course ya did,” Shoddy assures me, his voice hoarse. “We… real Marines always get to their brothers in time.” “He did WHAT?!” roars Applejack. I wince as I adjust the ice packs lying on my legs. “He acquiesced to my request for a fitness trainer." It’s been several hours since Shoddy’s and my excursion into the remarkable world of the Marine Fitness Regiment. I have regained feeling in my extremities, which is good. That feeling is mostly pain, however, which is less than ideal, but also leaves me with an odd feeling of triumph. Or maybe I have some endorphins in my system who were too tired to show up earlier and are making their presence felt now. Applejack is not feeling the endorphins. Applejack is feeling the rage. “If ya asked fer that, he shoulda taken you on a jog, not a ten-mile forced march at bayonet point!” I scoff, wincing again as the light scoff puts enough pressure on my extremities to hurt. “Oh please, Applejack. Don’t be so dramatic. There were no bayonet points.” His voice sufficed. “True enough,” says Trixie. Applejack glares at her. “What?” the showmare protests defensively. “Rarity has a point. And that point is there were no points.” Applejack’s glare intensifies. “Bayonet points, that is. You see, it’s a play on words that— oh, Trixie is sorry, is she spelling this out too much? She’s spelling it out too much.” I lie in my bedroom on the second floor of the boutique. It is that room wherein Applejack is glaring at both Trixie and myself – and presumably, at Shoddy downstairs through two floors and various support struts. Applejack and Trixie had come by to see if I wanted to join them for lunch. Shoddy let them in and then – thankfully – disappeared downstairs before Applejack could see me and decide to rearrange his face, his limbs, and possibly some of his internal organs. Our dear Applejack has always had a rather powerful Mom Look – likely from raising Applebloom and generally being the ‘big sister’ to our group (and others) – but it has only grown in power since serving in the Marines and – most recently and obviously – getting pregnant. She now has a fully operational Mom Look. I have no doubt that – without even needing to look down – her Mom Look is penetrating all the way to the basement, and Shoddy is probably down there cleaning his room, remaking his already made bed, and putting the toilet seat down without knowing why. “Ah am gonna wring his skinny little neck!” snarls Applejack, pacing in fury. “Oh, come now Applejack. You shouldn’t be so hard on Shoddy, especially not when it’s my fault.” “Your fault?!” she shouts. “How in the Sam Hill do ya figure that?!” I manage to restrain myself from a painful shrug. “I heard enough of your boot camp stories and have learned enough of Shoddy to have predicted something like this. I should have seen this coming.” “She makes another good point,” agrees Trixie. “Not a bayonet point, you understand, because, as we’ve established, there were not bayonet points, but…” Applejack’s Mom Look lands on her, and Trixie takes a step back. “Trixie will be quiet now.” “Shoddy should have known better,” snarls Applejack. I roll my eyes. “No, Applejack, I should have known better. Especially since…” I bite my lip in hesitation, not wanting to admit what I’m about to admit. But I have to, or else Applejack might go cut a switch and tan Shoddy’s hide or some such thing. “Especially since Pinkie Pie was waving red flags and playing ominous music and making ‘Doom’ sounds when I asked Shoddy to help me get in shape.” Applejack pulls up short, blinks rapidly, and says, “Oh.” She pauses. “Well then it’s your own dumb fault.” “Idiot,” says Trixie, looking at me. “Yeah, idiot,” agrees Applejack. I sigh and accept the punishment, knowing I’ve spared Shoddy the wrath of Mama Applejack. At least now perhaps we can have a civilized discussion and— “Have ya pooped?” Applejack demands. The question raises concerns in the higher levels of my mental faculties. Specifically, concerns that my ears are malfunctioning. My higher mental faculties send a runner down to my ear canals to get a confirmation. A few moments later, the runner reports back to said faculties that, yes, I did in fact hear her right. My vocal chords open a dialogue to resolve the many concerns such a question raises. “I beg your pardon?!” “Pooped. Have ya pooped since runnin’?” Applejack clarifies, somehow managing to clear up exactly nothing. Seeing that a standard form of questioning failed to work, my brain defaults to the more primal response of simply sputtering in confusion in the hopes that this will cause Applejack to explain herself. “It’s a serious question, Rares,” Applejack assures me in an un-reassuring manner. “Boot camp does crazy things to tha body. Sometimes, yer doin’ so much that it don’t work right. If ya don’t poop in the next couple-three days, check in with Redheart or her husband. They’re both nurses, and they both went through boot camp, so they’ll know what to look for. If it’s longer, just go ta the hospital.” “I… bu… you… you’re serious?” “Ah am indeed,” nods Applejack. “They’ll check ya out an’ make sure yer plumbing’s workin’ agin.” Trixie nods sagely. “They’ll make you poop before you fly the coop.” Applejack shoots her an astonished look. “What is with you an’ these dumb jokes today?” The stage mare shrugs. “Trixie got a book of Dad Jokes for Arinze this morning. But he was out, and Trixie got bored waiting for you when you had your morning sickness, so she decided to read them all.” Applejack snorts. “Glad ya weren’t too inconvenienced by my pukin’,” comes her acerbic reply. “Why would ya give him a fool thing like that anyway? You know Ah hate them kind o’ jokes.” Trixie puts a comforting hoof on Applejack’s shoulder and says, “Trixie understands this is a very confusing time for you, Princess Applejack, so Trixie will clarify.” Despite Applejack’s low growl, the showmare does indeed clarify. “You see, Trixie has long been distraught over her inability to torment you with daily pranks and jokes as she once did.” She leans against Applejack as though fainting against one of my couches. “All those long nights of agony asking, ‘Why? Why can Trixie not be there to torment Applejack with silly jokes and childish amusements, to unleash the full power of the little sister archetype and bring it to hideous bearing against the common-born Princess Applejack?’” She throws a dramatic hoof to her brow demanding, “‘Why? Why? Wh—?’” She has to catch herself as Applejack steps back and allows Trixie to fall with a surprised ‘yipe’. After recovering, Trixie reasserts her overblown tone. “All those nights of agony… wondering… wishing… tormented by my inability to annoy you…” she drops the overblown tone and states blandly, “So Trixie bought the book for your husband so she could take comfort in knowing he’d do the work for her.” Applejack gives Trixie a long, hard, calculating look. Her jaw moves as though chewing on her thoughts. Her squinty-eyed Mom Look bores into Trixie like a woodworker’s drill, and it does Trixie tremendous credit that she does not wilt under the assault. Abruptly, Applejack turns to me and asks in a casual tone, “Random hypothetical for ya, Rarity. If’n Ah killed Trixie here,” she points to the mare in question, “would ya report me er not?” What I have here is a golden opportunity to bring a peaceful end to the friendly threats and playful tormenting passing between them, to lower the level of playful aggression with a sort of ‘Oh come now, Applejack’ sort of statement. That’s not what I do, of course, but it’s a golden opportunity for it. Throwing caution (and any regard for my sore limbs) to the wind, I adopt my fainting couch pose and cry, “Oh Applejack, why? Why do you so vociferously fight the fond torments of Trixie and her dedication to annoying you? Why, oh Applejack, why, why?” Soon Trixie adds her own cries of “Why, why?” to my own, and my room sounds like it’s the recording studio of a cheesy radio drama, interspersed with Trixie and I giggling uncontrollably. Applejack stares us down with the flat look of one enduring an unnecessary and underserved lecture. Then she turns and makes fer the door. “Welp. Tha’ssit. Ah’m headin’ home. Ya’ll can go play hopscotch in a minefield fer all Ah care.” “Oh, Applejack, come now. Let’s do lunch!” “Nope!” “Trixie will even annoy you by paying for it!” “Nope! Ah’m out! Go hug a cactus, the pair o’ ye!” We do eventually manage to entice Applejack to join us for lunch, though it takes me dragging my screaming limbs up and out the door to go after her so that I may suggest Sweet Ole Batter’s Pancake Emporium. Sweet Ole Batter’s is a new addition to Ponyville that came while Applejack was away at war. It has such a strong, well-developed, staple-of-the-community-small-town-eatery feeling to it that Ponyville residents sometimes forget that it’s only been here about four years. Applejack was so pleased with the quality of the fare that she declared the proprietor, Ole Batter, to be a ‘Genuine Ole Staple of Ponyville,’ whom she insists has been here for decades. To be clear, she knows this is incorrect, but whenever called to task on this she always says something to the effect of, “Don’t gimme none o’ that linear timeline crap. He’s been here all my life. Ain’t that right, Batter?” To which the elderly proprietor always replies with a twinkle in his eye and a “Yes ma’am.” I’ve long passed the point of questioning it, so when Applejack introduces the place to Trixie as a Genuine Ole Staple of Ponyville – a ‘fact’ Trixie has no cause to question – I don’t even bother to comment. It’s a harmless joke. Besides, they managed to neglect telling me – and, of infinitely greater importance, Twilight – that Trixie had emerged from her Cocoon of Selfishness and undergone the transformation to Close Friend and War Hero, so I think it’s fair that I don’t correct this blatant falsehood. Yes, that logic is as flawed as a dime-store romance novel. No, I don’t care. We secure a table in the back corner of the diner, one that’s near an exit, has clear sight lines, and is relatively secluded from the diner as a whole. In other words, it’s the table that Batter basically holds in reserve for any of the steadily increasing number of Royals who eat at his diner. Kafil – who, due to his easy-going nature, has quickly become Applejack’s go-to bodyguard whenever she wants to be out on the town – posts himself up in a spot that lets him keep an eye on things and be close enough to intervene without being so close as to be distracting. Maybe it’s simply that I became accustomed to the presence of guards around Twilight, but it is remarkable the degree to which a tall, muscular zebra in a red uniform with colorful piping can become unobtrusive. Conversation is fairly light, mostly touching on little everyday occurrences. We talk of Trixie’s train ride down to Ponyville and the various shenanigans which occurred along the way. We speculate on the disheveled history professor we see around Twilight’s castle now and then, a friend of hers who seems rather like the stereotypical cantankerous old uncle and to whom she periodically ‘grants sanctuary’ to so he can ‘hide from the Angry Mob’… whatever that means. An odd fellow, to be sure. We recall how sweet it was to see Nurse Redheart and her beau (a fellow veteran) getting matching prosthetics. Those sorts of things take up much of the conversation. Toward the latter half of the meal, the Redheart story prompts a surprisingly humorous little wartime anecdote from Trixie involving a griffon who captured a medic friend of Trixie’s for the sole purpose of surrendering to him so that he wouldn’t have to fight anymore, though retelling it here would take too long and require too much context. Applejack does not appear too engrossed in the story, possibly because she’s heard it before, or possibly because she has something else on her mind. What she says next suggests the latter. “Rarity, last night, did we…” she rolls her jaw, choosing her words carefully as she idly taps on her mug with the edge of her hoof, “… did we get too grim with the talk last night? Is that why ya left early?” The question rather takes me aback. Before I can respond, she hastily adds, “Because, if that’s why, Ah do apologize. We oughta be more respectful o’ ya.” Much as it shames me to admit it, a respectful reply to her contrite remorse is not the first thing that populates my mind. Rather, it is annoyance. Severe annoyance. Heaven forgive me, but I am so deucedly tired of ponies walking on eggshells around me like I am a porcelain vase balanced on a sewing needle. I’m a seasoned adventurer, darnit, and I am far from inexperienced in the cruelties of the world! I am fifty-seven flavors of done with my friends hiding their lives from me! I hold myself back because… because… because in that particular instance, I did leave early in part because of the direction the conversation took. It was so utterly shocking to me that anypony could miss the war – especially a pony like Shoddy who is so clearly still battling demons from the war on a daily basis – that I had to step back and process what I’d heard. So then, how best to admit that without undercutting my general frustration with being treated like a foal by my veteran friends whenever conversation veers too detailed? True, it is not a problem which appears one hundred percent of the time, but it occurs often enough to be profoundly vexing. Or, more precisely, the fact that they seem to be shutting me out of their lives is… not something that I can bear any longer. In light of this, I manage to choke back my initial snap reply by sheer force of will, literally shutting my mouth against the words which would be spoken in haste and repented of in leisure. After a moment to compose myself, my actual response, though tempered, still retains more annoyance than I would have preferred. “In truth, Applejack, I did need time to… mull over the notion of missing at least a part of the war. That was…” I lightly stir my tea, “… that was not a revelation I expected, nor was I prepared for it. However,” I am quick to continue before she or Trixie can interject with an unnecessary apology, “in truth I am glad Trixie said what she did. Moreover, I am glad of it whenever one of you actually discloses more of the truth about the war. I wish you did it more often.” Looking up steely-eyed from my tea, I meet their gazes levelly. “I do not wish to be spared the details of the conflict. That’s not to say that I wish to pry into things which you do not wish to share – I most assuredly do not –but too often you and the others will begin to freely share a story, only to cut yourselves off and either water it down or change the subject when you remember I’m present. I consider myself fortunate on the occasions when you forget yourselves and say what you mean to say before remembering you’re speaking in my presence. I do not desire insulation from what you all endured; if anything, I want to embrace it.” Returning my gaze to my tea, I continue, “You’ve no idea what it’s like, stewing at home, knowing your friends are out there fighting and possibly dying, and feeling like a coward for not being there with them. To hear word from the front only in the form of cold after-action reports and second-hoof news stories and attempt to fill in the gaps with naught but occasional letters, and having naught to do but guess your stories and pray you live to tell them. Not being able to do anything to help played havoc on my conscience, and the lack of even being able to know your stories only made it worse. I was…” I bite my lip, “I was there Applejack. I was there when we almost lost… I helped Shining Armor keep the shield up. I was in battle that day, serving alongside all you girls, together, but then… when the war started…” Shutting my eyes, I say, “I know it was… necessary that one of us remain. All things considered, it even makes sense it was me. But while what you all endured was surely more devastating than what I suffered, the fact remains that I still bleed inside for only having scraps of knowledge against your canvas of experience. I want to know what it was like, I want to know what you endured. I want to be able to experience it, even at one step removed, because I feel like… I feel like if I can know it, imagine it, even in some limited way, then maybe… maybe I can help share the burden in some small way.” I look up at them to conclude my case, “I can’t go back and be there where you were, and live as you lived. But… I can listen. I can hear. I can be… somebody to talk to I… I want to help. I do. And they say that’s a way to address grief, don’t they? ‘Joy is multiplied when it is shared. Yet grief, when shared, is divided.’ If the only way I can serve is to accept the sharing of grief, then let me share it. Let me help you divide it. And, when you have those humorous anecdotes, well, let me help multiply the joy.” Both of my dining companions sit quietly for a moment. Trixie I still don’t know well enough to read with as much confidence as I’d like, but her steady gaze suggests she’s truly considering what I have to say. Applejack scratches the back of her head, her eyes moving about the room to look at anything but me. She is the first to speak. “Rarity, it ain’t like we’re tryin’ ta cut ya off, it’s just…” she shudders, “what we saw over there was terrible, girl.” Frowning, I reply, “It’s not as though I have no experience of war. I may have only tasted war for one day,” I blink, and for a heartbeat I can see Twilight’s blood on my hooves, “but I assure you it is a bitter taste well-remembered, and oftentimes its foulness returns to taint the flavor of my life. I may not live with it the same way you do, but I live with it all the same, and I do not wish to be spared the details. We are friends, Applejack. We are family.” “Ah know that, Rarity, trust me, Ah know we’re family,” says Applejack earnestly, her eyes coming to meet mine. “Now Ah’m right sorry ya feel like we’re keepin’ ya out of our lives, but that ain’t why we’re doin’ it. Believe me, the things Ah seen…,” she shuts her eyes, “no pony should have ta see what Ah’ve seen, or do what Ah’ve done. Ah wanna spare ponies that,” she opens her eyes once more, and they are full of grief, “’specially family like you.” Well, I suppose it’s hard to stay angry in the face of a reason like that. Especially since I’m not entirely certain which one of us has the right of it. But I’ve come too far finally letting this all out to stop now. Reaching across the table, I take one of Applejack’s hooves in mine and say, “Applejack, I am grateful that you and the girls love me so much that you don’t want me to know the horrors of war as you do. And, I repeat, I don’t want to pressure you into relating stories you’re not yet ready to tell. But… there are stories you do share, just… not with me.” Leaning forward and maintaining eye contact, I declare, “I know it will be hard, Applejack. But I’m asking you to be honest with me.” She winces as I play the honesty card; I feel a little bad, but I’m desperate. “Applejack, I want to be there to listen, to learn and preserve the memories, and to understand… look, I know it may seem petty and selfish, but I want… I need to know what you girls went through. You…” I swallow as I feel my voice cracking, “you’re a part of me, all you girls are, and I feel like… like I don’t even know a part of myself anymore. And maybe… maybe you all need to talk about it to somepony who wasn’t there, so that the few who were there don’t need to carry the weight of the memory alone.” “Three dead, seven injured, four of them crippled permanently,” says Trixie softly. Her abrupt remark startles me; I’d been so intent on making the point to my friend – my sister – that I’d half-forgotten Trixie’s presence. A fact which I deeply regret now that she’s made such a grim statement. “I’m… sorry?” I ask of her. “Those are the casualties of one of my howitzers exploding in my battery in the midst of the First Battle of Pasturedaele,” continues the former stagemare in a muted tone, her gaze a thousand miles away. “I’ve handled explosives for years. Comes with the trade. I know how dangerous they are when proper precautions aren’t taken, and I know how, even when you do everything right, something can still go fatally wrong.” She shakes her head. “I drilled my gun teams relentlessly. I made them clean and maintain their guns so well that our safety and maintenance standards were better thanwhat ‘the Book’ calls for. Anypony I saw cutting corners I let have it for endangering his crew. ‘Slow is smooth, smooth is fast’ I told them. Maintaining calm and moving smoothly is faster than rushing, which is better for the troops you’re supporting and safer for you. But…” she looks at me evenly, “one day a howitzer had a misfire. The round cooked off inside the barrel. To this day, we’re still not entirely sure what happened. Could have been a bad round, could have been operator error, could have been any number of things.” She shrugs. “In all likelihood it was a combination of little factors no one on the planet could have predicted or prevented – a slight imperfection in the round with exactly the wrong pressure conditions in the chamber and grime built up from how many fire missions we’d had that day – a set of dominoes set up by the battle.” “Still,” she sighs, looking away for a moment, and then back at me, “I’ll always wonder if I could have done something different. Something better. Maybe I missed something in the inspection, maybe the crew was too tired, maybe I didn’t train them well enough… maybe, maybe, maybe. Like I said, there was probably nothing anypony could have done. But,” she takes a drink of her water, “I’ll always wonder.” There is a quiet agony in her gaze, a sorrow that runs deep into the marrow. But it is not her master. It is a part of her, one she lives with every day. Yet still, she lives. You’ve really become an incredible mare, Trixie. “I’m… so terribly sorry to hear that, Trixie,” I say softly. Applejack doesn’t say anything, but puts a wordless hoof on Trixie’s shoulder comfortingly. “I can’t even…” a vision of the shooter pointing his gun at Twilight flashes before my eyes – the shooter I saw, but failed to warn of in time – and I stop short of saying ‘I can’t even imagine,’ and instead say the more truthful, “I believe that you’re probably right that there was nothing you could have done, but I don’t suppose that makes it any easier.” With a tired laugh, Trixie replies, “It beats knowing there was something I should have done but didn’t, so on the balance it could be much worse. And, realistically, you’re right. Or rather,” she rolls her eyes, “technically Trixie is right and you’re agreeing with her. But, still, you’re right. Things happen you can’t control, and it’s arrogance to believe otherwise. We have not the power of angels to call on, however much you and your friends have very specific areas in which you are grossly overpowered,” her teasing remark earns a smile from Applejack and me, despite the heaviness of the moment, and she continues, “Trixie advised her fellow artillery ponies of much the same lesson. We all feared the same thing, after all. We each feared to be personally responsible for the tragedy. And, Trixie imagines, we all likely still… wonder from time to time. Perhaps that’s why we never really discussed it after it happened.” A pregnant pause lies upon us. “Until now,” I say softly. Trixie smiles, at once sorrowful and at peace. “Until now,” she echoes. “Do you… feel better for having told us?” The showmare-turned-soldier is silent for a moment, scrutinizing the table as though it might reveal some answer before nodding slowly, “Trixie is not… I’m not sure ‘better’ feels like the right word. More that I feel… lighter.” Her smile broadens slightly. “Less crazy. Instead of my worries being trapped in the echo chamber of the mind, they are heard with compassion. What lurked in the dark is exposedin the light of day. Hardly the end of the battle, but a step nonetheless. One I didn’t know I needed to take. So, yes, I feel… lighter.” It is a peculiar thing to feel both sadness and happiness at the same time. Sadness for the tragedy, and happiness for seeing someone face and process their pain. Joy for seeing someone in the midst of healing, sorrow that they have suffered the wound at all. That mingling of love and grief which is called compassion. Hope in the midst of loss. ‘Bittersweet’ barely begins to cover it. So, with a smile of both joy and sorrow, I say, “I’m glad.” “Me too,” Applejack affirms. “Trix… Ah know bein’ married an’ having a kid on the way means it ain’t as easy fer me ta check in on ponies as regular as Ah’d like, but… you know you can always—” Trixie pats her hoof reassuringly. “Fret not, dear friend, the Understanding and Wise Trixie knows you can always be counted on to help when Trixie – or anypony for that matter – really needs you.” She winks at me. “And your sister from another mister can spot you for the times you have morning sickness.” I can’t help but chortle at that. Nodding gratefully to Trixie, Applejack turns to me, picking her words carefully as she says, “Rares… Ah am sorry fer how we been treatin’ you those times we really were coddlin’ ya, an’ fer it seemin’ like we were even when we weren’t. It’s hard ta tell…” she scratches the back of her neck, “there’s things we don’t tell Twilight either, times we don’t tell anypony who weren’t over there. There’s things we don’t even discuss outside our own units. Sometimes it’s tryin’ ta spare ’em, but sometimes…” she shrugs, “sometimes there just ain’t no way ta describe what it was like over there ta somepony who wasn’t. Ain’t about you, it’s just how it goes. Everypony’s got life experiences that nopony else can ever truly understand, but most of it they can understand at least to a point. Some things though,” she sighs, “some things are so out there, so far beyond the realm of what most folks experience, that it sounds unreal ta folks who got no first-hoof experience with it. Like,” she shoots me a pointed look, “what happened last night when we all said we missed the war.” I flush red. “I suppose that is a fair point, and one I hadn’t considered.” My blush deepens. “In fact, perhaps it is I who should be apologizing for making you all feel so uncomfortable when you’d all made yourselves vulnerable enough to share something like that… and then today I have the gall to criticize you for not sharing more with me like an entitled brat and I am so terribly sorry to both of you I have made a complete fool of myself and—” “Rarity, stop!” Applejack cuts me off before I can hyperventilate. “Ah ain’t fishin’ fer an apology. Ah think… Ah think maybe we’re all just tryin’ ta figure out how ta handle somethin’ there ain’t no rulebook for. Ah only brought that up ta make the point that… well, it’s like ya said, ya gotta be vulnerable ta reveal somethin’ like that, an’ it’s somethin’ most of us gotta ease into. Cuz ya fear ponies are gonna judge you for what went down.” She cuts me off with a wave of her hoof before I can properly start to panic over being a horrible friend again. “Ah ain’t sayin’ that’s what ya did. Honestly, in yer place, Ah’d probably have freaked out an’ said somethin’ stupid. You kept pretty calm and then tried ta figure it out respectful-like, which is about the best Ah could hope for. Ah’m just sayin’… maybe we oughta take this slow. Work up to it, know what Ah mean?” Letting out a breath of sheer relief that I didn’t make a total and utter fool of myself – perhaps just a standard fool – I reply, “I think that is a marvelous idea, Applejack.” The rest of our lunch is thankfully less heavy. That is to say, the conversation is less heavy. The food, well… let’s just say I’m glad I didn’t have that in my system before taking the Iron Shod Death March. I would have – to use Rainbow Dash’s unsettlingly descriptive euphemism – performed the ‘technicolor yawn’ over most of the outer Ponyville acreage had I undertaken such a physically demanding exercise on a stomach full of hearty diner food. Ah, Rarity. There was a time you never would have ventured to use such a term as ‘technicolor yawn’ when referring to the violent expulsion of one’s stomach contents, even in the privacy of your own mind. How Rainbow has broken you. Still and all, our lunch is overall a pleasant one, and a productive one to boot. I have no complaints. My joints and muscles however, have many complaints they would like to file, and file complaints they do! As I begin the slow and painful return to my domicile – with Applejack and Trixie ambling beside me and Kafil following behind – the complaints come so fast and thick that the Complaints Department of my brain is forced to co-opt employees from other departments of my consciousness just to handle the overload. Regrettably, it seems they even managed to coopt staffers from the Hearing Department, because the Visual Department – thankfully better staffed – alerts me to an orange hoof being waved in front of my face, which signals my Hearing Department to escalate their Readiness Level, which in turn alerts me to the incoming message. “Yo! Equestria ta Rarity!” barks Applejack from my right. “You there, pardner?” Emergency signals send a crack team of specialists to my Linguistic Department in order to buy time for me to reorient my brain away from ‘BODY HURTS’ to ‘Polite Conversation.’ “Hmm? Pardon?” I manage. “Ah said why’d ya ask Shoddy ta take ya out exercisin’ anyhow?” Walking on my left – opposite Applejack – Trixie smirks and says, “Besides the—” abruptly, she gives her head a shake as though trying to drive off a buzzing insect, and then – to my great shock – she slaps herself. As in, full hoof, full contact slaps herself. “No! Bad Trixie!” she snaps, sounding for all the world like she’s rebuking a naughty puppy. “You don’t use the kind of jokes you would use on the hayseed and the tripod on Rarity!” Applejack pops her head over my back to peak at Trixie like I’m a sandbag separating her from the enemy. “Trix, were you gonna slag Rares like you slag me an’ Dash?” Blushing so hard that she practically turns maroon, Trixie answers hurriedly, her words almost tumbling over each other in their haste, “Trixie has picked up some habits in the military that don’t translate well to civilian life. One of them is the knee-jerk exchange of brutal insults that neither party takes offense at because neither party actually means them. It is important to not apply such practices to those who are not familiar with and accepting of such practices.” It takes me a moment to break down what Trixie said, but when I do, I can’t help but chuckle. Yes, Rainbow Dash and Applejack have always teased each other ceaselessly, but neither meant a word of it and both learned what was over the line and what wasn’t, so they managed to maintain the teasing without wrecking their friendship. Now that I think on it, all six of us girls engaged in some manner of this lively but un-serious teasing with each other once we got to know each other better, but none of us quite so readily as Rainbow Dash and Applejack. With the passage of years and gaining more experience with soldiers – and, for that matter, firefighters, police, and the like – I’ve learned that this seems standard for those who labor in such dangerous professions. However, those who are not familiar with such provocative humor – ‘slagging’ as it is sometimes called – are often… put off when they see it without context. Many a time growing up I witnessed colts and stallions treating each other in such a manner, and I always had a hard time understanding why sometimes they laughed and sometimes they took offense. My father explained that there was a difference between slagging and cruelty, though it took me many years to truly understand. The difference, as it happens, is intent, trust, and understanding. Firstly, one must not intend any offense, but that is not enough by itself. The recipient has to understand that, and there must be a level of trust that no offense is meant and that – if offense is accidentally given – it will be duly apologized for. And, as always, we must learn where the line is. All this being said, since I do not know Trixie particularly well – and am still only one day into processing that SHE’S A WAR HERO AND COMRADE-IN-ARMS TO MOST OF MY CLOSEST FRIENDS – I’m not sure how I would have taken such ‘slagging’ if it was directed at me. Since I now know that it would have been innocent and friendly slagging, however, I am curious. Applejack shakes her head at Trixie and clicks her tongue like a mother chiding a youngster. “Now, Trixie, you know you can’t just go about sayin’ the first fool thing that comes inta yer head around these civilized folk.” She throws a hoof over my withers and says, “They’re liable ta take offense.” “Oh, yes, very liable,” I say blandly. “In the interest of furthering my education about you barbarians, however," I tease, “what exactly were you planning on saying?” Trixie actually looks abashed, and pulls her hat down to cover her eyes. “Trixie… Trixie does not wish to share that information. Trixie feels it would be unseemly.” Scoffing, I say, “Trixie, I know you mean no genuine insult. I know it would just be ‘slagging.’ I give you permission to voice your venomous quip.” “Trixie does not want to. Trixie’s mind was mean.” Rolling my eyes, I reply, “Trixie, I know you don’t actually mean it. And besides, I live with Shoddy under my roof for pony’s sake! You think he’s never said something off-color, tactless, and offensive without meaning to? Not to mention putting up with this brute,” I nudge Applejack, “and the ever-tactless Rainbow Dash for years! Between thethree hooligans, I think I’ll manage!” Perking back up, Trixie deadpans, “That is true, they are all worse ponies than Trixie.” At an outraged cry from Applejack, she clarifies. “Actually, that’s too harsh. Shoddy is wonderful.” Another outraged cry. “Well, Miss Rarity, if you insist… what I was going to say when Applejack asked ‘why did you ask Shoddy to take you out exercising’ was... ‘besides the obvious you mean?’” The question actually causes me to stumble. “My heavens!” I exclaim, raising a hoof to my forehead. “I… I think I was just transported back to secondary school!” Stopping and sitting so I can massage my temples I continue, “Oh, how I hear them again! The catty girls making snide remarks behind my back! The whispers around the drinking fountain! The back-hooved compliments spoken by schoolmates with barbed tongues! Oh the Equinity!” “See?” says Trixie miserably. “Trixie warned you her mind was mean!” “Darling, I’m not mad, I think you just discovered a form of time travel! I went right back to secondary school!” “Ah ha!” exclaims Trixie, rearing up triumphantly. “Time travel! The Great and Powerful TRIXIE has finally beaten the Stupendous and Exceptionally Regal Twilight Sparkle to something!” “Eenope,” drawls Applejack. “Sorry Trix. Twi already time traveled fer real.” “Oh come on! SERIOUSLY?!” “Eeyup. Few years back now.” Dropping back to all fours, Trixie scuffs the road in irritation. “Well drat! Now Trixie is back to apologizing for Rarity and not having any great discovery to show for it.” “No need to apologize, my dear,” I assure her, rising once more to my hooves so we can resume walking. “I insisted. I know well the dread power of a quick wit and an acid tongue, and I insisted you reveal the things your mind conceived before you were able to stop it. Just as was the case with Shoddy, I have no one to blame but myself.” “Yeah, stupid,” says Applejack. “Stupid,” echoes Trixie. “Splendid,” I sigh. “Glad we’re all on the same page.” Again, at least I am used to Shoddy’s outbursts. We walk in silence for a moment before Applejack says, “Sooooo… speakin’ o’ Shoddy…” “Why’d I ask him to take me out exercising? Well, in truth, it is partially because I’m out of shape.” “Not really,” says Trixie. I arch an eyebrow at her. “What?” she exclaims. “Trixie only thought of that jab because there was setup for the punchline. Again, Trixie didn’t actually mean it. Heck,” she continues with a grumble, “while Trixie wouldn’t mind living closer to her wartime friends, at least living farther away from Ponyville means I won’t have to get out-competed byyou for attracting all the most eligible stallions.” That’s… I don’t really know how to respond to that. It’s weird enough getting a genuine complement from Trixie. (Well, really, it’s weird enough that Trixie now gives genuine complements in the first place). But what’s even weirder is that… she assumes that I’m having to fight stallions off with a stick. And, don’t get me wrong, it’s flattering that she thinks that, but… … I don’t know. Maybe stallions are intimidated by my perceived status, a twist which would be ironic and infuriating in equal measure… … Maybe it’s how wrapped up I was for the duration of the war with caring for Twilight, helping administer the castle, running my business whilst also helping other ponies run theirs, worrying about my friends, feeling like I wasn’t doing enough, doing everything I could so I felt like I was doing something… … … maybe… maybe I’ve given so much away that I don’t have much to offer anymore. … But I don’t want to say all that in public or at all so I force myself to stop ruminating, take the genuine complement for what it is, and pay one in return at the same time. A genuine complement in return, mind you. Because war hero Trixie has done more than me to warrant the attentions of eligible bachelors lately. “I… I thank you for you kind words Trixie. I believe you sell yourself very far short, and I’m sure that some wonderful stallion will recognize what a treasure you are and sweep you off your hooves, but I thank you for your complements all the same.” Clearing my throat, I clarify, “However, I was not thinking of my figure when I asked Shoddy to help me get in better shape. I had not cause to think on it until I recently had to run all across town—” … specifically, running in a panic to Sweet Apple Acres when I thought Applejack was moving, though I don’t say that part aloud… “—and discovered myself quite out of breath and lacking the endurance I once had. I found myself thinking on what excellent shape I was in when we six Bearers battled monsters and cultists and existentially threatening magical catastrophes on the regular.” Applejack smiles fondly, “Ah, good times.” “Quite. And good exercise to boot!” I shrug. “I hadn’t realized how much I relied on the Tuesday Crises to keep me in top physical condition.” Tilting her head, Trixie asks, “Tuesday Crises?” “She means the sort of hullabaloo that always seemed ta stir things up ’round here,” clarifies Applejack. “You know, Nightmare Moon, tha parasprites, Discord, tha Darin’ Do shenanigans, Discord again, tha Noodle Incident…” Trixie frowns and interjects before Applejack can properly begin the list. “Did your crises really always present themselves on Tuesdays.” “Not at all, darling,” I say, winking at her. “As I recall, you showed up on a Wednesday.” Applejack guffaws and Trixie’s eyes narrow dangerously, though there’s amusement in her gaze. “Oh, well played, Miss Rarity. You have now made Trixie’s List of Retribution.” Smiling primly, I reply, “I wouldn’t have it any other way, darling. But, returning to the matter of Shoddy,” I continue, reverting to the actual topic – Celestia, we have gone down far too many rabbit holes! – “I went out to the farm yesterday to talk to her Royal Highness Applejack,” her royal highness growls, but I carry on undeterred, “only to find that she was away.” “Doubtless on Royal Apple business,” supplies Trixie. “Doubtless,” I agree. The growl increases in volume, but my story holds its course. “As she was away on Apple-related and certainly Royal business, I found myself conversing with Applebloom, Sweetie Belle, and Scootaloo.” Hmm. It occurs to me that if – when – Big MacIntosh marries Twilight, Applebloom will be the only non-royal of the Apple siblings. I shall have to procure a prince or duke or something for her just to round things out. “Those three holy terrors – or, excuse me – those three fine and upstanding mares have something of a side hustle going.” “Trixie is not surprised by this,” remarks an unsurprised Trixie. I glance at her and see eyes full of understanding. “Trixie has heard the stories,” she explains dryly. “I see. Well, then it should not surprise you to know that they have opened a Cutie Mark Consulting business, complete with a noir-style office, noir-saxophone, noir-attire, noir-style ambient narration, and even a magical glamor enchantment that lays a black and white noir effect over the office and everything – and everypony – within it.” “Trixie commends their dedication to their craft and showponyship. Trixie intends to see this for herself and converse with these worthy young mares.” Applejack snickers. “Gonna talk shop with some other over-dramatic showponies?” “Yes, Trixie is going to engage in worthwhile dialogue with fellowartists rather than the usual Philisteeds she has to endure,” she replies with a prim sniff. “Anyway,” I interrupt, keen to avoid yet another rabbit hole – I also notice we took a wrong turn somewhere and aren’t even heading to my home but I don’t want to get sidetracked from this conversation again – “we got to discussing what Iron Shod’s special talent might be. While we are still far from certain, I think we have narrowed it down to some general principles…” I explain in brief terms what the girls and I discussed: that Shoddy’s special talent is likely along the lines of mental tenacity, physical endurance, and mind-over-matter toughness. That being probable, deciding to try various things which meet that general criteria would be logical. Hence, the physical fitness trainer. Applejack nods approvingly at the explanation. “Pretty good plan, Rares.” She smirks. “Even if it was stupidly executed. “Yeah, stupi— oh, sorry, is this bit played out?” says Trixie. “This bit is played out. Trixie will move on to the next joke.” It’s a good indicator of how strange my life has become that I don’t even bat an eye at this. Applejack, equally unfazed, remarks, “Ah’m mighty impressed ya figured this out, Rares. Shoddy always was cagey ’bout what his special talent was, but Ah guess it never really sunk in that maybe he was so cagey ’cause he didn’t know himself.” She sighs and shakes her head. “Yet another tough break for the guy.” “Pardon the intrusion,” interjects Trixie. “Trixie doesn’t mean to be rude in asking this, but… Rarity, what exactly is your business arrangement with Shoddy? Applejack mentioned he was working for you, but it seems more like you’re trying to run a personal development seminar on him. Even as he runs a fitness development seminar on you.” “Shoddy’s had… a hard time adjustin’ after leavin’ the service,” drawls Applejack, still uncomfortable with discussing a friend who isn’t present. “He ain’t got much in the way o’ civilian skills, and he’s had a hard time reintegratin’ with civilian life.” “Hmm. Unfortunate, but sadly not unexpected,” remarks Trixie sadly. “Trixie never knew Shoddy to have much – or any – filter on his mouth, and she imagines that has not gone over well with prospective employers. One requires a certain degree of tact to land steady employment.” She waves a hoof in the air so as to stave off snide remarks. “Yes, yes, Trixie is well aware that she is one to talk about tact, but even Trixie had to know who to kiss up to if she wanted gigs, especially when she was starting out.” She sighs. “Many troopers – especially young ones – just don’t have job experience outside a pair of combat boots. Trixie is fortunate, both that she remains in uniform and in that she has multiple career options lined up to fall back on if and when she returns to civilian life.” Applejack chuckles. “‘Multiple’ career options? You mean Option A, playing on the road, or Option B, playing for casinos?” “I mean chemical engineering and ordinance testing and development,” says Trixie, dropping her third person speech as she drops into a deadpan tone. Applejack and I stop and stare at her. “What?” she says. “I made all my own fireworks, fog, special effects, smoke bombs, everything I used in my act.” Fixing her gaze on Applejack, she states, “You know this about me. You don’t think I have the training to back it up?” The farm mare princess holds up her forehooves in surrender. “Yer right. Ah’m sorry.” “I literally designed new ordinance mid-war.” “Ah get it. Yer right.” “I’m going to open a manufacturing firm. Sell my inventions to every allied nation and all their militaries and every mining company and every showpony on the continent. Make enough money to buy Ponyville.” “We get it, Trix.” “Gonna rename it Trixietopolis.” “Trix,” sighs Applejack tiredly, “We were talkin’ about Shoddy, remember?” “Right. Sorry.” Trixie clears her throat and resumes her more flowery, authoritative tone. “The point is, he and a lot of other veterans don’t have many trained skills. Now, there’s a lot of unskilled labor work, and many of those jobs even make for decent careers. But if he’s having a hard time re-adjusting to civilian life… Trixie can see that making it hard to hold a steady job. One of Trixie’s best gunners had a problem like that. He was even a semi-skilled laborer with a good job history before the war, but he always had a temper, and once he got back, he kept picking fights. Couldn’t hold a job. Fortunately, he had Trixie in his corner.” My ears perk up at that. Thankfully, Shoddy isn’t out getting into bar brawls, but hearing how this veteran dealt with his troubles could help Shoddy. “Well, what did you do?” I ask eagerly. “Trixie introduced him to a hype pony and a coach and got him into heavyweight boxing. He’s in the minor circuit right now.” I blink rapidly at that as I try to process this information. On one hoof, better a controlled environment than a street fight. On the other hoof… I can see that potentially backfiring. Yes, martial arts have often been used to help one control one’s temper – that’s why I studied karate and why I still practice now and then – but the tournament environment can bring out the worst in ponies if they’re not properly formed and tempered. Still, I don’t want to offend Trixie by saying my reservations aloud. I have to say something open-ended, generally positive, and simple. Something that doesn’t sound like waffling or leeriness but also doesn’t say something I don’t mean. “That’s… well… nice… um…” Oh dear. It seems the others have a point. I am stupid. Fortunately, Trixie seems not only to not take offense, but also to have considered the same potential pitfalls. “It’s not ideal, Trixie admits. The tournament circuit is not without its more brutish elements. But the hype pony in question has experience reining in destructive behavior, and the coach knows how to give him a listening ear, a gentle correction, and tough love as needed, so they keep him channeling his aggressive energy in a controlled and healthy way. Something to temper the temper, so to speak. The coach especially has a good track record of making temperamental ponies less temperamental through discipline.” She shrugs. “Trixie was in the midst of transferring when she set this up. Best she could manage on short notice.” Now feeling more confident, I assure her, “Well, it sounds like you did right by him.” And, given how limited my progress has been with Shoddy – despite apparently having more time to work the problem – I suppose I’m not really in a place to judge. Especially since, for all I know, boxing might be exactly the right fit for Trixie’s comrade. “Trixie certainly hopes she did right by him,” the showmare says with a sigh. She looks around as we continue our slow pace through the winding streets. “Trixie also hopes her memory isn’t going, as she remembered your home being closer to the diner than this. How long have we been walking?” To my surprise, Applejack wipes her brow with relief. “Whew! Thank goodness! We did get turned around somewhere! Ah thought my memory was goin’ too!” “Yes, yes, we did get off track somewhere,” I admit. Fiddlesticks. I’d been hoping to get us back on the right path before anypony noticed. “I hope neither of you had someplace to be.” Trixie checks her pocket watch, then shrugs. “Trixie needs to swing by the telegraph office and pick up some correspondence, but it’s not a disaster if she’s a few minutes late.” “Need a hoof findin’ yer way there?” offers Applejack. The showmare snorts, then pulls out a map and compass with her magic. “As it is not a bar, a pool hall, a shooting range, or a crayon factory, I’m not confident Marine navigation will be of any assistance to me,” she quips, before barely ducking under the swipe of Applejack’s hoof. “Besides, Your Royal Appleness, you were as lost as Trixie. And you, Fitness Recruit Belle,” she says with a brief glance at me, “need to get off those hooves if you want to be ambulatory tomorrow. Especially,” Trixie smirks, “if you’re planning on continuing your fitness regimen.” A shudder runs all down my body from the tip of my horn to the tip of my tail, then back up again. “I… may have a word with Shoddy about proper scale of intensity,” I admit as my muscles quiver in dread. Trixie smiles and pats my head. “See? Not so stupid after all.” “Most kind of you,” I reply dryly. “Well, we shan’t keep you, Colonel. Ta ta for now. Lunch tomorrow, perhaps?” “Indeed,” she says with a smile. “And perhaps we can even find a restaurant to cater to Applejack’s unique culinary preferences such as—” “If this is another ‘Marines eat crayons’ joke, Ah’ll kill ya with mah bare hooves,” interrupts Applejack, deadpan. “Trixie doubts you could catch her with a bun in the oven,” the showmare counters, pointing to Applejack’s pregnant belly. “Fine. Ah’ll order Kafil ta kill ya with ’is bare hooves.” Glancing at the bemused zebra, Trixie nods. “Well-played, Hayseed Highness. Trixie will see you both later.” With a quick parting hug to each of us, Trixie departs. Applejack and I stand in silence for a moment, watching in the direction Trixie just went. (Kafil also stands in silence, though presumably he is watching all directions for possible threats). After a moment, Applejack breaks the silence, saying, “Ya still can’t get over the fact she’s a friend now, can ya?” “I still can’t get over who she’s become in general, Applejack,” I retort somewhat hotly. “She is a completely different mare than when I last saw her. Virtuous, personable, funny, compassionate, charming, the lot of it! If she’d been like this when we first met, she might well have joined us on our adventures!” “Might well have,” agrees Applejack. “She’s completely different in her values, her worldview, her motives, her outlook on life, and yet… and yet…” “And yet she’s still Trixie?” suggests Applejack. “Oh, more than that, darling! I dare say she’s more Trixie now than she’s ever been in her life, at least she’s more than she was before having her ‘come-to-the-Creator’ moment at the start of the war!” Applejack tilts her head curiously. “How do you mean she’s ‘more Trixie’ now than she’s ever been? She don’t even talk in the third person all the time no more.” I scoff. “Oh puh-leeze, Applejack! That’s just a surface level trait! It’s like when one of those new moving pictures does a bad adaptation of a classic novel, and they take the obvious traits of a character – the catch phrases, the costuming, the same jokes that they run into the ground – and they assume those surface level things were what really moved fans in the first place, and not the real depths of the character that lay beneath the surface.” I gesture vaguely in Trixie’s presumed direction. “Trixie’s eccentricities are no more than a reflection of her deeper complexities.” “Riiiiight,” says Applejack slowly, seeming bemused by my assertions as we wind our way back to – hopefully – my boutique. “So… what’s the business about her being more Trixie now than before?” Feeling philosophical, I say, “Each of us is on a journey, Applejack, a journey between the best version of ourselves and the worst. We fall somewhere between the two, moving back and forth, to and fro, becoming either fuller or emptier depending on whether we follow our better natures or our worse.” Applejack continues to give me the bemused side-eye as though she’s not following what I’m saying. Knowing her, she’s following perfectly well and, for some foolish reason, feels the need to pretend she isn’t. Undeterred, I continue, “Trixie used to trend towards the emptier side of herself, the less virtuous, more vicious, and thus ultimately worst part of her nature. Now, she strives to be the best version of herself, growing in humility, virtue, goodness, and, as a result, fullness.Truth.Ergo,” I conclude, “she is more authentically ‘Trixie’ now than she has ever been in her life.” Raising an eyebrow at her continued bemusement, I say, “Have you some jest to deliver, Applejack?” The farmer chuckles. “Just ta say ya sound like a preacher, which ain’t an insult, just funny. Normally when Ah hear heavy meanin’-o-life philosophy stuff like that, it’s from one o’ the chaplains or one o’ the princesses.” “Well, seeing as you are a princess now, oh Fair and Noble Apple of the Zebrican Royal Line, perhaps you ought to be taking notes,” I say primly. The Fair and Noble Apple of the Zebrican Royal Line jostles me with her shoulder, making a noise that’s both a chuckle and a much-exaggerated snarl as she does so. “But… thank you. I suppose I’ve picked up a thing or two from dear Twilight after all these years.” “Mm,” grunts Applejack. “It is a good point, though. We all got the makins o’ saints in us, as well as sinners. It’s a good reminder that we all got potential. Our chaplain once said the realest version of ourselves is the best one, and we can get pretty well there, even if we ain’t gonna get there perfectly.” A silence hangs between us a moment as we walk. “You might make that point ta Shoddy when you get the chance. Only,” she chuckles, “maybe don’t say it sound so pretty as ya did ta me.” “Indeed not,” I chuckle. “Actually, I was hoping to make that point by ‘showing, not telling,’ with the personal trainer suggestion, but…” I stretch my back slightly as we walk, and there’s an audible and stomach-churning series of *pops* as I do so, “… perhaps a more tempered approach is called for. I just… I just want him to see that he has many strengths and many virtues. He’s a good stallion, he simply… needs to find a way to exercise his goodness.” My muscles scream. “Hopefully with less actual exercise.” Author's Note I remember going to a college fair back when I first got out. There was a pretty young mare at the table for Seaddle U. – braided golden mane, peach coat, friendly eyes. I went up and told her I’d like to apply for the university. She told me that Seaddle U. prided itself on the quality of its education and got out a fresh application form for me. Since I was applying using the Veteran’s Bill, I was in dress uniform – she asked me what skills I’d picked up in the Marines; she said it was to help place me in a program that would be suited to my talents. I told her that I had been a mortar pony, that I was proficient in carbines, rifles, and pistols, and that I’d received advanced hoof-to-hoof combat training. She became increasingly flustered as I listed my qualifications, and kept asking questions to try to see if I had any experience in other fields. I was getting frustrated too, though I tried not to show it. I was listing skills which were as close as possible to what she was looking for – getting cross-trained on field artillery was something of a mechanical engineering background, in my view. I knew that nothing would be a direct match, but that was why I was going to school – to adapt my skills to something applicable to civilian life. After a couple minutes, she got so irritated that she blurted out, “Didn’t they teach you anything useful in the Marines?” Folks nearby got quiet when she said that, especially the other vets. I looked down at her and said, “They taught me how to kill griffons. I got pretty good at it.” About then I decided that Seaddle U. wouldn’t be a good fit for me and I left to find another table. —Excerpt from The Old Breed, by Steel “Sledgehammer” Sledge, MA Engineering, Corporal (retired) Equestrian Marine Corps *** The subject of encouraging vets to share their war stories can be a bit complicated. On one hand, I firmly believe that such stories should be told, for those sake of those telling them and any closure they may find, for the sake of those who are no longer alive to tell their stories, for the sake of honoring the sacrifices made for our sake, so that civilians don’t take their hard-won peace for granted, so that the public and the government are not so quick to desire war, and many more reasons besides. It’s also worth noting that there’s this idea that it’s somehow “weak” to be vulnerable about trauma. That’s BS. We, collectively, need to take that idea, tie it up, stick it in the trunk, take it out to the dock, put it in cement shoes, and dump it into the depths of oblivion where it belongs. It’s a dumb fricking idea, and I’m very glad that there are an increasing number of veterans of both emergency services and the military – including spec ops guys – who are making it their mission to assure fellow veterans that they can and should seek help when they need it. On the other hand, it is wrong to force or try to guilt trip veterans into talking. We should do everything we can to make it clear that they can talk freely, to de-stigmatize seeking help with trauma and whatnot, and to help in what ways we can… but, ultimately, we cannot force someone to accept help. It’s their choice. Rarity, AJ, and Trixie are all trying to navigate that particular complexity, each burdened by their own wounds and their own needs, and none of them are handling it perfectly… but they’re all trying. Honestly, this can be a touchy enough subject that I’ve been afraid to put this chapter out (it’s the main reason for the delay). But fear can’t rule us, so… here we are. Hopefully it’s good. The secondary reason for the delay is that I’m a perfectionist, and I kept letting ‘perfect’ be the enemy of ‘good.’ Frankly, I’m still not entirely happy with this chapter. I feel it ends abruptly and at times I’m not sure if the meandering pace is adding to the slice-of-life tone or just plain meandering, and different readers will I’m sure have different opinions. But, again… I can’t let ‘perfect’ be the enemy of ‘good.’ So, in an ironic parallel to Rarity here, I just need to do something, even if that something isn’t perfect, and deal with it afterwards. *** I don’t think I mentioned this before, but this story actually has a tie-in set in the same universe now, spawned by a FanOfMostEverything story contest and a throwaway joke from the chapter ‘Baggage of Tricks.’ (It was just a funny aside… until it wasn’t). Daring Do and the Ditzy of Infinite Possibility, featuring the eponymous characters, has very little directly to do with Homecoming, but it is part of the shared universe (and is a much more lighthearted adventure story), so… check it out if you’re interested. *** There are a lot of little references sprinkled throughout. One I’ll highlight is that the story of a griffon capturing a pony medic solely to surrender to the Equestrians is a reference to a M*A*S*H episode wherein a North Korean soldier ‘captures’ two of the doctors – Hawkeye and Honeycut if I recall correctly – so that he can follow them back to American lines and surrender because he doesn’t want to fight anymore. Every time they bump into North Koreans, he has to pretend to be ‘capturing’ the doctors so that they don’t get actually captured, and whenever the doctors try to just leave he threatens them with his gun and demands they let him surrender. Hijinks ensue. Some previous chapter, I don’t remember which one, Nurse Redheart is noted to have been a combat medic who lost her eye when the plasma bottle she was holding while administering first aid was shot, and shards of glass pierced her eye. She went on to keep treating patients with glass in her eye. That’s a reference to a real story from WWII; a combat medic named Robert Eugene Bush had that happen to him on Okinawa and kept on treating patients and prioritizing others over his own treatment. A heroic man with a staggering level of pain tolerance. As always, thank you all for your patience.
Declaration of WarI remember when my little sister first introduced me to her friends. She said, “This is my big sister, Rarity. She makes pretty things, and she makes things pretty.” A gross oversimplification of what I do, perhaps, but an accurate statement nonetheless. I do indeed try to make ‘pretty things,’ and to make the existing prettiness of things shine forth. Some may consider it shallow, but I believe that there is beauty to be found in almost anything. But war… War is ugly. It’s muddy, bloody, and full of tragedy, and even without ever seeing the front lines it’s possible to get the muck on you. I learned that lesson years ago. After all, I was there when the war began. To this day, I can picture it as though it’s happening right now. It’s a Sunday in early autumn, bright and cheerful, with barely a cloud in the sky. The air has just enough of a crisp snap in it to be invigorating without being truly cold. Under other circumstances, it might have been a good day for a pleasant walk with friends or for catching a carriage around Hoofenberg to see the sights. Then, in an instant, it’s transformed into the worst day of my life. It starts so well: we six Element Bearers, and Spike of course, are riding in the open-topped chariot down the avenues of Hoofenberg, waving to the crowd as the military parade takes us around the old city’s districts. The citizens of the independent city-state, both pony and griffon, are ecstatic at our coming. Well, really, they’re ecstatic at her coming. Twilight Sparkle, the Princess of Friendship, here to host the Summit that will stave off the war that threatens to consume them. I can see the hope, the joy in their eyes as they look to their savior, to the pony who will make the Dominion back down without further bloodshed. Many have tears in their eyes as they shout her name. Twilight, benevolent, noble, radiant in her royal regalia that so carefully hides the discreet armor plating beneath, beams back down at them, showing none of the nervousness that I know she must be feeling. My friend does not show them the frantic pacing, the panicked breathing, the self-doubt that she displays so eloquently for us. No, the crowd needs to see her as the pillar of diplomacy and authority that will protect them from being gobbled up like so many other independent city-states. And so that is the only face she shows. I feel so proud of how far she’s come; so in awe of her poise under pressure; so blessed to be one of her closest friends. And then he comes. An unassuming griffon, barely an adult, looking to be more student than soldier, comes to the edge of the crowd, just past the line of guards. There is nothing to distinguish him from the hundreds of other griffons among the citizenry; nothing about him to draw a second glance. Nothing, that is, except for the look in his eyes. I’m a businessmare. I know how to read people, even non-ponies. I’ve always had a knack for picking up on moods and intent. But what I see in his eyes, I’ve never seen in the eyes of an ordinary citizen before. That bloodlust. That hate. What I see in him belongs to the likes of Chrysalis and Tirek. The comparison shocks me into silence for a heartbeat. Just one. One heartbeat too long. A double-barreled pistol appears in his grasp as he takes aim at the carriage, his beak twisting in a snarl. Time slows as guards swing to stop him. Twilight’s gaze meets his and her hoof stops mid-wave, a her smile freezing at the sight of his hate. “For Talon!” he shouts. Then the roar of the gun silences all else. I have a detail-oriented mind. When properly focused on something, there is nothing that escapes my notice. Till that day it was only a blessing. With accursed slowness I see the bullet tear into her. It penetrates her body right where the wing meets the barrel; the one place on her torso that the armor doesn’t cover. The impact sends her body sideways as her head is whiplashed in the other direction. Flecks of saliva spray from her mouth as her face twists from shock into dawning agony. Then the spray of blood paints the air in vivid crimson, a color suddenly so bright and terrible that it’s as though nothing else exists. The gunshot echoes in a rolling thunder, but it is no longer alone. The wail goes up; the sound of grief, loss, and shattered hope. The sound of death. We are, all of us, caught in the same horrendous slowness, scrambling from our seats as our minds attempt to grasp what they see. But they cannot. It is too horrid, too unthinkable. The shooter lines up for the second shot as guards lunge to tackle him. Spike, the loyalist of all assistants, is the only one of us to shake off the stupor. He flings himself in front of his oldest friend, shielding her with his body, his face a mask of rage as he screams a final defiance at his foe. The gun barks again, and my eyes cannot but stare as blood erupts from his skull— But it is only a glancing blow, as the guards tackle the shooter to the ground and the bullet flies wide. Then the slowness ends and I am brought crashing down into the maelstrom of chaos. Spike drops with a cry, holding a claw to his bloodied head. Fluttershy is instantly at Twilight’s side, applying pressure to the wound as she cradles our princess in her wings. Pinkie Pie is wrapping a bandana that she pulled from nowhere around Spike’s scalp as a makeshift bandage. Rainbow Dash bodily flings me to the floor of the carriage and shields me with her frame. Applejack, swearing like I’ve never heard her swear, is doing her best to shield Twilight. From my place on the floor, I can see the barrel of a breech-loading rifle, held by one of the guards who tackled the insurgent, being raised and swung downwards like a club, followed by an animal squeal that echoes even over the panicked cries of the crowd. I try to look around, I have to know, I have to see, but Rainbow shoves me back down with a string of expletives. My shouts demanding to know what’s happening are cut off by an explosion that shakes the cart. Rainbow loses her footing and I scramble to my hooves. Carnage at the front of the carriage. All four of guards who were pulling are down, either dead or likely to wish they were, their flesh rent open by the bomb. The perimeter guards are trying to keep the crowd back; unicorns throw up magic shields while rifle-ponies seek targets. But the crowd is in a panic, and the guards can’t shoot. A gunshot cracks and the carriage splinters next to me. The last thing I see before Rainbow Dash drags me back down is a halberdier reaching his weapon over the milling heads of the crowd to hook a pistol-toting griffon around the throat. The insurgent gives a warbling carrion cry as he’s hoisted bodily into the air. Even from the floor I can see him die as three rifles bark and three horns spark and he’s ripped apart. What I’m seeing is too horrible to comprehend, so my mind doesn’t even try. I’m reacting, and not even sure what I’m reacting to. I fight to get out from under Rainbow Dash. To get out and do something. “Let me go, Rainbow! We have to help her! We have to help Twilight!” “Shut up! Shut up!” Another bullet cracks against the wood. “Shut up and stay down! We’ve got to—" Unicorns are sensitive to magical surges, so I feel what’s coming before Rainbow does, but it leaves us both equally shocked. The magical energy crackles through the air in a form so potent that I can taste it on the backs of my teeth. Tendrils of crimson energy flash in the sky, accompanied by the roar of stallion immersed in agonizing rage. There are several shrieks, and the air is filled with the cloying smell of immolating flesh, leaving the taste of wrath in the back of my throat. Wrath tastes like copper, it turns out. The sky turns crimson and there’s scrapingon the sides of the carriage. Rainbow rises with a snarl, but backs down as four rifle-ponies and Shining Armor himself clamber into the carriage. The prince looks like death, though he appears untouched, and his horn sparks as he powers the dome shield that now covers us. He spares a single glance at his sister, and I see something die in his eyes, replaced with something different. Something colder. “Big Mac! Get us the buck out of here!” he barks. Rainbow’s shock matches mine. Big MacIntosh? “Eeyup!” is the answering bellow, and my head cracks against the seat as we jolt forward. Tentatively I raise my head. Hoofenberg is a blur as we plunge through the streets at speeds better suited to a pegasus than to a gilded carriage laden with ponies. All around us sprint guardponies; a dozen; a score; three score. I look to the front, somehow managing to look past the blood-soaked Fluttershy and the weeping Spike to see who is pulling. I expect to see a team of guards, along with apparently Big MacIntosh. I see Big MacIntosh. Only Big MacIntosh. He’s pulling a carriage built for four draft ponies, with twice the intended number of passengers, by himself… and yet somehow I get the impression that if we or the guards were to offer our help we’d only slow him down. Besides, the guards are too busy keeping the path clear. Several griffons rush to block us. Guns speak. Horns gleam. Three insurgents are chewed apart by bullets. The other three are simply incinerated. But the guards still can’t shoot into the crowd, and shots from their ranks strike guards and shield, causing the former to fall and the latter to crack. Shining Armor grunts, sweat pouring down his face as he shunts more energy into the dome. Catching sight of me, he bellows, “Rarity, stay down!” “I-I can help!” I protest. I want to. I need to. If I’m not helping I have to think about— “I can shunt power to you for the shield!” He groans as another volley rips against the barrier. “Fine,” he grits, “but do it from down there.” Gratefully, I concentrate all my power, all my will into transferring my power to him. It takes total focus to keep the transfer going, and I’m glad. If I’m doing something, then I’m not thinking. I’m not thinking about Twilight, I’m not thinking about the blood, I’m not thinking about how she’s not moving, or how Applejack and Pinkie have started sobbing, or how Fluttershy is begging— I’M NOT THINKING ABOUT IT! We’re storming the hospital. Guards pour into the building as though charging a gate and clear a path for us to the surgeons. We strap Twilight to a gurney and gallop along with her, calling out encouragement, assurances, anything we can say to her, but she’s not moving, she’s not breathing she’s just not— Spike is riding on the gurney with her, stroking her mane and wetting her head with tears as he begs her to say something, rattling off every little misdeed he can think of in the hopes that her big-sister instincts will kick in and wake her up so she can reprimand him. When the nurses remove him to take her into the operating room, he claws at them. It takes Rainbow Dash and Applejack both to restrain him, and Fluttershy to calm him. Pinkie is pacing back and forth, chattering incoherently. She makes what sound like jokes from time to time or, at least, she laughs to herself intermittently, but the laughter isn’t real; her mane is straight. Shining Armor is giving orders with the speed of an auctioneer as he makes the hospital the most impregnable fortress on the continent. Big MacIntosh, who was just supposed to be a bystander in the crowd, moves into the midst of the mares and simply sits himself there. Applejack gravitates to her brother and sags against him, tears welling in her eyes as she stares sightlessly ahead. He puts a hoof around her. Soon, Pinkie Pie ceases her wandering to accept his other hoof and sags against him, still trying to make herself laugh through the sobs. Rainbow is flying in circles, accosting every guard she sees, demanding to know what happened and swearing bloody vengeance against whoever is responsible. Fluttershy just stands, staring at the door, her wings and torso stained red with blood. With Twilight’s blood. And that’s her in there. Our Twilight bleeding out on the table, unconscious, violated, dying. That’s our Twilight who— I vomit until I can’t stand.
Purpose and Family“Trixie!” squeals Pinkie as she charges into the room to give the blue mare a hug. Well, ‘waddles’ into the room is probably more accurate, but it’s still a respectable clip for a pregnant mare. Even more respectable is that being with child (or children I suppose) has done nothing to diminish her capacity for bone-crushing hugs. “Gahck! Pinkie Pie!” gasps Trixie, who seems to agree that Pinkie’s hugs have lost none of their spine-compressing intensity. “Kindly release the Great and Powerful Trixie so she may breathe!” “Oh, it’s so good to see you again, Trixie! It’s been so long! What has it been, a year? Two years? How many of your birthdays have I missed?!” “Can’t answer! Not breathing!” “We have got so much catching up to do! It is gonna be a blast!” “Dying… please… halp…” Bud ambles up beside his wife, seeming bemused. “Honey, I think you’re hugging the colonel a shade too tightly.” Pinkie tilts her head in confusion. “Too tight?” she asks, unconsciously loosening her grip. Trixie sucks down a double-lungful of air like her life depends on it. Which, in fairness, it might. Hard to say with her coloration. Bud coaxes Pinkie to release the poor dear, and I find myself supporting Trixie as she replenishes her oxygen supply. “That… gasp… mare… wheeze… crazy!” she manages. “Well, I should think that was rather obvious, darling,” I remark dryly. “Almost… cough… killed… sputter… me!” “In all fairness, it’s rather difficult to tell when a blue pony is turning, well, blue,” I point out. Then I shake my head sadly and tut, lamenting, “So tragic. We lose more blue ponies that way…” Pinkie is rather sheepishly apologizing to Trixie when Rainbow Dash arrives with Thunderlane, Fluttershy, Shoddy, Nkea, Arinze, and the Zebra Guards. The guards all look perplexed by the gasping Trixie, but none of the ponies who know Pinkie are phased. “Pinkie Pie hug ’er?” asks Dash knowingly. Applejack snorts. “What tipped ya off?” “Educated guess.” Thunderlane and Bud both shake hooves with Trixie, exchanging genuine pleasantries and a few quips that might have been insulting if not for their obvious familiarity with each other. Fluttershy, not surprisingly, doesn’t say much, but the warm, sisterly hug she gives Trixie speaks volumes to how close they became in the war. To Arinze, Trixie makes a courtly bow before trading grips and teasing him about something involving an apple bushel and chewing gum. Arinze replies with a question as to whether or not she’s read any good books lately… which doesn’t strike me as all that amusing, but he, Trixie, Applejack, Dash, and Thunderlane all laugh uproariously, so I imagine it must make for a pretty good story. One which unfortunately has ‘you had to be there’ written all over it. Trixie then surprises me by waving to Nkea and saying something in Zwahili. Nkea raises an eloquent eyebrow and snorts, but there’s amusement in his eyes. No small feat considering his frosty exterior. Shoddy, meanwhile, has hung in the back. From my angle, I can see that he looks just as happy as the others to see Trixie, but he’s hesitating, like he doesn’t want to impose or interrupt anypony. I frown. It’s plain that he’s excited to see Trixie, but he’s acting like he doesn’t matter enough to interject. I’m preparing to trot over and nudge him forward when Trixie spots him. “Who lurks in the back behind Trixie’s other admirers?” she asks in her stage voice. “Could it be? Is it—?” she emits a dramatic gasp and sways on her hooves as though she’s about to faint. “Iron Shod?” Blushing, Shoddy ambles forward, giving a casual salute. “Howdy, Colonel.” “Don’t you ‘Howdy, Colonel’ Trixie, Corporal! Get your sorry flank up here and shake Trixie’s hoof!” Shoddy grins sheepishly and trots forward, stretching a hoof out for shaking, only to be accosted by a surprise hug, which turns into an affectionate headlock as Trixie marehandles the poor lad around to show him off to me. “This stallion,” she declares, “saved Trixie’s battery from a platoon of buzzard fusiliers that slipped around to hit us from the rear! His keen senses picked them up before they could get into position, then he and his squad pinned them down until we could swing the guns to bear. Trixie feels he was cheated out of a Star of Valor for that one!” My eyebrows go up and I look to Shoddy for confirmation. He blushes and looks down. Then Trixie smiles slyly and jabs him with her free hoof. “This stallion also still owes Trixie thirty bits.” Shoddy’s embarrassment is replaced by outrage. “Bu- s- what?!” he sputters, ducking out from under her grasp. “I won that bet, colonel! Ya’ll said I couldn’t eat more of that green hash than Ramrod, but I ate a full bowl more’n him!” “That’s not how Trixie remembers it,” replies Trixie airily, examining her hoof with affected unconcern. “Trixie remembers that the bet was that you could both eat more hash and keep it down, and you may recall that after eating four bowls of green hash you—” “Okay! That’s enough of that!” interrupts Applejack like an angel of sanity. “We got two pregnant mares and a roomful o’ ponies who’re about ta eat! Last thing we need is to hear about green hash!” “What’s green hash?” asks Twilight innocently. Applejack shudders. “Let’s just say only a fool eats it and leave it at that.” Twilight looks like she’s about to pursue the matter of the green hash, but, mercifully, Big Mac arrives in that moment to inform us that dinner is ready. He also loops a hoof over Twilight’s withers and bends to give her a quick kiss. This prompts a mock-outraged look from Trixie. “Oh, come on!” exclaims the stage mare. “You’re the reason he’s taken!? It’s not enough for you to show Trixie up magically, but you need to take this strapping fellow out of the dating pool as well?” In a surprising display of smugness, Twilight smirks. “Jealous?” she asks coyly. Trixie sniffs. “Covetousness is unbecoming and low. Trixie is above such things.” Then, after a pause, “She is not, however, above asking if you Apples have any other stallions of similar stature. You have a billion cousins, do you not?” Applejack laughs and Big Mac grins. “We got a couple,” answers the former. “We’ll talk later,” says Trixie in a stage whisper. “First, however, the Great and Magnanimous Trixie has brought gifts to formally congratulate the happy parents in our number. Come forth, parents!” Applejack, Pinkie, and their respective husbands obediently assemble. “First, for the Marine parents,” with a flourish, she produces a pair of children’s books from beneath her cape and bequeaths them to Applejack and Bud. “And now, for the parents from civilized branches of the military.” Amidst chuckles, she lifts her hat and bestows another set of books upon Arinze and Pinkie. The latter set of books are the sort of early-learning readers to be expected for small children (Goodnight Luna, Go Diamond Dog Go, Grannie Goose’s Nursery Rhymes, and the like), though with the added feature of being made of durable, non-toxic, waterproof pages that the foals can safely chew on without damaging the books (which seems to delight Twilight even more than the actual parents). The Marine books, however, prove to be much more unique, if Bud guffawing and Applejack nearly falling over laughing are any indication. Ponies crowd in to see what the joke is, Applejack’s copy is passed around, and soon the whole room dissolves into hilarity. Shoddy is laughing so hard has tears in his eyes. Fluttershy and I are the last to see the book. It’s… interesting. Trixie somehow managed to procure copies of a “children’s” book called ‘Slay Bodies’ and other Marine Bedtime Stories by Gunny Sack. The cover features a wide-eyed filly sitting in bed and looking up with innocent wonderment at a benevolent-looking gunnery sergeant reading from a book riddled with bullet holes. “Oh my,” says Fluttershy, thereby expressing her views on the book as well as mine. Obviously, the book is not actually intended for foals, a fact made even more evident by the… colorful terminology used within. I pass the book back to Applejack before I can turn redder than Big Mac. “Ah can’t believe Sack actually got it published!” exclaims the farm mare through her merriment. “I can’t believe he managed to resist picking fights with the Rangers long enough to keep the extra stripe,” remarks Bud, referring, I presume, to rank insignia. “I figured he’d be stuck in a perpetual state of getting promoted to Gunny and then busted back down to Staff.” “Well,” I remark, “it’s amazing what a Marine can accomplish when he sets his mind to it.” I say this in the hopes of subtly reinforcing an optimistic worldview for Shoddy, but Rainbow takes it in another direction. “Yeah,” she smirks, “until today, I never would have believed one of you could learn how to write.” She ducks a swipe of Applejack’s hoof. “Maybe one day a Marine will learn how to read too.” This time she has to spring into the air to avoid retribution. Thunderlane comes to his wife’s aid and addresses Arinze and Pinkie. “So, as ponies who married Marines, I assume you two will be reading that to your spouses, helping them sound out the vowels, that sort of thing?” Applejack growls, but Bud pats her on the shoulder. “Disengage, Gunny. Remember what they told us in basic: don’t argue with Airheads.” “Why not?” asks Twilight. Shoddy chuckles and explains. “It’d take a lobotomy to get on their level.” The non-Air Corps ponies and zebras enjoy a laugh at those worthies’ expense as we make our way to the dining room. One thing I notice as we walk is that, while Trixie is naturally the center of attention, she makes a point of using her focal position to make sure the attention gets spread around so no one is left out of the conversation. She’s not overbearing about it – respecting Fluttershy’s preference for quiet for example – but the masterful way she directs the conversation is… more subtlety than I thought she was capable of, to be frank. It’s impressive. After years playing the gracious hostess (both on my own behalf and as Twilight’s de facto Steward), I can certainly appreciate the skill it takes to manage a group like this. The fact that the showmare can do it is a testament to how capable she has become now that she’s gotten out of her own way. Spike meets us in the dining room. Having presumably been briefed on Trixie by Big Mac, he reacts to her reformation with the ready aplomb he’s cultivated in maturity, though he can’t help but snort laughing when Trixie apologizes for “that unfortunate incident wherein she folded him into a basketball.” The others take their seats, but I wait near the door that leads down the hall to the kitchen, listening for Chef’s approach. Sure enough, his arrival is preceded by bearlike growls and a litany of expletives calculated to turn the walls bluer than Trixie. He cusses about a myriad of topics, among them last minute changes to dinner, royal attendees, the sensitive palates of two pregnant mares, and the inadequate pay he receives for the kind of… shall we say ‘restroom leavings’ that he puts up with. Chiefly, he complains of the return of that “Ivory-coated, ice-hearted, persnickety, pedantic, petulant, forged-in-Tartarus-windigo-in-pony’s-skin called Rarity!” Truly, it’s nice to be appreciated. The rant continues right up to the door, and I can picture the ferocious scowl on his grizzled features clearly as my own reflection. The latch clicks, the door opens… and he enters the room with an angelic smile plastered across his features. “Welcome, honored guests,” he says in a honey-sweet voice. “My name is Chef, I am the chef, and it is my privilege to serve you this evening. On the menu tonight we have…” Chef proceeds to list off the culinary wizardry his is preparing for them tonight, making special note of the many options available and often lapsing into Prench or Bitalian as needed, even going so far as to make the appropriate Bitalian hoof gestures when describing the ricotta cheese on the pasta. The guests all thank him, and he makes his way back to the door from whence he came, wearing that same indulgent smile he entered with. Just before passing through the door, he shoots me a glare calculated to curdle milk at 50 yards, then slams the door shut behind him. I smile and let out a contented sigh as I take my seat with the others. Twilight shoots me an odd look as I sit down. “Rarity? Why were you hanging out by the door?” “Oh, nothing, darling,” I reply. “Just reminiscing.” The dinner is exquisite, of course. I would expect nothing less from a chef of Chef’s caliber. Granted, my waistline won’t thank me for indulging my passion for Bitalian food, but that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make on this auspicious occasion. Especially since Twilight has an excellent wine selection – one of the few elements of class she needed no help from me developing. Chef even brought up one of my favorite chardonnays. Such thoughtfulness is typical of him, not that he’d ever admit it to anypony, least of all to me. I’m not the only one imbibing, of course, and the wine quickly loosens the tongues of all present (excepting those of two specific mares, of course). It’s not long before we are being regaled with some of the more colorful tales of the Front. And, I must say, I’ve quickly discovered that my friends were never the sort to let a little thing like Total War get in the way of having a good time. “… so Rainbow lies there, barely awake, a whole squadron’s worth of empty cider bottles piled up beneath her like a dragon hoard, the MP demanding an explanation,” guffaws Applejack, giving the mare in question a hearty slap on the back that almost puts Rainbow’s muzzle in her pasta, “and you know what this crazy gal says to ’im?” “Something snarky, I’ll bet,” predicts Twilight. “She looks ’im dead in the eye, blinks, and says, ‘Listen, buddy, if you didn’t want us drinking the contraband, you shoulda locked it up better.’” Laughter fills the room as Rainbow smiles sheepishly. “Cripes, Dash!” chuckles Bud. “Tactical error!” “Yeah, not the smartest move I’ve ever made,” she admits. “Not the dumbest either,” Thunderlane remarks. “Yeah, I guess no— hey!” she exclaims rounding on her husband. “Friendly fire!” Spike helps himself to another bowl of shrimp scampi. “Sheesh, Rainbow. How long were you in the stockade for that one?” Rainbow smirks. “Zero hours, Spike. ’Cause I’m awesome.” “’Cause Trixie bailed ya out, you mean,” corrects Applejack. “As Ah recall, she somehow convinced the MPs to let her handle yer punishment. Then, soon as you were in her custody, she let ya off with a ‘warning.’” “W-well,” sputters Dash, “she owed me after you all left me curled up on the bottles. Sticking a friend with the evidence after we all made the empties was kinda blue falcon if you ask me!” I lean over to Fluttershy and whisper, “‘Blue falcon?’” Blushing, she whispers back, “It means… um… backstabbing friend.” I raise my eyebrow at that answer, but elect to listen to the main attraction rather than press the matter. “Ya still sore about that?” retorts Applejack, “ya may recall raiding the contraband crate wasn’t mah idea! An’ we weren’t tryin’ ta leave ya hangin’. That starched shirt surprised us an’ we bolted. We was all gonna step up an’ take the heat with ya if’n Trixie hadn’t taken charge.” The showmare tosses back her mane and waves a hoof airily. “Yes, well, let it never be said that the Loyal and Charismatic Trixie leaves her dearest friends twisting in the wind.” Thunderlane raises an eyebrow. “Especially when the Breaking and Entering Trixie is the mare who got us into the contraband in the first place.” Trixie flushes slightly as ponies chuckle all around the table. “Y-yes,” she stammers. “Especially then.” “I can’t believe you all raided the MPs’ contraband chests like that,” remarks Twilight. “That violates, like, twenty regulations. At least.” Applejack huffs. “Ah can’t believe some starched shirt thought it was a good idea ta confiscate cider from troops who just came off eight months on the line.” “Yeah,” agrees Spike, his voice dry. “Forbidding cider with Dash around, you’d think he’d have been in fear for his life.” Thunderlane gives Spike a long look. “See, you joke about that…” “Half them ciders weren’t even hard,” protests Applejack. “Shows how much he knew! An’ we were miles from the Front that day! Even if we hadn’t been, it’s not like any of us got plastered! Only reason Dash passed out was ’cause she’d been up for forty-seven hours straight!” “Forty-eight,” corrects Dash as she takes a sip of her hard cider. It’s a minor culinary sin to pair a cider with scampi, but I suppose she’s making up for lost cider seasons. “Don’t short-change my misery.” Thunderlane clears his throat and she nudges him affectionately. “Our misery. Sorry, ’Lane.” Trixie laughs lightly. “Princess Twilight, if the Wise and Insightful Trixie may make an observation, it strikes her that this incident is exactly the sort of situation where the regulations, nobly-intentioned though they are, deserve to be interpreted in a… relaxed fashion. Why, after seeing the horrible deprivations these brave stallions and mares had suffered, Trixie considered it her duty as an officer and a lady to succor them in their distress.” Twilight smiles dryly and jots down a note on the scratch paper she keeps around for note-related emergencies. “I’ll be sure to bring it up at the next meeting with the Joint Chiefs.” “Give General Poneshing my best,” purrs Trixie. Arinze cuts in. “Speaking of the good General, I have a question I’ve been meaning to ask: did he really threaten to court-marshal you after the Second Battle of Trotter’s Hill?” “On the contrary, Your Highness,” corrects Nkea, “I believe he threatened to have her shot.” All eyes turn to Trixie, who takes a dainty sip of wine before replying, “Trixie is reasonably certain he was speaking in jest.” “How certain?” asks Twilight. “Eh. Seventy, seventy-five percent? In any case, he promoted Trixie instead.” Applejack chuckles. “Well, shoot! Ah didn’t know that! Musta been right before ya got sent down our way! How come ya never said nuthin’?” “Yeah!” agrees Dash. “Woulda been a hilarious story!” Trixie gives a nervous laugh and rubs the back of her neck. “It… might have had something to do with the fact that Trixie couldn’t believe you were actually talking to her after… everything.” “Hm. Fair.” Ah, perfect! An opportunity to ask a question that’s been tormenting me all day! “Trixie, I have to ask,” I remark, my tone casual as I swirl my pasta onto a fork. “How did you encounter the four of them? Was it just coincidence, or did you seek them out?” The showmare sits back in her seat. “Trixie supposes that’s a fair question, but yields the floor to Her Royal Apple-ness for the opening narrative.” ‘Her Royal Apple-ness’ rolls her eyes at the moniker, but starts in all the same. “Truth be told, we had no idea Trixie was even in our AO at first. All we heard was General Poneshing had transferred some crazy artillerymare to us, and that whoever it was had a rep fer crazy tactics – placin’ her guns way forward o’ the line in concealed positions, hauling ’em inta impassible mountains ta get good angles, experimental shot, fireworks ta disorient, that sorta thing.” Rainbow snorts. “Those were just the sane rumors. Some ponies said she had her bombardments timed to live music, that she had posters advertising her ‘show’ made up and mailed to the buzzard officers, and that she fired dummy shells over enemy lines that dropped leaflets bragging about her brilliance and the inevitability of an Equestrian victory.” Slowly, I turn my stunned gaze to Trixie, who shrugs casually. “Art never rests,” she says. “Trixie has her reputation to consider.” “Anyway,” resumes Applejack, “point is we didn’t know what to make of ’er. And it looked like we weren’t gonna find out any time soon, or at least Ah wasn’t, because me an’ the boys got sent up ta Hill 223. You remember that hill, doncha, Shoddy?” “Sure do, Gunny.” “You remember why we were there?” “Sure don’t, Gunny.” “Hill 223 was one o’ them hills that traded sides more times’n Ah care ta remember. This was one o’ the times we held it, maybe even the time we kept it, Ah honestly don’t recall fer sure, but the point is we held it. 223 was forward o’ the lines by a ways cuz the terrain around it was too marshy ta dig in, so we was really hangin’ it out there.” “Too far out,” agrees Shoddy grimly. Applejack nods. “Eeyup. They waited for a night when we had practically no moon, then hit us hard. Turns out the buzzards had brought up a bunch o’ them owl-type griffons that could see in the dark. First warnin’ we had was when Shoddy here thought he heard something comin’ through the wire. He took a peek over the top, saw ’em creepin’ up on us, swore loud enough ta wake the camp, and put a grenade right in the middle o’ the sorry dastards.” I glance in Shoddy’s direction and nod approvingly. This is the second time tonight I’ve learned that his keen senses and heroics have saved our brave soldiers from ambush. I’m about to ask whether he was decorated for this action, but the stallion in question blushes deeply and mutters, “I got lucky is all.” “Tartarus with luck, ya saved the platoon,” retorts Applejack, with the tone of a mare who’s had this argument before. “In any case, before we knew it we were up to our eyeballs in griffons, fire pourin’ in from every direction. All we had ta shoot by was muzzle flashes, on account o’ not havin’ any moon ta speak of, so we were pretty much firin’ blind. Any unicorns what lit up were lucky not ta get their horns blown off, and there were so many o’ the dastards that we didn’t have a prayer o’ keeping ’em off the hill.” “My word!” I exclaim, feeling the sort of uncertain dismay one feels when the outcome is in doubt, even though the survivors are plainly in front of me. Dramatic tension is funny like that. “How ever did you survive?” Applejack dips her head in Dash’s direction. “Ah’ll let the Zoomie take over here.” “Soarin busted into the barracks and roused us, saying Hill 223 was getting hit,” says Dash, her eyes taking on a hard quality at the recollection. “We threw our kit on and lined up to take off but…” she scratches the back of her head, a displacement action to cover frustration, “Spitfire ordered us to stand down.” Twilight tilts her head in confusion. “Why?” “Pegasi can see a little better than other ponies in the dark, but not that much better. There are lots of griffon breeds that can see better than us, especially owls, and Spitfire had a hunch that was what was waiting for us. It’s how they’d operated during other night attacks. She figured we’d get shot out of the sky if we went in before having the mages cast night vision on us. In hindsight,” again she scratches the back of her head, “in hindsight she was right, but I… didn’t think so at the time. I kinda… blew up at her.” I raise an eyebrow. If Dash’s history of understatement is any indication, she did a great deal more than ‘blow up’ at Spitfire. Thunderlane rubs his wife’s back comfortingly. “Hey, the boss forgave you, and nothing went on your permanent record.” Dash does not seem soothed. “’Lane, that’s sweet and all, but I tried to assault a superior officer. Only reason I didn’t wind up in the brig was that she knew she needed warm bodies.” Wow. I… I can’t say I blame Dashie for her outburst, but… wow. “The boss forgave you because she knew you were out of your head with worry,” corrects Thunderlane, unwilling to let his wife stew without a fight. Rainbow shakes her head. “Whatever. We’re off topic. Point is, it was gonna take time for us to get enough fliers with night vision, and we weren’t sure we had that kind of time.” Dash shudders at the recollection, then looks up at Trixie with a grateful smile. “Then we got a runner from our mystery artillerymare with strict orders and a plan to save the Marines.” Trixie shrugs casually and takes a sip of wine. “T’was nothing, really. Trixie had been experimenting with some new illumination rounds – flares of a sort, with a few slow-fall enchantments to keep them airborne longer, loaded into low velocity shells that dropped the flares at intervals in a line. Trixie merely prescribed a path for our brave fliers to follow that kept them out of the line of fire, softened the griffons up with a barrage, then lit the sky once our airponies got close enough. Once they had the light, the combined fire of the Air and Marine Corps made short work of the attackers in the immediate vicinity, and my battery kept any reinforcements from coming up.” She takes another sip of wine, her smile coy. “It was a reasonably effective tactic if Trixie may say so.” Applejack snorts. “Ya may say so, an’ ya should say so. It weren’t just effective – it was a total rout! Poor buzzards never knew what hit ’em.” “Good riddance to bad blood,” growls Shoddy, throwing back half a beer in a single swig. His snarl is bitter, and the hate in his voice sounds fresh in spite of more than a year’s distance between him and the war. It’s a sharp contrast to the more casual way the other veterans tend to refer to the enemy which, while often mocking and sometimes serious, is seldom venomous. Fluttershy shoots Shoddy a long look and opens her mouth to say something, then returns her attention to her food without voicing her comment. I almost wish she had; perhaps I’ll have to ask about it later. In my brief distraction I miss a part of the narrative, but it seems to have only been a transitional part, giving a few details about the after-action cleanup. I probably missed some minor context, but not enough to throw me off track for when, at some point after the battle, Dash and Applejack sought out the mysterious artillerymare who’d saved the Marines, bearing with them a celebratory bottle of… well… applejack brandy. I sometimes forget that Applejack is named after an alcohol. “Out of curiosity,” I ask, “did you have that shipped from home, or did you distill it in the field?” Applejack coughs. “In the spirit o’ not rattin’ out the ponies who hypothetically helped me in this theoretical scenario where Ah may or may not ’ave broken a few regs makin’ the stuff, Ah respectfully decline ta answer.” That’s about what I expected. “Anyhoo,” continues Applejack, “we got ta the Cheap Seats… er… for you civvies in the room ‘Cheap Seats’ is Service-Speak fer the artillery ponies, an’ we asked ta speak ta the commandin’ officer. Took a minute for us ta get invited inta the office, but we got there eventually.” Smiling fondly at the recollection, she turns to Trixie. “Imagine our surprise when we saw her Great an’ Powerful self waitin’ for us.” Twilight laughs. “I think I can imagine that after today. How’d it go?” Trixie laughs weakly. “To be honest, it almost didn’t go at all. Trixie heard who was outside and… well… Trixie… I came closer to dropping a smoke bomb and vanishing than I’d care to admit. Only the knowledge that it would be impossible to avoid them forever when sharing an encampment kept me from attempting the greatest vanishing act of my career. I… was not expecting it to go well.” Dash laughs. “Meanwhile, we didn’t know whoto expect when we walked into her office, but it sure wasn’t Trixie! My jaw dropped so hard I almost dislocated it, and Applejack froze up like Twilight in a quesadilla factory.” Twilight blurts a word that princesses probably shouldn’t say and flings a fork at Rainbow’s head, which the latter barely ducks. “Sorry, Twi,” laughs the pegasus. “Don’t apologize to her,” says Spike with a chuckle. “Apologize to Princess Luna for the nightmares she’s going to be cleaning up tonight.” Shoddy gives me a befuddled look and I mouth “long story” before turning to Trixie and asking, “What happened next?” “We… talked,” replies the showmare at length. “Explanations, apologies, Trixie won’t bore you with the details. Suffice it to say we emerged with an understanding.” Rainbow snorts. “Understanding, heck! We emerged friends, Trix. Don’t sell it short.” Trixie smiles. “Yes, I suppose we did.” Her gaze sharpens. “A fact which you were supposed to have informed Princess Twilight of.” “Hey, we tried! We didn’t know the mail didn’t go through!” “Oh, you didn’t?” exclaims Pinkie Pie abruptly. Her sudden entrance into the conversation makes more than one pony jump in surprise, myself included. Strange as it would have seemed a few years ago, Pinkie hardly ever speaks during meals anymore, to the point that it’s easy to forget she’s there. Shocking, I know, but she is eating for five, and I suppose that only leaves so much time for talking, even for a mare like Pinkie. In spite of the shock, however, Dash recovers quickly enough to retort, “Wait, Pinkie, you knew she didn’t get our letters?” “Of course, silly!” “Then why didn’t you say anything?!” “Eh. Pinkie Sense,” replies the pink menace casually. Face-hoofs and groans of dismay echo around the table. Spike, who seems more amused than anything, asks, “How did Trixie meet you and Fluttershy then?” “Oh, that’s easy!” said Pinkie Pie. “We met when Trixie won the Battle of Eagle’s Ridge.” My eyes widen at the name. Eagle’s Ridge is remembered by the public as a great Equestrian victory, but rumor has it the soldiers call it by a different name: Butcher’s Ridge. I remember walking into the room when Twilight got the casualty reports. She was sobbing uncontrollably. I look to Trixie, whose good humor seems to have deserted her. She grips her wine glass in her magic and swirls it in a slow circle, gaze lost in her drink. “Pinkie exaggerates,” she says quietly. “I did not win the battle; my artilleryponies simply gave us a much-needed edge.” “I’ll say you gave us an edge!” says Pinkie Pie. “Everypony thought she was crazy, wanting to haul cannons up the cliffside and mount them on the tippy top of the Ridge! But I knew my engineers could do it, and boy was it a good thing we had ’em up there! We dug in and camouflaged the guns where Trixie’s ponies had a view of the entire field, only the griffons didn’t know we were waiting to surprise ’em! When they charged the main lines down below, they didn’t know what hit ’em! By the time they figured it out, it was too late to stop us! Even—” Her voice breaks and she swallows, blinking rapidly as her smile falters. Bud puts a hoof across her withers. A moment later, her grin returns, though it seems forced. “Even when they launched all their squadrons at us up there,” she says, almost managing to mask the shake in her voice, “Trixie held us together. She walked the line with her saber and pistol, calling out shots, leading the defense whenever the birds got close, keeping us calm while the squadrons kept coming and coming and…” Pinkie swallows again and beams across the table at Trixie, moisture in her eyes, “she kept us alive.” Silence descends on the room. Trixie stares into her wine, not meeting Pinkie’s gaze. After a moment, she speaks in a voice soft and controlled, “Trixie was just in the right place at the right time, that’s all.” Clearing her throat, she stands up from the table. “Trixie’s afraid she needs to use the little fillies’ room. Fluttershy can tell her part of the story in Trixie’s absence.” Without another word, she turns and leaves. Nopony says anything at first. Then the silence is broken by Shoddy, who refills his beer and says, “Well, Miss Fluttershy, what happened next?” Sweet Celestia, how can anypony be so casual when asking that? Pre-War Fluttershy would have been a wreck just hearing a story like that. Now, she may have a distant look in her eyes at the memory, but she’s very much present with us as she says, “I was a medic up on the Ridge. It was… there were so many wounded, more than I’d ever seen at one time except Angriff.” A lock of hair has pulled free from her bun, and she brushes it back behind one ear. “Trixie was in the thick of it from start to finish. When she ran out of bullets, she used her pistol as a club. When her saber broke, she fought hoof-to-hoof. She was wounded three times but refused to be treated until the griffons were driven off. Then she refused to be treated until all her ponies had been treated.” Once more, the room falls silent. Pinkie nods at the recollection, as does Bud who, being in the same army group, must have heard about it immediately afterwards. Arinze, looking quite impressed, makes a remark to Nkea in Zwahili which the latter returns. Myself and the other girls, along with Thunderlane, Mac, and Spike, all stare at Fluttershy in degrees of awe ranging from profound to total. Shoddy chuckles and raises his beer in a one-pony toast. “Hot dang. I knew Bag-o-Tricks was a tough old nag, but that’s some jarhead-level horseapples there, eh boss?” “Uh… yeah,” manages Applejack. “Now how the hay’d she get cheated outta the Star o’ Valor?” wonders Shoddy aloud as he raises his beer to his lips and takes a swig. “Typical brass BS.” “She was approved for it, actually,” says Fluttershy quietly. Shoddy slams his tankard down. “What? Then why in the hay don’t she have it?” Before Fluttershy can answer, Trixie struts back into the room, her previous somberness gone. “Ah, the joys of indoor plumbing,” she says. “One never ceases to appreciate it after the detestable squalor of the field.” Shoddy starts to address Trixie, presumably to ask her a barefaced question about the Star of Valor she doesn’t have, but a sharp nudge from Fluttershy and a shake of the head silences him. He appears bemused, and I suspect he doesn’t understand why she bade him leave his question unspoken. In truth, I’m not certain I understand myself, but I’ll defer to Fluttershy’s judgment. Trixie sits and remarks, “Still, for all the conveniences of living once more in Equestria, I must confess, I do miss the War.” “You WHAT?!” The exclamation is out my lips before I can stop it. And I’m not done there. “How could you p-possibly…?” I stammer, “But it was so… I just… I can’t…” No, I can’t. I can’t understand. After all we’ve heard tonight, after she just had to leave the room because she recalled Butcher’s Ridge, after what the war did to my friends, to Shoddy, to Twilight, how can she just— Unless she really is just a callous nag who simply doesn’t care about the killing and the death, but then my friends wouldn’t be friends with her unless they also— “What in the blazes do ya mean, ya miss the War?” demands Applejack. “Yeah,” adds Rainbow Dash, seeming a little leery. “Did AJ hit you harder than she thought earlier?” Their questions send relief flooding through my body, though they don’t answer the questions I have of Trixie. The mare herself remains composed. “Oh, don’t act as though you don’t feel the same way at some level. Trixie would wager all you fellow soldiers of mine miss the War, except perhaps Fluttershy.” She takes a sip of wine. “Though perhaps Trixie… no… perhaps I should clarify – I don’t miss the killing. I’m not a savage. And I don’t miss seeing my comrades die. I’m not a sadist. But there was so much more to the War than that! It was…” she turns her gaze to the ceiling as though searching for inspiration there. “It was…” “Purpose,” supplies Shoddy, his words ringing and his eyes intense. “Family.” Trixie grins and points at the stallion. “Yes! The Marine gets it! Purpose. Family. Every morning I woke up over there, I knew I had a purpose. I wasn’t just some random showmare, I was the shield of the innocent, the sword of Equestria, defending ponies like Twilight or Snips and Snails or strangers for Celestia’s sake – I defended them all, and avenged the evils the Dominion had done them! I woke up knowing I was charged with leading the finest soldiers in the world into battle with our enemies… and with bringing my ponies home safely! I, Trixie, loud mouth, braggart, petty villain, had been trusted with the awesome responsibility of lives, and where I once would have run, I now knew I would die before I failed my ponies!” She punctuates her declaration by smashing one hoof on the table as she bares a toothy grin. “And, best of all, I was amongst my soldiers, my family, ponies I never knew before the war and may have had nothing in common with… but who I would die for. And they were willing to die for me! No question, no doubt! Because we loved each other! Battle proved our love for each other!” Her gaze sweeps over the six of us Bearers, electrifying us as though with a spell. “You all knew this purpose, this family before the War. You had causes bigger than yourselves, bonds bigger than yourselves, things and friends worth dying for. Others are lucky enough to say the same.” She gestures to herself. “But a pony like me? I never had that. Not once in all my life. Then, suddenly, I get over there, and I have…” Trixie’s gaze turns to Shoddy, mutely asking him to finish her thought. “A place to belong,” he concludes, matching her intensity. “A brotherhood, a sisterhood of hundreds.” “Sacred bonds, proved in combat,” says Trixie reverently. “Nothing has ever been so thrilling.” Her eyes are locked on Shoddy’s as though the two of them are seeing into each other’s souls. “It’s amazing. Surrounded by death, and yet I never felt so—” “—alive,” he finishes. “Yes!” Trixie exclaims, raising her glass in salute like a warrior baroness of old and declaring, “You understand War, Iron Shod.” For once, Shoddy does not protest the compliment. Casting her gaze over the veterans, Trixie says, “You understand. I know you do. Perhaps you do not miss the War as much as Trixie - you have other bonds, other causes to satiate those needs. And you needn’t say you wish the War was still on. I do not wish that! I thank the heavens every day that the damnable War has ended, that more of my ponies don’t need to die! But can any of you, any of you, honestly say you don’t miss it at all?” I stare in disbelief as, one by one, my friends all answer “No.” Author's Note Every sapient creature desires meaning. They want something to live, to fight, to die for. Many never find that something. Others find only falsehood masquerading as meaning. Yet, still, we search. What is it about war that so drives us to seek this meaning there? That is a matter philosophers have debated for millennia. For my part, I think it is the bonds and the cause. Of the two, I suspect the bonds may be the stronger. Even should the cause prove false, after all, the bonds remain. Happy the one who finds a cause worthy of the fight, for he finds both cause and bonds to instruct him in meaning. Though he buys this gift at a terrible price, he may well find the price more than fair. —Skyward Vision, PsyD, 2nd Lieutenant of the Trottingham Fusiliers (medically discharged), survivor of the Gustyshire Massacre, reflecting on the search for meaning Yes, I’m aware this is something of a hard emotional cutoff to leave on… and also a controversial one. Trixie’s description here and the other’s reaction to it is drawn very heavily from firsthand accounts of many different wars from ages past up to and including current wars. Yet, not every veteran would agree with it. I’m not trying to make a universal representation here, but simply to give a snapshot of a perspective that I have found to be very common – that, as terrible as war is, the bonds of brotherhood, and often of cause, reach beyond its horrors. All the same, sorry for giving such a long delay and coming back with a gut-punch. A reminder of the Veteran support line for veterans, friends, family: here “Only a fool eats green hash.” —Patrick F. McManus In actuality, ‘Blue Falcon’ means ‘Buddy Fouler.’ At least… that’s what it means in Equestria. The real world meaning exceeds the rating level on this story. And, in case there’s any confusion, Chef loves his job. He just loves bing about it even more. He’s partially inspired by a good friend of mine who’s a cook and is this exact way – he’s never happier than when everything is going wrong. Rarity knows this about him, and thus never hesitated to change things on him at the last minute when the situation demanded it. It’s a game they both enjoy playing, even if the rules demand they never overtly acknowledge that it’s a game. The two of them have an… oddly symbiotic relationship built on cheerful and benign antagonism.
