Two Generations Past

Dizzy trotted through the little dirt road of Ponyville.

It wasn't much of a town, of course. There were about thirty-five houses, all in all, and they all ran along the same little dirt road.

Dizzy grinned. It was, of course, home.

She knew everypony in town. From the amiable investor Stinkin' Rich to her good friend, Undercut--

She was knocked from her thoughts as she, not paying attention to what was ahead of her—her eyes had been particularly askew today—ran straight into another pony. She fell back as her victim fell down.

The yellow pegasus Dizzy had hit lay on the ground, unmoving.

“Oh!” Dizzy grinned. “Sorry, Rye! Didn't--”

She stopped. The pink-maned mare wasn't responding.

“Um...” Dizzy poked the breadbaker.

Buttered Rye jolted. She looked up, eyes wide. “Sorry!” she whispered. Then she turned and ran off.

“Okay!” Dizzy called. “Sorry! Lemme know if there's...”

She trailed off. Rye was gone.

Dizzy sighed. “Nice going, Dizzy.”

Buttered Rye was not one of the occupants of the twelve houses. She was a homeless breadbaker, who made her living very sporadically.

Dizzy had always felt sorry for Rye. Dizzy had never been a very good flier, and Rye was actually flightless. Besides that—or maybe it was related, Dizzy had never been sure—Rye was prone to extremely severe panic attacks. They came and went without way or warning.

Feeling newly glum, Dizzy continued on her way—only to nearly bump into an earth pony exiting a nearby building.

Fortunately, Dizzy's eyes had reoriented for now, and Dizzy was able to stop before colliding with the blue-haired mare. “Whoa!” Dizzy shook her head. “Sorry, Wraps, you kinda jumped out at me.”

“Hm?” Undercut Wraps smiled. “Ah, Dizzy Hooves. I'd been wondering where you'd run off to. You're a minute late.”

Dizzy smiled nervously. Her best friend had always been a very punctual pony. “Yeah, sorry. Ran into Buttered Rye—you know her? The flightless pegasus with the--”

Wraps rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes. I know her. She just left the nightclub.”

“Oh!” Dizzy looked up. Indeed, the sign above her proclaimed that the doorway Wraps was standing in belonged to Doc's Club. “I guess I just got lost in my thoughts.”

Wraps smiled. “You get lost quite often. It's not a problem, my schedule is flexible today.”

Dizzy didn't respond to this. Wraps was a very punctual pony. She'd gotten used to it.

“Anyways, Rye's gone, correct?” Wraps's smile was replaced with a wary scowl.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, she ran off.”

Undercut Wraps didn't much care for the 'vagrant freak' that was Buttered Rye. She was a very pompous pony. Dizzy had gotten used to this, too.

“Good, good.” Wraps's friendly smile returned. “Come on, Dizzy.”

Since joining the farm, Dizzy had had very little time to spend with her friend. They had responded by setting a 'date'—every week, they met up at Doc's Club, had drinks, and discussed local happenings.

Not that Crab, Smoky, Smith and Basalteus weren't good friends—they were—but Dizzy appreciated the chance to spend time with the mare she'd known since fillyhood.

They entered the club. The interior had been given lime green carpeting, and the walls were painted the same color. Almost everything else had been colored pure white.

The effect was a bit hard to get used to, but it wasn't too unpleasant. Besides, the club owner seemed fond of it.

There was an area for dancing, and even a small raised stage for karaoke, but Wraps had assured Dizzy that it was only there for show. The club owner just used that space to place the turntables and speakers.

To be honest, Dizzy found the whole setup a bit too modern. The music as well. But it wasn't like she ever showed up past noon, so it never really came up.

Wraps and Dizzy went to the bar and pulled up stools. The club owner was nowhere to be seen, though there was one other patron—a character Dizzy knew well.

Behind the bar was a huge shelf of various drinks—including actual alcohol, which Dizzy knew was extremely hard to come by. A little door fit between the racks of barely balanced beverages.

Wraps tapped the birchwood bar with a hoof. “Doctor?”

“Coming!” came a shout from behind the door. The bottles and tankards shifted uneasily—the racks weren't actually perfectly level, thanks to careless construction.

After a moment, a pony emerged.

The unicorn mare was perfectly white. Mane, coat, everything but her cutie mark: a pair of black-and-red turntables. The only other deviations from the coloration were her large purple sunglasses.

Doctor Billiard Scratch, owner of Doc's Club, grinned. “Alright, what's the sitch, boss?”

Wraps rolled her eyes. “We are waiting to be served.”

“Alright. You're a whiny, pompous mule and your friend's eyes look like someone's fried eggs. There. You just got served.”

Wraps glared. “Your coloration makes you look like a golf ball, and the sunglasses look like you took two dead leaves and glued them to your face. One could say that the 'tables' have been 'turned', but one has no time for your griffon droppings and is very close to take one's business elsewhere, as one has done before when an idiot who slept her way through college on account of her father being the richest fop to be found decided to show exactly how little schooling she's had.” She paused. “Besides being schooled just now. You see? And now I feel a little more worthless for sinking to the level of our resident albino.”

Scratch's eyes narrowed. “So, you wanna—”

“Scrash...” mumbled a voice from a short ways down the bar, “...na' thish again...jusht give'm their dr'nks...”

Dizzy, Wraps and Scratch glanced over.

A purple earth pony with a messy fuchsia mane was leaning on the table, clutching a bottle of whiskey and watching Scratch with as much intensity as she could muster. “Jusht...drop it, 'kay, Scratch? D'me a favor?”

Merry Punch. The town drunk.

Scratch seemed to hesitate. Dizzy couldn't see the mare's red eyes behind the shades, but she had a feeling Scratch was struggling. Finally, the white unicorn trotted over to the drunk earth pony. “Alright, Merry. Those morons get a reprieve this once.” She rustled Merry's mane and turned back, scowling again. “Alright. Usual? A glass of cider for each of you?”

Undercut nodded. “And make it the cheap stuff for both of us.”

Dizzy considered complaining—she'd rather have good cider. But Wraps was a very frugal mare, and a very spiteful one. Dizzy knew she should be glad Wraps was willing to pick up Dizzy's tab at all—Dizzy was not exactly financially comfortable at the moment, so whatever Wraps was willing to buy on these outings was a treat. So she just nodded. “Sounds good.”

“And this Prism Dash wasn't arrested?” Undercut frowned.

“Um, no.” Dizzy had a feeling she needed to speed up. “Afterwards, she said she was very sorry.”

“Don't try to outwit me, Dizzy Hooves.” Undercut rolled her eyes. “She said no such thing.”

“Well, she did get hit on the head--”

“Self defense.” Wraps was visibly weighing the matter. “Definitely possible for a lawyer to present it that way. And if you self-represent, you're only spending money on travel expenses. You say you befriended that count? That could simplify matters. He must be very wealthy, and very well-connected, especially after catching that Diamond Dog. I expect--”

Dizzy closed her eyes. “Wraps, please don't.”

Undercut stopped talking

“Just...not again, okay? I appreciated it, but...well, Prism probably doesn't have any money to give. She didn't strike me as a very, um, monetarily efficacious sort of pony.” Did I use that word right? I'm pretty sure I did...

Wraps was silent. Dizzy opened her eyes.

The earth pony before her looked somewhat sad. “Alright, Dizzy.” She sighed. “I hope you learn to stand up for yourself one of these days. It's my opinion you let these freaks and misfits push you around far too much.”

Dizzy coughed. “Yeah, yeah. I guess, yeah. So, Wraps, what's new with you? How's your business going?” She had learned from personal experience that a good way to avoid talking for the next hour or so was to ask Wraps about her business.

Indeed, Undercut Wraps brightened. “Excellent. I'm starting a new brand—but this really isn't the place. Suffice to say there are going to be some changes around here.”

“Oh!” Dizzy grinned nervously. “That's splendiferous!” There is no way that's a word, she'd going to call me on it...

But Wraps didn't respond. Instead, she began jabbering about stocks and a whole lot of other things. Dizzy did her best to pay attention—she wasn't very interested, but Wraps was, and besides which, Wraps always said Dizzy needed to learn as much as possible about these matters—but she found herself distracted by the efforts of Merry Punch.

Every day, Merry Punch would enter the club, assemble a crowd of whiskey bottles around her, then become too drunk to pick up any more and start breaking things. She was approaching that phase now, and Doc Billiard was hanging around, waiting.

Merry reached for a bottle, and it tipped and began to roll towards the edge of the counter. Immediately, Scratch picked it up and set it back down. She stroked the drunk mare's mane. “Watch it, there.”

Seemingly not noticing the affection, Merry lay her head down on the counter. “...yeh...think that's 'nough...don't wan' go breakin' yer shtuff 'gain...”

“Just be careful, Merry.” Scratch shrugged. “They're mostly empty anyway. Not like I'll have to foreclose over a couple empty bottles.”

“What an idiot...” Wraps muttered to Dizzy.

Dizzy glanced over. “What? At least she's being nice to somepony.”

“Well, yes.” Wraps finished her cider. “That lush is the only thing Scratch doesn't bother. That's the problem.”

“Huh?”

Wraps got off the stool. “I have to go now.” She flashed a smile. “I have to return to the candy shop. Like I said, I have big plans.”

“Wait!” Dizzy flew off the barstool and grabbed Wraps's arm. “What's wrong with Merry?”

Wraps glanced back. “Hm? Oh, nothing. Not our problem, not our business. But Merry is going to drink herself to death one of these days, and I expect that the only thing served at the funeral,” she smirked, “will be whiskey.”

She turned, trotted to the door, and left.

Dizzy stared as the door slammed shut.

“Oh, no,” she whispered. “Why am I so stupid?”

Wraps walked down the dirt road. Such a silly little town. Besides Dizzy, not a single citizen was even remotely tolerable. And even Dizzy had absolutely abominable taste in friends.

Basalteus wasn't all bad, Undercut supposed. A bit of a hermit, though. Almost as bad as that vagrant breadbaker.

But now she was approaching Dizzy's other unfortunate acquaintances.

Crab Apple and Smoky Mirror. The hick and the nomad. They were coming down the road towards Undercut Wraps, and they looked angry.

Wraps supposed it was important to handle this matter lightly. Distasteful as they might be, they were Dizzy's friends, and what Wraps was planning was a rather volatile matter.

She stopped walking and sat, smiling. Her smile, she knew was venomous. As it was meant to be. Hello, dear adversaries.

Smoky Mirror and Crab Apple stopped in front of Wraps.

“I saw your note,” Crab snapped.

Wraps only smiled.

“Y'really think you're gonna drive us out of business?” He snorted. “You're a candymaker. Where's the overlap?”

“Ah!” Wraps nodded. “You don't know yet. I see.” Of course they didn't know. Her shop was a few meters behind her. They hadn't gotten the chance to find out. “Well, it seemed fair to warn you. I think you'll find my new foray into pastries quite...illuminating.”

It didn't take Crab Apple long to figure it out. His eyes widened, then narrowed. Smoky still looked confused—naturally. Her 'livelihood' (and Wraps applied the term loosely) didn't depend on--

“Apple fritters.” Crab's voice was bitter. “Apple pies. Apple dumplings, apple strudel...”

“Well, not pies.” Wraps shrugged. “Dumplings, fritters, strudel. Candied and carameled, of course.”

Smoky's look had gone from confusion to horror to anger. “And you think to wrest the floor from--” She sputtered. “You are in for a rude awakening, fool! The pastries you produce pale beside Crab's crafted culinary consuma--”

Wraps rolled her eyes. “Spare me that worthless waste of words, wastrel. Flavor doesn't matter. What matters is presentation. Convincing through commercials that my delightful danishes—danishes as well, I forgot to mention those—are not only tastier but superiorly selected and sold--”

She stopped.

“That's it. This abrasive and annoying—this ridiculous alliteration you have me stuck with. Enough of it. The point is, I am a much better salesmare.” She smirked. “Your farm will have to make do with cider and pies, Crab Apple. If its percentages of sugar are sufficient, it's mine now.”

“We depend on our pastry sales. They make up near half our profits.” Crab waved a hoof, clearly trying to keep his calm. “Mornin' sales are where most of our money comes from.”

Smoky glanced to Crab, looking a bit stunned. “What of the legendary zap apples Dizzy Hooves has--”

Crab sighed. “Zap apples are only once a year, an' we had a weak harvest this season. Smith hurt her hip, 'member?”

“Ah.” Smoky turned back to Wraps. “You see? Why must you--”

Wraps turned and started walking away. “Those are 'morals', showmare,” she called back, “and never to be taken seriously in the legal department. Unless you have an ethical concern to support your situation, it really isn't my problem.” She glanced behind her. “By the way, my apple fritters sell for two bits. Good luck beating that, Crab Apple.”

Dizzy sat nervously at her barstool, staring over the top of her cider glass. It still wasn't empty—a few years spent in total poverty had given her the habit of eating and drinking very slowly. Things were a bit easier now...but the glass was still half-full. Habit.

Every now and then, one of her askew eyes would wander to Merry Punch. The earth pony was resting her head on the table again.

One thing about earth pony metabolisms—they worked fast. Only about a half hour had passed before Merry had recovered, and now she was once again surrounded by a flock of whiskey bottles.

Dizzy contemplated the shelves. They really were very dangerous. Dizzy could tell it wouldn't take much to knock them over—even the smallest earthquake.

It was a fire hazard, too. A lot of the bottles contained some very flammable substances, from what Dizzy knew about alcohol (which, admittedly, wasn't much).

No matter how thoroughly she tried to distract herself, though, her mind kept wandering back to the same thing.

Merry.

Dizzy sighed. I still can't believe I didn't notice sooner...

Dizzy didn't deal much with Merry. The town drunk had just become part of the scenery of the nightclub. Dizzy had a feeling Wraps, in her typical misguided protectiveness, had warded Merry away from giving Dizzy any 'trouble'.

Dizzy had just classified Merry's behavior as normal, and stopped thinking about it. Dizzy herself had never given a thought to drinking, but back before Smith hired her, she recalled wishing a few times for something to distract from her situation. Alcohol was just a means for that, Dizzy had supposed.

But Merry drank at least fifteen bottles of whiskey a day.

Earth ponies were well-known for their tolerance. But this wasn't just excessive, it was dangerous.

Dizzy had just assumed Merry was going through something like what Dizzy had gone through back in her jobless years.

But Merry didn't have coordination problems like Dizzy. Judging by the paint palette cutie mark, her special talent was something to do with art—nothing particularly unfortunate, compared to having a special talent dedicated fumbling.

So why, Dizzy finally found herself wondering, had Merry found the need for the bottle?

Smoky watched Undercut Wraps walk away. Her eyes were narrowed to slits. “A bolt of lightning could electrocute her right now. It would be a simple matter.”

Crab patted Smoky on the back. “Prob'ly not a good idea.”

Smoky glared for one more moment, then sighed. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“Thanks for offerin', though.”

Smoky turned to Crab Apple. “Could she do as she claimed? Could she actually drive your farm out of business?”

Crab shrugged. “Well, that's the thing. It wouldn't be as easy as she thinks—or pretends to think, y'never know with Undercut. She talks a big game, but her food's a little uninspirin'. We'd put up a fight.”

“But...”

“But we'd lose.” Crab reached up and lowered his fedora. “She's called Undercut Wraps for a reason, y'know. Nothing she's better at than making things look better than they are. Those three li'l bon-bons she's got for a cutie mark? Family heirloom. Her talent—the only talent those of her family ever seem to get—lies in packaging. Makin' things look nice.”

“But surely the truth trumps this tricky trading.”

Crab shook his head, looking Smoky in the eye. “I ain't certain of that. See, thing is, we Apples ain't really number ponies. I ain't sayin' we're stupid—Smith's quick as a wick—but findin' tricks in taxes, an' legal matters...it ain't our way. We're honest farmers.

“Undercut's the opposite. She ain't honest, suffice it to say.” Crab chuckled, looking down at the ground. “She's got every little law memorized, an' uses every one to her benefit. Means her products are a lot cheaper than ours can be.”

“I see.” Smoky weighed this. “And only ethics matter to her?”

“Only what affects her matters to her. Ethics involve the law, so they matter.” Crab turned around. “C'mon, Smoky. Let's go back to the farmhouse an' let Smith know. May be we can work somethin' out. Get a head start on Undercut, hold out 'til zap apple season.”

There was no response. Crab looked about, frowning.

Smoky Mirror was gone.

Nearly half an hour had gone by. Dizzy's drink was almost empty now, and still she hadn't acted.

She glanced about. Doc Billiard Scratch was scowling at her—quite used to Dizzy's slow beverage consumption. Merry Punch was still lost in her own world.

The world that Dizzy needed to enter. The world that Dizzy needed to understand.

She hesitated, then got up. Doc glanced over, looking confused—Dizzy never let her drinks go to waste.

But Dizzy wasn't leaving the club. Instead, she slowly trotted over to Merry and climbed up onto the stool beside the earth pony.

“Hi.”

Merry glanced over. “Hey,” she murmured, taking a sip of whiskey.

“Um...” Dizzy coughed. What was she supposed to say? “How's it going?”

Merry blinked, looking away from her whiskey. “Um...fine.”

“That's, um...” Dizzy gestured to the array of bottles. “That's quite an assortment of drinks there.”

Merry still looked confused. “Yes?”

“Uh...” Dizzy reached over and took her glass of cider from her old place. She took a sip. “Uh.”

“There a problem?”

Dizzy and Merry glanced up. Scratch was standing in front of them. Though Dizzy couldn't see the club owner's eyes, it was clear she wasn't pleased.

“No, Scratch,” Merry muttered. “'s'fine.”

“Right. Whatever.” Scratch turned away, and started polishing the bar.

Merry looked back at Dizzy. “You've go' a queshtion. Out wi' it.”

“W-well--” Dizzy stammered, “The--um--why--where are you from?”

Merry froze.

Dizzy cursed the name of all things clumsy and stupid inwardly. You idiot, Dizzy. It was a simple question: 'Why do you drink more than a goldfish?' Stupid, stupid.

Then she realized that Merry still hadn't answered. She stared at the alcoholic pony with her one behaving eye.

“W-w-well...” Merry was stuttering worse than Dizzy had.

Dizzy went on, trying to dispel the tension that had suddenly sprung up. “I mean, you have a sort of Trottingham d-dialect, but you're pretty far from your domicile if so.”

Merry was silent.

“I-I mean,” Dizzy cleared her throat, “Isn't that off the c-coast of the western...coast? Or is it just behind--”

“Vanhoover,” Merry said. She took a deep drought of whiskey, looking somber. “Li'l fishing village to the northwest. Trottingham is one o' th'islands further west from 'ere.”

“...oh.” Dizzy found her voice was rather quiet. “That's, um...”

“A ways away.” Merry upended the bottle over her head, emptying it.

She set it down on the bar. “Yeh.”

Suddenly, the door flew open. Dizzy and Merry turned.

Smoky Mirror stood there, dressed in her black hooded robe. In fact, the hood was down over her face, and the collar pinned to hide the coat underneath, but this didn't fool Dizzy for a moment.

Smoky Mirror approached Doc Billiard. “I require your finest rum, vodka and other strong alcoholic beverages, bartender.”

“Yeah?” Scratch raised an eyebrow. “How much, cloak bloke?”

“As much as this will buy me.” A large pouch levitated from beneath Smoky's robe and landed on the counter with a loud clink. “What are fifty-seven bits good for here?”

A moment passed. Scratch didn't move.

Dizzy's eyes were wide as saucers. She'd known Smoky was comfortable, money-wise, but...

Does she know I've been saving up for a non-patched rain jacket for three months? And when she finally decides to spend all that--

She stopped the train of thought quickly. Smoky probably had a good reason. Besides, it wasn't as if Dizzy had asked for charity.

Suddenly, bottles and kegs were flying every which way. Scratch was muttering various numbers under her breath as she concentrated on the telekinesis.

In a little while, three bottles of rum, two kegs of vodka and a small flask of something green, bubbling and foreign lay on the counter. Scratch was grinning ear to ear. “That's the most potent stuff I have.”

Smoky looked at the flask. “Is it meant to glow in this manner, bartender?”

“Uh, break-it-you-bought-it.” Scratch coughed. “Okay, get lost. Preferably in the next minute.”

Smoky didn't move for a moment. Then, she slowly levitated the six beverages and left the shop.

Dizzy, Merry and Scratch were all still for a moment, listening.

When no explosion came, they all relaxed.

“Anyway,” Dizzy said, “I was actually--”

“Sorry,” Merry said, getting off the stool and stumbling away, “I gotta go. Sun's settin'...”

Dizzy looked out the window and blinked. It was true.

Where had the time gone?

“Wait!” she cried as Merry opened the door. “I wanted to--”

Merry stepped outside, and the door slammed shut.

Crab Apple walked through the darkening streets of Ponyville. For such a small town, it was remarkably difficult to find a single specific pony right now. He had a feeling Smoky was very deliberately avoiding him.

He considered it. Somepony had to have seen her. He'd checked with Stinkin' Rich, Smith, young Waddle the smith...

Everypony but her.

He stood at the nightclub door, scowling. Doctor Scratch. The unicorn who got a degree in musicology and went on to never use it. The most unpleasant pony to live in Ponyville—besides perhaps Undercut Wraps.

As he slowly reached for the doorknob, the door swung open. A purple earth pony backed out, and kicked the door shut behind her. She turned and bumped into Crab, nearly knocking him over. “Sorry...” she mumbled. She stumbled away.

Crab realized after a moment's pause that he knew this pony. Merry Punch, the drunkard. That mare Scratch was sweet on.

She was quite obviously intoxicated even now, but if talking to her would give him a chance to avoid talking to Scratch... “Hey! Wait!”

Merry slowly turned, scowling. Crab's eyes widened as he realized there were tears in the other pony's eyes. “Yeh?”

“Um...you alright?”

Merry Punch sighed. “Yeh, yeh.” She smiled weakly. “Sorry. Just...got a bit on my mind.” She cleared her throat. Her gaze seemed to be getting clearer. “Sorry. You're Crab Apple, right? Smith's son?”

“Uh, yeah.” Crab pawed the ground. “Look, I don't wanna waste your time if you wanna be elsewhere. I was just wonderin'--”

“Oh!” Merry brightened. “Sure, I can help. I don't really have anywhere to be. Can we just, uh...” She pawed the ground as well. “Maybe walk while we talk?”

“Uh, alright.” Crab started walking in the general direction Merry had been going. “Don't have much to talk about.”

Merry giggled as she kept pace with Crab. “That's fine. It's nice to talk to somepony who isn't, um...anyways, what is it?”

“Well, it's like this. Guess I may as well explain.”

As they walked through Ponyville—Merry was headed to her little cottage a small ways outside town, apparently—Crab took some time to explain the situation. Merry seemed very eager to discuss anything besides herself. In fact, she was very good at manipulating the conversation—Crab found himself going on a tangent, which wasn't something he usually did.

“The four of us met in a li'l fight with the Everfree—I think you were off visitin' your parents then, weren't you?”

“Yeah.” Merry gestured quickly. “Go on. Timber wolves, right? I heard a bit. The way I heard it, you and Smith fought off that lot.

“Yep and nope. Yeah, timber wolves, but no, Smith was on a business trip at the time. Anyways, I was walkin' the fields with Dizzy--”

Merry stopped walking. “Dizzy? Dizzy Hooves? You know her?”

Crab blinked. “Yeah, she works at the farm.”

“Oh.” Merry resumed walking. “Sorry. Just...go on.”

“Well, Dizzy and I...”

After about ten minutes, Crab realized he had explained the entirety of his first encounter with Smoky and the others. He only realized this when they stopped at Merry's cottage.

“Thanks!” she said cheerfully. “For walking with me, I mean. Like I said, it's nice to have somepony to talk to. We should do this more often.”

“Yeah, sur--” Crab froze. He looked around, eyes wide. “What...the...granite?”

The one time Basalteus had ever shown any real anger to Crab's knowledge—when a large slab of rock had fallen on his leg, nearly breaking it—this had been Basalteus's swearword of choice.

Crab would have stopped in amazement at using the strange expletive himself, were he not preoccupied with the surroundings.

They were several miles from town, nearby a small pond. Merry's little cottage was a quaint thing, built from sticks and thatch, with a little hoof-maded sign beside the door reading “Merry Punch”. There were two little dots over the 'u', making it resemble a smiley-face.

About five meters from the cottage stood the Everfree Forest.

“Merry,” Crab said, slowly backing away, “why're you livin' here?”

“What?” Merry glanced back, and sighed. “Oh. Well, it wasn't occupied. Billiard offered her place, but...uh...” She looked up, smiling a bit too brightly. “So! You had a question? Sorry, I didn't mean to get all--”

“What? Oh, that's fine.” Crab shook himself. “Sorry, the forest kinda--”

“Yeah, it's okay.” Merry shrugged. “It doesn't trouble me much. I have a lot of alcohol inside...” She blushed, and quickly went on. “...so I'm often able to get what comes out of that forest too drunk to see me as anything more than their most trusted of friends. And when--”

“And when you ain't?”

“I run.” Merry was still smiling widely. “So! Question?”

“Right.” Crab coughed. “Have you seen Smoky? Blue mare, black robe?”

“Smoky?” Merry considered it. “Yeah! Yeah, I think I did!”

Crab's spirits lifted. Finally, a break.

“She came inside, bought the strongest liquor Scratch had, and ran off.”

And then his spirits plummeted. “Oh, crap.”

“Sorry, is that--”

“Listen, I gotta go.” Crab shook Merry's hoof quickly. “Nice meetin' you, Merry. I'll see you tomorrow.” He turned and ran off, leaving the bewildered mare alone in the darkness.

Merry watched Crab go, feeling a bit wistful. It had been genuinely nice to talk to somepony. Other than Scratch, of course.

She turned, carefully pulling out a small piece of flint as she went. It was always best to light the lamps before going to sleep. It warded off some of the less natural creatures of the Everfree.

She was still a bit slow from the alcohol, but it had mostly passed by now. She was thus able to light the three lamps around her home with relative ease—it was always tricky, given her hooves, but she recalled one of the nights shortly after her discovering the joys of the bottle when she hadn't been able to light a single one for at least fifteen minutes. And with the noises of the forest surrounding her, wary of this new neighbor...

She'd started leaving a bit earlier since then.

The lamps being lit, she shuffled over to the door, unlocked the silver and iron padlocks, and entered her home.

Her home was dark, of course. Fortunately, the lamp here was a bit easier to light—a simple switch struck the flint for her. The wonders of earth pony practicality...

She always slept with the lights on, of course. Safer. This did make it a bit difficult to sleep, of course...

She reached under her bed and pulled out one of several boxes, which she opened. Three bottles of whiskey lay within.

After a few of these, the lights didn't seem quite so bright.

She reached in and took one of the bottles. She fastened her teeth around the lid...

“More whiskey?”

She yelped, and the bottle fell. Just before it hit the ground, a gray hoof snatched it.

Merry looked up. Dizzy was sitting on the bed, holding Merry's whiskey. The window behind the bed was wide open.

The wall-eyed pegasus leaned in close, scowling. “Okay, look. What in the name of gravitational propulsion is your problem?”

On literally the opposite side of Ponyville, not far from Crab Apple's farm, a blue unicorn was hard at work.

Undercut Wraps owned two buildings in Ponyville: her shop, and her candymaking facility. They were kept very much separate because the latter was a very loud place. It was therefore kept on the northern outskirts.

Right now, though, it was silent. Smoky knew quite a bit about percussion magic, and certainly enough to ensure none would hear her. Of course, Undercut Wraps was back in town reorganizing her shop—doubtless preparing the perfect ad campaign.

Smoky smiled grimly at the thought. Soon, Wraps would find that it was all for naught.

The baking facility wasn't large, certainly. But the amount fit into it was simply remarkable. Wraps had clearly put a great deal of effort into organizing the place.

And all the pipes, toffee-pulling machines and similar technological wonders were based around a simple wood stove. This was what powered it all.

“And soon,” Smoky murmured to herself, “it will be what destroys it all.”

It was a struggle to not laugh manically. But Smoky had a job to do. She took the last log, magically hollowed it out, and levitated the last bottle of rum inside. Then she placed it back in the woodstove.

When it exploded, nopony would ever suspect foul play. There were so many strange things in the factory that only Wraps understood, everypony would just assume the salesmare had miscalculated somewhere.

Smoky chuckled, and glanced down. The green flask was still there at her feet. She had elected not to use it—whatever it was, it reminded her of the actual explosives she'd had in her now demolished wagon. Plus, it appeared to be magic. She wanted to wreck the woodstove, not kill its owner.

“Smoky!”

Smoky looked up, alarmed. She quickly cast a spell of invisibility and rushed outside--

--and collided with Crab Apple. Her glamor spell vanished instantly.

“Oh, for...” Crab Apple backed away. “What is it with the collisions today?”

“What?” Smoky blinked.

Crab Apple shook himself. “Smoky!” His gaze was stern as he looked over both her and the brick workshed behind her. “Just what do you think you're doin'?”

“How did you find me?”

Crab Apple's scowl deepened. “Heard you were stockin' up on explosives. Figured--”

He froze. “Hang on.” His voice was very quiet. “Hear that?”

Smoky listened.

She did hear it.

Somepony was coming towards them.

“Quick!” Crab grabbed Smoky by the hoof and leaped into the bushes.

Smoky concentrated, and cast a spell. The plants around them seemed to thicken, concealing the two ponies further. A mere illusion—plant control was really more of an earth pony thing—but it would suffice.

She and Crab watched as Undercut Wraps made her way up the little path. The factory had been placed in the middle of a large oak grove, and now Smoky was grateful for it—it certainly provided ample cover.

Undercut Wraps trotted up to the cabin and frowned—the door had been left open. She appeared to consider it a moment, then she shrugged, went inside, and closed the door behind her.

“Smoky,” Crab muttered, “what did you do?”

“Saved your business,” Smoky muttered back.

“And how's that, exactly?”

“I sabotaged the woodstove.”

“Wha—Smoky!” Crab turned to the unicorn, eyes wide. “She could get hurt! What'd you do, rig those bottles to explode?”

“Oh, relax. It's just going to blow up the woodstove.” She paused. “Except...maybe a little bit of, um, shrapnel?”

Crab stared. “Smoky. Even if it was safe, you can't just destroy ponies' livelihoods!”

“Why not? She meant to.”

“Yeah,” Crab hissed, “and I'm as upset as you are about it—more so, I'd wager—but it's still wrong to play by these rules! Especially when those rules involve breaking the rules even she follows!”

“But...” Smoky faltered. “I was just...”

Crab's expression softened, though only a tick. “Look, Smoky. I'm grateful you wanted to help, I really am. It means a lot. But I don't want to win like this, and neither should you.”

“I...” Smoky sighed. “Yes, you're right. I'm sorry, Crab Apple.”

Crab patted Smoky on the back. “It's alright. We'll just go in there and warn Wraps before she--”

He was interrupted by the quiet—but distinct--sound of something scratching against steel.

Once, twice.

“What is that?” Crab muttered. He glanced over, and saw the look on Smoky's face.

Utter horror.

“Flint...” she said softly.

Crab's eyes widened. He slowly turned back towards the hut.

It was too late to do anything. They just crouched in the bushes and waited for the explosion.

A minute passed.

No explosion ucame.

Another minute.

Still nothing.

Crab turned to Smoky. “Smoky?”

Smoky frowned. “Must not have...” She stopped, jaw dropping, and pointed up at the chimney.

Crab looked, and frowned. “Well, there's smoke. The stove's been lit. So why ain't it...y'know...explodin'?”

“I don't know,” Smoky said, feeling flustered. “It should be--”

“That's not how it works.”

Smoky turned, stifling a gasp. Crab turned as well.

A strange earth pony mare had been standing behind them. Smoky wasn't certain how long she'd been there.

Her ashen coat was matted with twigs and other debris, and absolutely filthy. Her dark gray mane was short and uneven, as if cut with a knife by somepony who couldn't see what she was doing. Her rust-red eyes glinted as she went on. “Alcohol is flammable. Not explosive. Combustive, not concussive. It will burn. It will not break metal.”

Crab cocked his head. “Now, hang on. Who--”

“A flare could ignite the shed,” the gray mare continued, “but still not how it works. Fire needs to breathe. Air doesn't travel fast enough in woodstoves.” She looked Smoky in the eye, and Smoky found herself shivering—something about the strange mare's expression unnerved her. “The alcohol will burn as air comes. Then it will be gone.” She gestured to the green flask at Smoky's feet. “That might have done something. Vodka and rum are good for death, not sabotage.”

Smoky frowned. “Who are you?”

The mare leaned in close, and Smoky flinched back.

But the gray earth pony only reached down and plucked the green flask from the ground. She turned and started trotting away.

“Hey!” Smoky took a step in pursuit, then fell to the ground as she heard the shack door open.

As Undercut began heading back down the path towards Ponyville, Smoky watched the ragged mare scurry off, deeper into the gloomy forest.

“What's my problem?”

Dizzy winced as Merry snatched the bottle back. “What's your problem? Why are you following me?” Merry's slightly red eyes were wide and emotional. “Why are you in my house?”

“It's not really nonhazardous, you know.”

Merry ripped the cap off the bottle with her teeth and spat it to the side. “Yes, yes. The bloody Everfree.”

“Not that.” Dizzy coughed. “I mean to convey, um...the drinking.”

Merry leaned back against the wall and drank about half the bottle's contents before answering. “I'll be fine. I'm more worried about nosy pegasi who stick their noses where they don't belong.”

“What if you overdo it?” Dizzy jumped off the bed. “Earth ponies may be tough, but everypony has their limit!”

Merry took another swig. “I'll be fine. 'sides, nothin' you can do about it.” She looked Dizzy in the eye. “So how 'bout you just clear out? I wanna poison myself, that's my call. 's a free country.” merry waved a hoof. “Jush' clear ou--”

“Why do you do it?” Dizzy blurted. “Why?”

Merry looked at Dizzy for a long moment. Then she took a third gulp of whiskey. “I moved 'ere for m' art.”

Dizzy blinked. “But...”

“But I never draw.” Merry took another drought and started choking. Dizzy moved forward to help, but Merry had already recovered. “Thing is, I did draw. Drew lots. Bu' no contracts. Ain't much market for 'e shorta thin's I draw, 'par'ntly.”

“Beg pardon?” I can barely understand her right now. That whiskey works fast.

Merry gave Dizzy a look that was half withering and half depressed. “It's...sorry. I draw s-s-sorta nasty thin's. Thin's I see out the windows. Been drawin' them even 'fore I came to this cottage, bu' Everfree'sh good for inpir...spiration.” Merry shrugged. “Demonsh. Ghos's...spirits. Things like'at. 'par'ntly, Canterlot finds 'em s-spooky or somethin'. Ain't gotten any contracts.”

She gestured under the bed. “The paintin's're all there. Thing is, wi'out those contractsl...well, I just gotta keep tryin'. 'ventually, styles'll shift. Tha's what the parents sh-shay.” She tipped her head up, and emptied the bottle. “Bu'...well, I miss my home.”

A tear ran down the drunk mare's cheek. “An' I can't go back, I gotta keep tryin', 'cause they shay I've a gift. But here...thish awful town.”

Dizzy frowned. “Ponyville's a great town!”

“Mebbe...” Merry laughed hollowly. “But I got no frien's, an' I ne'er realized how scary those thin's I drew was 'til I had to live by 'em.”

“You have some friends. That, um...” Dizzy searched her memories, and realized how little she saw Merry outside the club. “Well, there's...Scratch, of course.”

“Right.” Merry tossed the empty bottle aside.

It shattered on the wall. Beside the silence of the Everfree, the sound was startling. Merry jolted.

Both ponies were silent a moment.

“Look,” Merry said, quieter. “Scratch, she's my friend. My only friend.” She sighed. “Tartarus, she's in love with me.”

Dizzy blinked. “Wait, what?”

Merry glanced over. “Oh, you di'n't know? Tha's a surprise. Near-everyone does.” She rolled her eyes. “Save me, o'course. Everypony thinks I'm too drunk to notice.”

“But...” Dizzy tilted her head, her askew eyes zeroing in on the mare in front of her. “If you know...why...”

Merry got up on the bed and shut the window. “Best to keep that shut.”

She turned back. “You've s-sheen how Scratch is. She's m'friend, but...” She closed her eyes. “Ain't right. But I just can't. So I act like I don' notice.” She opened her eyes, and smiled weakly at Dizzy. “Pretty good act, right?”

For a moment, Dizzy just stared at the tearful mare.

Then, the wall-eyed pegasus hopped down, walked to the door, and left.

“Sometimes,” Crab said quietly, “you just can't help.”

He and Smoky were talking down the path, back towards town.

“You try,” he went on, “you do. Y'make every effort, even when you ain't been asked to. Well out of your way. But sometimes, there just ain't a thing you can do.”

“But...” Smoky shook her head. “It feels like something must be done.”

“I know.” Crab shrugged. “Don't worry, Smoky. I was a bit grim before, but we ain't losin' so easy. Ponyville's a small town. They all know our treats are the best. We can hold out to Zap Apple Season.”

“And then?” Smoky looked up at him, scowling. “Crab, the town is getting larger every season. And money is tight for everypony. If they see a good deal, they will take it!”

Crab Apple sighed. “Well, yeah. But I'd guess we can clear it to Zap Apple Season.”

“And then?”

Crab started to speak, then fell silent. He shrugged.

Smoky looked at him, then up at the forest canopy. “I suppose we shall see, won't we?”