The Bad Apple Chronicles

Chapters

Roll up, roll up, snake oil for sale
Perfect
Apple Shrugged
I, Bad Apple
Up the river...

Roll up, roll up, snake oil for sale

A caramel pony strolled casually through the outskirts of a small county, far up the river but not so far that it was entirely inaccessible. He was still getting used to his new look. His moustache was freshly removed as of a few stops before, his hair greased back with shining pomade, and his attire changed over from white country aristocrat to black and white riverboat finery. A black coat, a white ruffled shirt, black vest and black lace at his throat tied into a bow. His entire attire was brand new, still stiff and creased, and he looked just a little bit uncomfortable in it. But as before, he still showed his flank, a red apple with a wedge cut out of it to expose sickly greens within, and still bore a pack upon his back, jangling lightly with his possessions. He was drawing along a black case, like a chunky briefcase or small suitcase that rolled along on slightly squeaky wheels.

He crested a hill to see a broad sweep of farmland in the distance. He could pick out small farmhouses amid all the fenced-in collections of ploughed fields filled with what looked like scrub. Whatever they were growing looked unhealthy and barely suitable for use as food stock. At the bottom of the hill was the town that served all those farms. It was a small place. A few storefronts, some homes, one broad main street and a few others along the sides. It wasn’t much as far as things went. Even Pericarp proper had been bigger, in the time before Adam Apple had increased its stature and size. But, big or small, he had been drawn here by what he had heard, and he was determined to sell his wares there.
He dragged the cart down the other side of the hill, along a road that had once been a maintained cobblestone lane, but had since fallen into disrepair. Loose stones were easily kicked out while missing stones showed the macadam beneath, creating an uneven, pitted surface.

The sad state of disrepair continued in the town. The buildings were faded and in need of repair. Those businesses not boarded up didn’t look to be exactly booming. Those ponies he saw through windows or on the street looked lean and hungry. They weren’t starving, but they were hardly feasting as the folk of Pericarp did. He also noticed a name, stamped on the businesses that seemed to be alive and kicking. ‘Dry Gulch, esq.’ Pretentious. But, successful. He was listed as owner, backer, or patron of what yet lived. Thinking back over the spread of what he had seen, he recalled another hill off to the side, like a miniature mountain. The access road to it looked nice and well-repaired; the place seemed the likely location of a huge homestead.

The center of town held a sad, sickly looking tree, possibly some kind of fruit tree. Outside of apples, he had little knowledge of fruit trees and their varieties. It was in a small, stone-walled planter raised above a water feature of some kind, like a fountain that was not flowing. The water was circulating by some means, probably mechanical, but that was all. Nothing was spraying, nothing was falling, and nothing was interesting. It simply… was. That, itself, was in the middle of a small stone plaza. That, too, looked a little rough, with some of the stone slabs badly nicked and showing cracks.

It took some doing, but the stallion managed to pull his case along the dusty dirt road and onto the plaza. He had attracted a few eyes, though the ponies seemed disinclined to comment or really even make eye contact. Despite that, he figured he may as well go ahead with his intended action. To that end, he laid the case down on its side and twisted a knob on it. Legs slowly extended from it, requiring only a small kick to stretch them fully out into equal lengths. The top of it popped open with a bit more force than was required, but it still continued to do as needed, two sections coming up with shelves on them, a pair of flags topping them showing his Cutie Mark. A pointed-tip banner fell down from the front, showing a larger version of the Cutie Mark with the words, “Bardacelsius Pomacious” below it. On the shelves there were bottles and vials of variously-colored liquids, secured by metal clips. In the lower portions were bags, labeled with paper tags.

The cart set up, and some ponies looking curiously on the scene, he smiled and went into his spiel. “Roll up, roll up, fillies and gentlecolts! Gather ‘round, please, fillies and gentlecolts. I know you are curious. Who is this mysterious stranger from beyond our town? What are these strange wares he has brought to us from those far-flung lands that we have only heard of? From where up and down the river has he come? And what can he do for us? I’ll answer that, friends, I’ll answer that. I, my curious brothers and sisters, am the here-described Bardacelsius Pomacious, the undisputed master of potions, unguents, salves, oils, creams, powders, flakes, chips, and other such things to serve the many, many needs of a community of ponies. So roll on up and tell me what it is you lack, what it is you desire. I have your salves, I say, I have your unguents. I have your creams, I have your powders, I have your oils, your potions, your lotions. Anything you may need, anything you may seek, I have it here in my little cart. All you need is to come up and have a chat. I can find your needs in my little box of wonders. Come on up and get what you need.”

He got no takers, at first. Those ponies that had stopped to see the well-fed and well-dressed stranger only continued to stare. Some whispered to each other, occasionally casting eyes all about, seeking something. At last, however, one of the ponies, a cream-colored earth mare with a brown mane and a trio of apricots on her flank, trotted up with an uncertain gait, her eyes moving from the cart to the barker and back again. “Wh-what… What can you do with these things? I mean… What do they do?”

“What do they do? What do they do? Why, sister, what DON’T they do? Pills and potions, powders and lotions, like I said, of every description and size. Feeling under the weather? Need a change? I have you covered. Life a little bit of a drag? Surroundings a little off? I can help. Perhaps you’d like to change your fortunes, or your personality. Everypony does, and I can help.”

The cream mare cast her eyes over the collection of bags and bottles. She looked over the labels and tags. Concentrated Focus. Spiced Audacity. Oil of Slippery Tongue. Ground Grounding. Powdered Ideas. Granulated Greenery Growth. The last one… “S-say, stranger, is that one… I mean, is that what I think it is?” She pointed to the Granulated Greenery Growth. “Does it..?”

“Sister, let me tell you, I promise all my pills and powders work as intended. Satisfaction intended, results sure to result, outcomes to be what they will be.” Bardacelsius bowed grandly then swept his hoof over the collection of items. “Come up, come up, don’t be afraid, friends. See what you like, see what you need. Come up and check my wares. I’m sure I have something for you.”

“C-come on, don’t be afraid! Look at what he has! It’s what we’ve wanted!” The mare pointed out the bag in question to each pony that came up reluctantly. They became far less reluctant when they saw the name on the tag. “So, stranger, where did these things come from? What are they made of?”

“Oh, my little concoctions? I’m proud of them. They’re made of all the finest all-natural ingredients that I’ve found in my travels. They’ve been carefully mixed and blended and precisely formulated to do that things required of them. Don’t worry, I have plenty of whatever you fine folk may require.”

“How much? How much?” The cream mare desperately pressed herself against Bardacelsius’ chest and looked desperately into his eyes.

“How much? Why a mere trifle! Two bits. A mere two bits! Two bits an application for any of my many lovely little concoctions.”

“How much of this do you have? Please tell me, how much do you have?”

“As much as you may need. I can always make more and know I have a market the next time I swing around. After all, if you have a market, use it.”

“Market? Market for what, I wonder?” The voice was mild, older, but loaded with power. At the mere sound of it the ponies gathered around the medicine show cart backed away, looking guilty. As though they had been caught doing something wrong. The source of the voice was seen to be a unicorn stallion sometime in his post-middle-age period. His coat was rusty red, while his mane and tail were both the color of parched sandstone. He leaned one hoof heavily on a small cane made of silver, while he was flanked by two burly earth pony stallions in plain brown with brown manes and tails. The older stallion had a gully on his flank, while the two beside him had horseshoes on one and a spiked club on the other. “A stranger is in town and nopony informed me? Why that’s not terribly kind. Don’t you want to be proper?”

“Ahh! Mister Gulch! I’m sorry sir but he… he just rolled into town and started talking. I swear that was all.” The cream mare slowly backed away from the cart, the others all falling back even faster.

“Ahh, mister Gulch, yes… I’ve been expecting you.” Bardacelsius passed before the display space, reaching in and moving some of the bags around. “You, sir, have a presence. An aura. You’re a famous man in my eyes, and I am a stranger in these lands. Surely you must be a very busy and overwhelmed stallion. Here we are. A best-seller, to be sure. Powdered Peace. Goes wonderfully with milk and a dash of brandy.”

“Really? Fascinating. I’m sure that it would be wonderful if it worked.” Dry approached slowly, eying the smiling stallion while nodding over to his bodyguards. “Good ponies… I am frankly shocked by your willingness to believe such foolishness. Buying the claims of some cart-dragging huckster fresh off the riverboat. He’s promising you the moon and the mare on it besides. You can’t be trusted with anything. I’ve always known it, I’ve always told you. You earth pony farmers lack the sophistication to understand what’s happening around you. Don’t be taken by this charlatan, this mountebank, this nakedly-duplicitous quacksalver!”

As the two bodyguard ponies dug around in the display space, Bardacelsius looked completely unmoved, still smiling as he had been before. “Sir! Sir! I do most strongly and vehemently object to these wild and baseless accusations. You have not even seen my wares nor have you sampled them. You cannot say a thing. Besides, I trust these fine folk to know best. Caveat Emptor and all that. They know. They know to be cautious and to trust my promises only so far as I make them. They want to buy, I want to sell, and they, it seems, don’t mind spending their bits. They are their own bits to spend. And I can promise results for what is most important.”

Dry stared down Bardacelsius as his bodyguards came away shaking their heads and shrugging. At last he broke into a half smile, an insincere little twitch of his lips that was more venom than kindness. “Well then, mister Pomacious-”

“Oh, no need to be so formal. Call me Bardacelsius.”

“As I was trying to say, MISTER Pomacious… I see you have some will, some wit, and some quality. If I may impose upon you, sir, I would very much like to invite you to my manor for lunch and some conversation. Just to inform you of how things are meant to go around here.”

Bardacelsius pushed a few buttons on the display case and started turning a crank on it, drawing in the compartments and pushing down the legs until there was nothing left but the wheeled case. He picked it up by the handle and smiled to the crowd. “As you will, sir, as you will. Good ponies, fillies and gentlecolts, I shall return with deals aplenty for all your long-denied needs.”

There followed a strange procession, Dry Gulch at the head, walking on his silver cane, his bodyguards a pace behind, an imposing wall of muscle. Behind them, Bardacelsius, pulling his cart along and watching the scenery. They skirted the edge of town to the two large hills that loomed up like miniature mountains. They formed a small box canyon, which was fronted by a well-paved access road leading off and around, away from town. At the far end of the access road there stood a large manor. Its design was slick and streamlined, very experimental. It resembled the model homes proposed in places like Chicacolt or Fillydelphia. From the top emerged an elaborate set of radio antennas and other metal bric-a-brac, the kind of thing to keep one connected well to the outside.

“Is it impressive, mister Pomacious? A private design by THE Flank Loin Wainwright, just for me. No other pony but those I choose will ever see such a thing. It is far superior to all designs. It is bold! Original! The stallion is the wellspring, the very wellhead of pure creativity. None but the most worthy could possibly work on such a thing. Can you understand that, sir?” Dry set his silver cane in a small container by the door, his voice heavy with barely-repressed smug superiority as he described his home with rapturous energy. The inside was much like the outside. Clean lines, elegant designs, though with some Deco touches around, especially in the furnishings and the other small accoutrements around the room.

“It’s quite nice. It doesn’t keep with the architecture of the surrounding community, of course but, I suppose it has its charm. Very… forward-thinking, I suppose.” Bardacelsius looked around, noting how ill-used most of the items were. While very clean, the tables were bare save for fresh-spined books or small metal sculptures. A curio case contained strange gem formations, Zebra wooden artifacts, dried plants and feathers of unusual colors and sizes. The couches looked to have only one space of regular occupation where deformation could be seen in a cushion.

“Oh, come now. Be honest. It IS a most impressive and spectacular thing. It is wonderment, defined. And its ill-fit with the surroundings is intentional. It is different, greater, superior. Let the others have their rustic farmhouses and cheap, clapboard shops and habitations. I reside here, in comfort and opulence. I sit apart, greater, controlling this place with my wisdom and skill.”

“Oh, you’re the mayor? I hadn’t heard the news! Congratulations, good sir. Local businesspony AND mayor. Quite a lot on your plate.”

“Bah. MAYOR. Such a trifling, worthless thing. All mayors are ineffective and ridiculous. Elected ignoramuses fumbling about under the stifling yoke of bureaucracy, constantly having to do inane and idiotic things to be elected, needing to cater to the changing whims of the stupid populace. The mayor was dismissed as a position, as was sheriff. What need have ponies living under a truly intelligent pony? I have been moved and enlightened by truly wonderful literature. I know now how to maintain such things. Never give in to such inanities. Keep things stable and secure. Use intellect and creativity to demonstrate superiority and keep the many in line. For their own good, while they learn to maintain.”

By that time the party had arrived in a large dining area. The table was well-sized, perfect for a large dinner party, perhaps with the cream of the cream of the crop. It didn’t compare to a grand hall like the one found at the Apple homestead, but, the size was sufficient for a miser who never entertained. “I see. Well! Sir I would doff my chapeau to you if I made a habit of sporting one. Casting away the mayor, the sheriff, presumably regular patrols from other constable types and even circuit judges. You must have been in negotiations with Canterlot for ages! That’s true tenacity.”

“Mmm, let us leave off such a thing. It suffices to say that I am the wellspring of this place. With food supplies low, thanks to the strange struggle of the plants, they need strong leadership and propriety. But please, eat well, mister Pomacious. Then I may explain how you must be while I allow you to be here.”

Bardacelsius observed the bodyguards acting as servants, bringing out silver drays of food. The meal wasn’t the fanciest, which was mostly marked by small size and fancy sauces, but showed flush conditions with its abundance. Large salads with lettuce, tomatoes and sweet grass, fried potatoes, steamed hay. Good, solid, substantial foods. “That’s mighty big of you, sir, allowing a stranger to stay around.”

“You are an entrepreneur, sir. A seller of supplies who knows how it must work. I do not grant you unconditional liberty, of course. But you are exercising will, to make money. And that, as I have learned, is true morality.”

Bardacelsius looked to Dry with an incredulous lifting of his brow. He looked down at his meal and started eating, considering it all. “I must compliment you again. You eat well in the face of lack. You are a most fortunate pony. But what I truly want to thank you for is the easy allowance for a money-maker like me. Your morality is truly new and exciting.”

“Nothing comes of ridiculous adherence. We inventors, masters, grabbers of the future must shrug off the inefficient ways, the second-hoof ways, the irrational ways, and embrace the ways that make perfect sense so we may grasp our wills.” Dry set to his meal with an eager energy, consuming with a voracious hunger that belied his appearance and affectations of fineness and propriety. He wasted some measure of his food, sliding aside all the slightest imperfections in the food or simply allowing it to spill.

In contrast to his host, Bardacelsius consumed far more carefully. Each morsel of food was carefully coaxed into his mouth and chewed carefully, making him slower, and more silent, than his host. But he still managed to comment, “I do hope I’m not keeping you from anything; you seem to be in a bit of a rush. I hate to be an imposition, and I’d hate to cause you to waste your provisions.”

Dry waved off the comment and shook his head. “Not at all, not at all. This is simply how I choose to consume. It’s not a waste if I say it isn’t, and I say it isn’t. I have standards, after all. I would hate to see a world in which I had to be concerned about wasting food simply because others are lacking and I am not. Second-hoof nanny-statery. It is my food, and I will not be made to subvert my will to some idiot mass. But leave that aside. While you eat, I shall elaborate.

“I will allow you to sell your wares in this town. You seem like a harmless scoundrel. And you are correct; it is their doing if they purchase products that are not of quality. You can quack your salves and bags of useless spices in the town square all you like. For a week. After that, no matter what, you will leave and never darken our town again. Forget you were ever here and be off down the river. I know your type and that’s all you do, but I want you to follow through, in case you have any other ideas. Don’t cross me and all will be well. And one more thing, mister Pomacious. You are forbidden to sell anything resembling artificial fertilizer or other strange growth-enhancing formula. We will not become reliant on your hokum formulations thanks to psychosomatic effects and mistaken margins of error. Sleep where you can, in the street or under your own bits somewhere. Charity is strictly discouraged. It makes ponies weak and worthless. Abide by all this, and there will come no trouble. Know, sir, I will have my eyes on you.”

Bardacelsius chewed slowly and thoughtfully, looking upwards as he contemplated. “Is there a fee or some sort of operations tax for working in town?”

“TAXES!? No sir! Not at all! Not in my town! Taxes were banished when I had the mayor and others dismissed. No, no. You will not be penalized for your monetary success. However, I DO encourage you to spend your money at the local institutions of hospitality. No need to choose, I have a hoof in them all. Well now… I trust our business will be concluded in short order and things will return to normal.”

“Mister Gulch, I promise you that I want nothing more to return to normalcy and conclude business with you.” Bardacelsius nodded his head and rose from the chair. “Excuse me, but my market is still out there and I have some selling to do.”

Dry waved Bardacelsius off dismissively and nodded. “Go, then. Follow your will to its end.”

Not ten minutes later the medicine barker was back in the town square, his case back in shape as display space. “Fillies and gentlecolts! Gather ‘round, please, fillies and gentlecolts! I have been granted charter by your benevolent Dry Gulch to sell my goods here for a week. Do you hear, Grain Gulch? I am here for a week. A time-limited offer! Two bits a go! Whatever you may need, I have and I can promise you it’ll be worth your while.”

The small crowd slowly filtered in around the seller, the cream mare foremost once again. She approached the container and saw it was unchanged from before. And yet… “So, you’re selling ALL these things? All of them for the same cost?”

“My good mare, I gave my word to your current director. I agreed to certain preliminary conditions. So, yes. I am selling all of them, two bits per item. I follow all my agreements to the point. Please all, come up here and purchase what you like. I need my custom, after all. I have to pay for a place to stay.”

The others came in and looked over the wares, if half-heatedly. Most of the gazes lingered on the bag that had vanished and returned, somehow. Quite a few hooves reached for the one pouch of it that was visible, but moved to other ones or some of the vials instead, tapping them softly. Each time something was selected, the back bottom portion of the case was opened, plain pouches or vials pulled out and passed along to the purchaser. The cream mare held back, but finally was the one that selected the pouch others had been avoiding. “Is there an instruction book that comes with it or something?”

“All my items are easy. Apply dry ingredients to liquid and drink small amounts until the pouch is empty, over the course of several hours. For liquids, just drink it down. Though for that one…” He pulled a pouch out from the back and passed it along. “Apply to the affected area. Results will result.”

The mare looked at the smiling stallion, seeking any crack in his smile. “Is that name for real? Bardacelsius?”

Not a crack or mar showed in the salespony smile he wore. “Call me Bard, it’s much easier. And you are?”

“Going to see if I wasted two bits.” The money was handed off with a small clink. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll see if you deserve to know or if I should see mister Gulch about you.” The mare trotted off slowly, looking back occasionally to see if anypony was following her. A few started to, but merely filtered away.

“Very well, very well, roll up and buy! I have plenty of wares remaining for you, my interested friends! Roll up, roll up!”

That afternoon, after a long day of selling, Bard packed up his case, jangled his pouch of bits and walked to the only inn he had seen on the main drag. Like all the other shops, it bore the name of Dry Gulch on the window.
Inside, it was very plain. Bare wood, few decorations on the walls, a small lounge and eatery attached to a kitchen and stairs leading upstairs to the rooms. Behind the counter was a single gray-dappled off-eggshell stallion with a combed mane, wearing an officious buttoned shirt and a vest, small round glasses and a visor. “Good day, sir… Will you be staying for the night?”

“I can hardly do anything else. It’s either this or the lot behind the place. Give me the basic room.”

“Oh, sorry sir. That’s not facility policy. We fill rooms as they become available. They open in a top-down fashion. Our best room is available. That will be forty bits for the night, meals not included.”

“Wait a moment, I can’t choose my own room? Ludicrous. To think a service business would be so hostile to choice…”

“Sir! This inn is VERY committed to choice, as Dry Gulch has taught us that choice is paramount and sacrosanct to rational beings. No, sir, your choice is very much alive. You are entirely free to choose to rest here or sleep in the lot behind the inn. But you never surrender you choice, ever.”

“Mm. I wish I had oil as slick as those words.” Bard pulled the required buts out of his pouch, noting how it bit into his take. “Here you go. Give me the key and I’ll be on my way.”

“Of course, sir.” The desk pony handed over a key with a tag attached. “Allow me to summon somepony to assist you with your luggage.”

“No thanks. I need to be able to eat tomorrow. Thanks for the lesson, dapper dapple. I’ll figure out some way to use it if I ever get desperate enough.” With that, Bard took up his case, adjusted the pack on his back and slowly ascended the stairs.

Once at the top he checked the number on the key. Furthest at the end of the hall. There was a plate above it, which was missing from the other rooms, proclaiming it, “The Rail Baron’s Suite.” Normally cheap inns tried to pass off their deluxe model as a honeymoon suite. Presumably, newlyweds just stayed at home. Nopony would ever travel to vacation in Grain Gulch. Shaking those thoughts from his mind, he unlocked the door and looked inside.

It was… an inn room. Dull, flat throw rugs on an unpolished wooden floor, boring curtains over the windows, tacky wall paper of a generic floral design. There was a bed set with red sheets and a single flat pillow with a red pillow case. A wooden chest of drawers sat next to a wooden wardrobe. Atop the chest of drawers there was a single, cheap metal model of a train engine beside the expected water pitcher and bowl for casual morning ablutions. There wasn’t even an attached bathroom.

Curiosity piqued, he stepped out of the room and moved to one of the doors near his. After listening carefully he bent down and took up the ends of his lace, sliding the fabric back to reveal two thin metal bits, which he slid into the lock. It was a simple tumbler design, and opened up in short order. He stuck his head in for a look. Identical. Absolutely identical. The only differences being the bed was sheeted and cased in white, and there was no model train. He didn’t bother checking the other rooms. He knew a scam when he was part of it. It just wasn’t often when he was on that particular side of it.

The next day, after a fairly pricey cheap breakfast and the covert liberation of a later meal, Bard was out in the town square again, his case open and wares on display. “New day, same things. You tried them, you loved them, now show me some love and loyalty and bring your bits. Didn’t get the results you wanted? Maybe you chose the wrong thing. Already had your want, there’s more wants and wills in this display space, roll up and take them.”

The same small crowd moved in, still uncertain, still looking around for the presence of Dry Gulch and his bodyguards. They browsed without really buying anything. Those few that came in from the fields just moved off again after hesitantly almost-touching the Granulated Greenery Growth. The town ponies who did not go from the cart to their own shops loitered around, looking guilty at the thoughts they were having. They must have gotten a lot of sermons about “choices” in “unrestricted” commerce. When it seemed like there would be no more purchases, the cream mare from the other day came up, looking equal parts incredulous and upset. “One more. One more.”

“Two bits. Two bits. And your name.” Bard opened up the back of the case again and waited for the payment.
The mare hesitated. “I need one more confirmation.”

“Get Gulch or tell me your name. You told me those were my options yesterday, so make good on one of them.” Bard had removed the pouch and was lightly tossing it in his hoof.

The mare grumbled a bit and finally muttered out, “Lysandra Apricot.”

The pouch was passed off and his hoof remained out to take the bits that were forthcoming. “So, why did you need another application? Didn’t the first work?”

“I saw… Something. I know for a fact I saw something happen. Just… a little something. Enough to make me think there was something to this stuff you’re selling under Gulch’s snout. How do you think you can get away with this?”

“I made a promise and I’m holding to it. No need to ask for details just pay me my bits. I’d imagine you’re very busy.”

Lysandra handed over two bits for the pouch, then two more. “Give me two.”

Bard passed along another. “Please, tell your friends. I need to sleep at the inn.”

“Sorry to hear it. I know what the cost is.”

“You have no idea. Like I said, please send some business my way.”

Lysandra nodded her head and started trotting away, turning to mention, “I don’t think you’ll get many takers after the first day. You have to know that. You’ve been here long enough to see what it’s like. You might just make your inn cost today. Hope you made a lot yesterday.”

“Just enough for my purposes. Thanks for the word. Enjoy your product.” Bard watched Lysandra go, and then turned to the loitering crowd. “It’s not just me here, folks, it’s not just me! Come up and buy your desires. Anything you want, here in my little cart.”

The day went on and ended with scanty profits at best. It added to the pouch but was wiped out by having to pay for the expensive room and the pretentious meal the next morning. Because it worked well before, he once more nicked his dinner when the staff weren’t looking. He was gamely back at his job. This time, though, some of his previous customers were back, less afraid, and much more talkative.

“This stuff you sold me the other day… this vial of concentration. I think it’s… working.” An older stallion, gray mane thinning in the front, slate body slightly faded. “But… How do I know if it’s working too well? I don’t want to obsess over something.”

“Oh sir, you need not be concerned! My potions only function to the limits of effectiveness. Through a principle inherent in the pony mind they stretch only to the extent of intention. You will find your concentration never extends beyond what you desire.”

“A-all right. Here, here’s two more bits. I need another dose. I don’t want to enter my dotage.” He pulled out two bits and passed them to Bard. Thinking of it better, he pulled out two more. “I’ll keep two doses. Just to make sure I have it for tomorrow.”

“An excellent choice, sir. I look forward to your continued custom.”

“It was amazing! I drank that gritty mess and suddenly… I had notions of all kinds! My creativity was restored and my mind was free and clear!” A pinto mare, black, brown and white. “I simply MUST have more! I can’t give up this new flood of creation.”

“As I told your fellow citizen, it’s all you, my concoctions merely aid the principle along. But thank you. Please, come again.” Bard passed along two bags of the Powdered Ideas and accepted the four bits required.

“I talked to him. It was so nerve-wracking. But that potion I bought was perfect.” A gangly blue and black teenaged stallion, barely able to be called a stallion, passed over six bits. “More please. More Spiced Audacity.”

Bard passed across two vials and two bits. “Three doses, three days and you’ll have all the audacity you will ever need. But it sounds like the hardest part is over.”

In the middle of all the repeat business, Lysandra returned, tapping Bard boldly on the shoulder. “You can’t be obeying Gulch. You absolutely can’t.”

“But I am, trust me, I am.” Bard tended to his other customers, settling with the small knot while also waving over to one of Gulch’s bodyguards, who was attempting to observe him discreetly.

Lysandra pulled him aside, waiting for the crowded ponies to disperse first. “No, you can’t. That stuff, that mountebank powder you’re selling… it works. You CAN’T obey him if it works.”

“You’d be surprised…”

“Don’t lie to me. You’re putting him on. You have to be. All this garbage actually works. Just give me some more. And I’ll tell everypony else they should start buying. And you can bring more.”

“In time, in time. Why are you so interested in bucking the system? I thought you liked it in this little town. After all, you stay here.”

Lysandra shoved ten bits at Bard and scowled. “Just give me more. I have to spread the word.”

Five pouches were dutifully passed along. “Please don’t have me run out of town yet. I have to keep on selling as long as I can.”

“No promises.” With that, Lysandra trotted away.

Another day, the bits had been coming in but slowly. He was covering his expenses, and getting more and more folk at his cart as word spread that the potions worked. It had been another day of brisk sales and long stretches of rapid talk. He went along to the inn but stopped outside. The upstairs was entirely dark, while weak lights glowed from the downstairs. No one was there. But he had to pay full price for everything, because his choice was a joke. He sat on his haunches with his case and pack, looking up at the full moon. The Mare in the Moon looked down. It only reminded him of home. So long ago, asking his brother if she was lonely.

“She’s not going to offer you a place to stay. And she’s not going to pay the inn.” Lysandra came up to Bard and lightly nudged him. “Can you pay tonight?”

“I can. Do I want to? Not at all.”

Lysandra looked around a bit then motioned with her head. “Follow me.” She trotted off quickly to a shop that looked as though it had been closed down. Forest of Pulp. There was no mark of Dry Gulch upon it.

“Nothing says a town is unhealthy like a closed bookshop.” The inside of the store was still stocked, and reasonably clean. Front and center, boldly displayed, was a stack of extremely thick books, heavy, ponderous tomes written by one Any Random. He picked up one of them and started to idly flip through it.

“Gulch wanted me to push those. Sell them to everypony that bought something, full price, no discounts. I couldn’t do that, and I just sold as I had been. He tried to buy me out, and then started putting pressure on me with those guards of his. I just got out clean, closed down and kept my money.” Lysandra went up a set of stairs behind the counter and into a large, upstairs room. The space was broadly divided into sleeping area, living area, kitchen, with a separate bathroom visible through a bare doorframe. All around the place were potted plants, clustered near two opposite walls, one set of them looking just a bit better than the others.

“I didn’t realize you were a horticulturist. Looks about right for the place.”

“Those over there, that’s from the soil we have around here.” Lysandra indicated the plants that did not look so good. “And those other ones are from that stuff you have. Whatever it is, it works. Frankly, I don’t care. Just to know it works… I figure you need a better place to stay than that stupid inn.”

“Well, that’s mighty big of you. But I’m going to have to decline. Gulch told me I wasn’t allowed to accept charity. So, if you’ll excuse me…”

“Are you bucking serious? You’re flouting Gulch in the most critical way possible! Why do you keep insisting on taking this line, lying to my face? You’re caught! I’m not going to tell Gulch on you, I’m trying to undo his influence!”

“Be that as it may, it doesn’t do to anger the big guy. He does, after all, have your best interests at heart.”

“’Our best interests’?! Are you insane? We’re barely making enough crops to feed ourselves. We can’t export. Money moves around town in our hooves. No money there for frivolities like books. I almost went back to the orchard to get a job. But I… I didn’t think this was normal. So I’ve been looking into the plants. Seeing if anything is going on. It’s hard when he restricts fertilizers. I don’t know how, but your fertilizer works.”

“It’s not fertilizer, I pro-”

“I know, you promised not to use it. Look… just… can you get more of it?”

“Well, perhaps not a great quantity but I can certainly get some more.”

“I need as much as you can. I don’t need to know what it is; I just need to show them they can get out from under him. When he started buying things, we thought it was alright. He had money, we needed it. We never thought about him much, thought he was just a loony old stallion living in that weird house of his out in the box canyon. Then the problems with the plants started. Our profits started to dip down. I had to work at the orchard to assist my parents and still try to make some money at the shop. You see how well that worked.”

Bard said nothing. He just looked around the room and set down his case and pack. “So where am I going to sleep? And how will I make this not charity?”

“If you want it to not be charity, just give me ten bits and some more of that stuff of yours.”

“Twelve bits and I’ll sell you more of the bags tomorrow, as usual.”

“Fine.” Lysandra accepted the bits and then walked to a closet. “I’ll lay out a blanket for you.”

“Thank you. Best twelve bits I ever spent.”

“So… Have a good night…” Lysandra laid out a heavy blanket and flipped off the light, gently trotting to her bed.
Bard settled down on the blanket and smiled a bit. A savings. And a friendly bit of company. It was just perfect.

“Mister Pomacious, I wonder if you recall our little conversation.” Bright and early, Gulch was out in the square, with his bodyguards and silver cane and mane in perfect order.

“Indeed I do, and I have been abiding by your will, in thanks for the allowance to be here.” Bard passed along some of his product while taking bits.

“How strange then… I was told that you did not stay at the inn, and yet you were not seen sleeping anywhere else. And I hear you were seen late at night with our former bookseller miss Apricot. I thought I told you there was no charity.”

“No charity indeed! I paid a good amount to stay there.”

“Really? Well, if she is profitable, it will stand. I just hope it does not persist very long. Very well, mister Pomacious. Continue to obey. I’ll be watching.”

“And I’ll be obeying.” Bard looked over his wares and checked his stock. It was starting to get low. But not too low. He could last out the week.

“Here’s your twelve bits. Give me my six doses of that stuff.” Lysandra strolled up and passed a dozen coins over.

“And good morning. Thank you for the meal. It was reasonably priced.” Bard reached into the case and extracted the half-dozen bags, giving them to Lysandra.

“I’m going to distribute this to my family. I’m going to show them there’s a way to get out from under the hoof of that madpony. It’s the one way to save this town.”

“You’re very dedicated to this quest. That’s… admirable, I do suppose. You’ve got a lot of spunk. Keep going with that.” Bard returned to his cart, and his quacksalver hawking of products still on his shelves.

Lysandra looked back for a long while, face moving from petulance to something entirely different. Then she trotted off through the northern edge of town, towards the farms. Before she got too far past the edge of town, she was faced down by the two enormous brown stallions employed by Dry Gulch. “What do you want, you tremendous slabs of sell-out muscle? You folded pretty quickly when Dry Gulch started buying up the town. Couldn’t even support your own townsponies. You trotted right over, fawning and hoof-licking without a second thought. Get out of my way! I have business to take care of. Family business. Something you would know absolutely nothing about.” She attempted to muscle her way through the two.

“Sorry, Apricot.” The horseshoe-marked stallion spoke sternly but with a touch of hesitation.

“Mister Gulch doesn’t like competition. You can’t compete against a big company that has all the resources. There’s no regulation here. No nanny-state stuff here.” The spiked club marked stallion strode forward boldly and glared down at Lysandra. “You don’t want to keep competing against something owned by mister Gulch, do you? You can’t keep it up. So many… problems can come up.”

“Are you two goons threatening me for Gulch? How low can you sink?! Are you idiots really going to act like hired muscle? That’s so… Fillydelphia. Chicacolt. Manehattan. Or like something in old story books or the bad old days of Stalliongrad. You can’t just bring that kind of poison into a good place like Cereal Acres…”

“Grain Gulch! You know he bought the naming rights and changed the name to a more proper title.” The spiked club stallion pushed forward and knocked Lysandra backwards.

“That’s not the name of this place and you recognized it before that arrogant weirdo came to town and started throwing his bits around!”

“Hey! When the plants started failing we did what we had to do! We didn’t have any choice. Your parents make do just like we do; holding out against all the generous buyout offers that mister Gulch is giving just doesn’t make sense. Don’t they know anything about the way business works? Money is what it’s all about.” The horseshoe-marked stallion held back, but still looked threateningly at Lysandra.

“That property has been in my family for generations. It’s going to be mine. And that crooked Gulch is never going to get his greedy hooves on our land.” She spat on the ground, by the hooves of the foremost pony.

“But that’s not the point, and you know it. You’re taking away business from the inn. And we can’t have that. That STEALS money out of his pockets. You can’t go around stealing from the likes of Dry Gulch. His book tells us all about stealing. So are you going to stop taking in that grifter, or are there going to be some repercussions?” The stallion with the spiked club on his flank strode forward and butted into Lysandra, heavily.

“Think I’m afraid of you, Club Hoof? I’ve whupped your flank since you were a colt. And I can still do it. And you, Iron Shod. Aren’t you going to get in on this? I’ll beat on you both if you just give me the chance. Hit me, go on. Do it.”
“Your will.” Club quickly kicked out with a single fore leg and struck Lysandra across the chest, knocking her backwards and making her totter on her hooves. He quickly followed up with another kick in the same area, finally knocking her to the ground.

“Ugh! I’ll teach you…” Lysandra kicked out from the ground, surprising Club Hoof. Her hind legs cracked the burly stallion along the flank and stomach. It barely moved him. She kicked again, one hoof missing, the other hitting his thigh.
“Sorry, Lys… but I have my orders.” Iron strode up and reared up, to bring his hooves down onto Lysandra’s forelegs.

From out of nowhere, Bard jumped into action. He cracked Iron across the face with his heavy case of sale items and then sharply kicked Club in the quarter, following with rapid strikes in the hock and cannon. His left hind leg slightly buckled, softening him up for an additional hit in the opposite cannon with the case, which was swung around to smack Iron across the face, knocking him down during his daze.

Lysandra took advantage of the distraction, bucking Club hard in the face. "I didn't ask for your help!"

"But you're going to use it because, may as well..." He bucked out and smashed Iron in the side, knocking him back down to the ground.

"Alright... you know what? We will continue this another time..." Club spat out some blood and sneered at the pair. Iron limped along behind him, casting back angry looks mixed with wavering uncertainty.

“You alright?” Bard looked Lysandra over and offered a hoof.

“Fine. Those idiots never used to be that… direct. Sure, they were bullies, but a quick cuff and they usually stopped. Gulch hired them as soon as he started buying up the town. He said he needed loyal employees that could understand. He had them read that stupid book he was always going on about and from there on out, they were his loyal lackeys.” Lysandra dusted herself off and huffed. “What are you doing here? I thought you were selling your wares.”

“Honestly, you thought I was going to ignore the pretty obvious threat? I know Gulch is a petty tin-pot dictator. He’s not going to dare allow competition if he can avoid it. And he has the goons to not allow it. I know from grifting.”

Lysandra nodded slightly, looking over at Bard. “Hey… thanks for this.” She motioned her head towards the not-too-distant farmland. “If you’re taking a loss on the day want to come down to show them this stuff in action?”

Bard shook his head and turned back towards town. “Can’t afford it. Just wanted to keep you from getting “legitimate business” to the legs. But let’s just say now we have a balance sheet. We owe each other something.” With that statement he trotted off, leaving Lysandra to think.

That night, Bard looked through a parted curtain at the moon-washed environment. The night concealed so much. How ironic that a goddess of the night literally looked down upon the world but could do nothing about what happened during that time. Maybe it really was nothing more than a legend to scare foals on Nightmare Night.

Lysandra slid up against him in the bed, pressing herself against his back. “It’s not that pretty. But it’s home. And we’re not going to give it up. There’s a way to make it here, even with Gulch making our lives miserable.”

"I don't doubt you'll manage. But it's going to be harder than you think. You have no idea what's really going on. Though thanks to your plants, now I do."

"What do you mean? What's going on?"

"You confirmed what I suspected, like I hoped you would. Now just to convince others. Which should happen when your family uses what you've bought or when the others ask you about what you've been doing. Because I can tell they're curious. Nothing to do now but wait for... for..."

"Wha-?" The question died before it was formed. The smell of smoke was distinct, and heavy. A notable cloud began rising from the store below. "DAMN THEM!"

"No way to say it, but it's time for the window." Bard flung the window wide and tossed out his clothes, his pack and case following close behind. He offered a hoof to Lysandra while bracing his lower hooves on the wall. "Don't look down too much and try not to land on my stuff."

"My hero..." She said, mustering as much cynical snark as she could muster with the smoke starting to pour in even more thickly. She took his hoof and threw herself over the window's edge, almost rappelling down the side of the building before releasing and falling with a thud and grunt.

Bard had no such buffer length when he went out and over, only clinging to the windowsill for a bit before releasing and dropping to the ground. After a hard hit against the ground he quickly sprang into action and began dressing, throwing on his attire with abandon while both ran away from the fire. "How did I not think this would happen?"

"Because you're not insane! I can't believe it! By Celestia, they burned my shop! Even if it wasn't open anymore my house was still in there! This is ridiculous! Gulch is on my last nerve!"

“I think you were right about the Chicacolt and old Stalliongrad comments.” He finished cleaning himself up with a quick fixing of his mane and the buttoning of his shirt and vest. “Tomorrow is going to be a very interesting time in the old square. And earlier than I thought.”

“Did you plan on somepony burning something?” Lysandra looked incredulously over at Bard, mane and tail slightly bristling.

“I thought I would get the hired goons treatment. It’s an occupational hazard, you understand. But this was beyond unexpected.” Bard regarded the blaze from afar. Not enough water could possibly be mustered to save anything that hadn’t been removed already. It was a loss thanks to accelerants and all the readily-flammable books in the lower level. “It looks like we’re sleeping in the vacant lot by the inn. Or we can wait for sunrise. No sense trying to make it out to the farmland in the dark after this. I’d imagine there are several “accidents” that could befall us should we attempt such a thing.”

Lysandra growled softly, and then snorted with a nod of her head. “I’m not getting back to sleep tonight. Not with this going on. They probably protected the other buildings somehow. Gulch owns both of them to the side. We may as well do something.”

Bard looked up at the sky, and then around at the surroundings, especially at Lysandra. “How about a game of cards? I should have suggested it earlier but it slipped my mind.”

“That sounds… wait… what did you think I was going to suggest?” Lysandra pulled up a box from a pile of junk left hidden by the rear side of the buildings.

“It’s not in my nature to speculate. I was merely making conversation.” He slipped the stiff deck, still slightly new, from its box and shuffled. “It’s in my nature to chatter on. Just a garrulous pony at heart.”

“Whatever you say… never known a stallion to react like that.”

“Let me just say, I’m of the opinion that certain things, no matter how tucked away, are inappropriate.” With another look around, Bard dealt out the cards.

By dawn the bookstore was nothing but a smoldering heap, a charred void between the two buildings that flanked it which appeared untouched. Dry Gulch and how two bodyguards were out surveying the spaces he owned, the two beefy stallions nodding a moment after he nodded. “Well, it appears this terrible accident did not affect any of my business. And what of the owner? Has anypony seen miss Apricot? I do hope she isn’t hurt.”

“Not injured. But I sure as HAY am hurt. That was my house you psychotic creep!” Lysandra stomped up to Gulch and his goons, who moved protectively before their employer.

“Why miss Apricot! I must say that I am pleased to see you alive and uninjured but I am supremely hurt, shocked and legally injured by this accusation which you have thoughtlessly leveled against me, while having no proof to back it up.”

“You insufferable windbag! You think that’s it? All you have to do is say no proof and you’re off the hook?”

“No. All I have to do is remind you that justice is rational beings interacting on rational levels sans mediation. You have no proof; your accusation does not stand. Our business is concluded. Nothing more need be said.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, I’m afraid…” Bard stepped out from a nearby alleyway and looked hard at Dry. “And if you’ll join us at the town square, I’d be only too glad to tell you why this little comedy of errors is concluded before my week is up.”

“Very well, mister Pomacious. I have some time before I must tend to important business matters. I’ll play your little huckster game. But for your foolhardy actions in supporting miss Apricot here, I am rescinding your week. You must leave today.”

“Well! How is that a rational contract between equals? We had an agreement, and I have kept all terms on my end.”

“Oh I highly doubt that you quacksalver grifter. I’d imagine you’ve broken every agreed term more than once. But what concern is it of mine? I rescind it for I have power.”

“Fiat to you too, Gulch. Power my flank…” Bard trotted off with his pack and the case he had been protecting all the week.

“You’re on thin ice, mister Pomacious. Watch your hooves.” Gulch walked on behind his guards, leaning on his silver cane, making certain every hair in his mane was in place.

“Roll up, roll up! Fillies and gentlecolts of this fine town! Roll up, roll up my newly-acquired friends! The time has come, this pony says, to make you aware of the situation in your town! It was a long time in the making. I just needed the proof, which was graciously provided to me by the wonderful miss Lysandra Apricot. Please, if you will, come closer, come closer around this lovely tree.” Bard was in his element, in the center of town, shouting his message and either awakening the townponies or making them aware that something was going on. He was standing with his case open and all his remaining stock scattered around at his hooves by the sickly tree in the planter inside of the fountain.

“Please get on with this, mister Pomacious! I told you that I have business to tend to.” Dry tapped a gold watch on a chain, glaring up at the younger stallion.

“Very well! You must know how terrible it is around here. One pony owning all your businesses, no more governance of your choosing, no law and order…”

“Thin! Ice! And getting thinner!” Dry stomped hard and slammed his cane into the ground.

“And let us not forget the situation with your plants. And thankfully, I have had the solution all along. You haven’t been as forthcoming as miss Apricot was, which is a shame. I admit this to you: You have been duped. YES! Swindled, by a slick-talking huckster. A mountebank of the classical tradition, but I admit this to you in full! The worthless oils and powders you bought were but one thing repeated and labeled differently. You changed yourselves! All the good you thought was mine was yours. But observe the true power of this worthless rot.” Bard uncorked all his vials and opened up his pouches. He poured out the powder and oil all over the ground, right where the roots dug into the ground.

The reaction was immediate. The tree’s color brightened considerably, its sickly leaves turning an impressive shade of green, while small buds sprouted on some of the branch tips. That got the attention of everypony, but most of all, of Dry Gulch. He slammed his silver can into the ground, cracking the stone beneath. “I knew it! I knew you violated our agreement! You lied to me, mister Pomacious! You’ve been selling illegal fertilizers!”

“WRONG!” Bard’s voice echoed out over the square, striking the murmuring crowd silent and even sending Dry’s guards back a step. “THAT is where your duplicity reveals itself! When I heard of a town of earth ponies in the middle of several bad harvests I was curious. Even those not blessed with good mana flow can affect that to a degree, or can use other techniques to at least reach a fair level. But when I heard there was a unicorn involved I had my suspicions. So I found the one way to see if there was magical chicanery at work.”

“And how did you do that? If this is a rational discourse between equals, where is your proof? Show it or get out of my town!”

“THIS is the proof. This spike! It’s not fertilizer that does it. I added nothing. I took it away. This dust, ground stones in pure form and infused in oil, comes from one special spot, the one place in Equestria unicorns dare not tread. The one place that makes your power meaningless.” Bard gave a flourish of his forelimbs as Dry paled. “You know. You know what I have done. This powder comes from the Mountains of Madness! A strange, mystic anomaly whose very aura sharply affects magic. It will negate the effect of unicorn spells at the source and weaken them from simple contact with the stones and dirt. It’s why royal pegasi are charged with ensuring no wind ever passes the mountain and storms are rare.”

All eyes were on Dry in an instant. The crowd was not as big as it could have been. But it was significantly bigger than two burly stallions and one frail unicorn. The older male huddled behind the stout males, trembling and looking genuinely afraid for the first time in a long time. “Y-you must be lying! This is some new kind of trickery concocted by your kind! Riverboat charlatan! Huckster! Grifter! Mountebank! Scoundrel! This was your doing somehow, to disrupt our perfect town with your outside ways! Leave this Gulch this instant!”

“No, Gulch! This was their town first. It all came together when I saw that ridiculous radio equipment at the top of your house. It ruins the, frankly, weird aesthetic you were going for in your home to begin with. Why even put it up there? They must be mana amplifiers. You can drive off the mana the earth ponies have moved into the area, with a wave of magic of your own. But the stones from the Mountains of Madness push aside that field and let the mana back in, to green and power the plants like in every other place in Equestria. This is the truth of the matter. You want somepony to blame for this trouble… that’s the one right there.” Bard pointed at Dry, cowering behind his guards. “You thought you could con a con pony, but I followed your rules to the letter and never exercised a single cheating fiat. How does it feel, mister upright citizen Boss?!”

The word cracked like a gunshot, instantly bringing to mind the horrors of Stalliongrad before the Great Repatriotic War. Dry was already in slow retreat, his guards only just with him, his cane fallen to the ground and forgotten. “S-stay back! I hold your mortgages! I have your monetary lifeline! I’m your governance! You cannot push me out!”

“They did it in Stalliongrad. They’ll do it here.” Bard stepped down from the planter with a forceful step, driving the mob forward as he moved. “Destroy his equipment and you’ll be back to real equality. Your harvests will become lush again. And then he’ll have to compete on a genuinely even stance. If he can.”

“NO!” Gulch cut and ran, galloping madly in the direction of his box canyon home. “You can’t! I won’t let you!”

Bard was right behind him, his younger body encumbered only by his pack and now-empty case. That case was thrown off his back, striking Dry in the legs and dropping him to the ground with a pained grunt. “See how well you can compete against these fine ponies if you think you can. You burned all your bridges, and left them free to judge you, without you leaving them in your power. They don’t need to fear you; they don’t need to obey you. It’s rather plain to say, Gulch… they don’t need you.”

“No… g-guards… guards!” Dry fumbled around on the ground, crawling away from the approaching Bard.

“They’re a little engaged…” Bard looked back. Those ponies that weren’t still on the way to the box canyon were bucking and butting the two guards, Lysandra at the front of the attack. “How does it feel, Gulch? Was it worth it?”

“Until this moment… yes.” Dry, still on the ground and helplessly on his side, actually smiled, with a disturbing gleam in his eyes. “I was living the promise of my philosophy.”

“Temporary power is a temporary solution. Enjoy the rest of your existence, if anypony lets you.” With that, Bard simply galloped off towards the box canyon, to leave Dry awaiting his fate.

“I don’t… I can’t even think of what to say. We can find our own way now that we know what was going on. We broke down his equipment, and put out the word to a local community we had never been allowed to contact before. We’re having a contingent of Constables come out here to take Gulch into custody to pay for what he did.” Lysandra walked beside Bard, as they surveyed the town. It had been only a few days. But with the destruction of the equipment that had been manipulating mana flow there was a new growth. The crops were starting to recover with the change in the environment, the population working to return the land to normal.

“Is that so? Well, I have to be on my way. Can’t be caught around here like this. I may have admitted my trickery, but there’s still the matter of… everything.” Bard had his pack on his back, but his case was nowhere to be seen. “I guess I’ll be back to the local station and be off to the south. Gotta keep moving and all that.”

“Well, you know… there’s no need to everypony to tell everything about what you did. You could just sort of blend in.” Lysandra smiled brightly at Bard and gave him a wink. “Maybe even go by your real name, rather than that dumb medicine show moniker.”

“How do you know I was not born with this name? I could very well be a Roani, or perhaps a Cavallino.”

“No, I don’t think so. But, fine. You can keep the name. What do you say?”

“I’ll keep this community in mind. I need, after all, some places to lay low. And this place seems perfectly suited for it.”

Lysandra smiled sadly, and nodded a bit. “Understandable. But besides that can I… we, offer you anything to take before you go?”

Bard looked to Lysandra and almost seemed ready to say something. Instead he looked down and picked up a somewhat-large rock. “If my next destination is still what I heard, I need to make some stone soup…”

The End

Perfect

The caramel stallion trotted through the central area of Equestria with a spring in his step. It had been many a year on the rivers, on the seas, on the land. And it was wearing on him, being so nomadic. He had heard of a nice little picture-postcard-perfect town in the middle of the most somewhere of nowhere. It wasn't very big as far as those sorts of things went, and it wasn't very well known. But he had heard a lot about the attempt to drum up tourist business. It had been ages since he had been to a country town of actual beauty, not since he had been forced to leave Pericarp and never return. If it worked out well, he could abandon his plans to keep traveling, and settle down in a place he could nostaligize to recapture his past. He could even leave off his plans to sneak his way into the Grand Galloping Gala.

As he approached the town from the river-side he started to pass unobtrusive but unmistakable commercial signs painted in cheery colors with beautiful lettering. Cherrywood Acres. A little slice of perfection. For all your vacation needs. The only destination you need. He chuckled softly and shook his head. It reeked of amateurish desperation, new management trying to turn things around on the strength of clean restrooms, inspection-passed restaurants and parks with new benches and old cantering trails. But it spoke well of the place. They were great, and wanted everypony to know it. At last, someplace worth a look, without ulterior motives.

The town came into view with a sudden, grand sweep. It looked… perfect. Clean cement sidewalks stood beside smooth, clean asphalt roads, all of them straight and well-planned. The small village was laid out in a clear grid, one large main street running north-south, a slightly narrower cross-street running east-west, and inside the village core, smaller, single-direction cross streets creating clean blocks of buildings. Streetlights were spaced at proper intervals, and street signs were at every intersection. Around the village, plenty of park space, including a large grove of cherry trees, to keep the name appropriate.

It was so rigidly designed and perfectly created it was almost ridiculous. But that was part of the appeal of the place. It was so clean, clear and easy to navigate that it looked the part of a village designed to be navigated by new arrivals. With all the flowers and trees planted around it was an ideal spot for walking and talking, savoring the beauty of the place. It was amazing how quickly such an ideal place had been created on top of an existing shell. With enough heavy equipment and dedication anything was possible.

There were a few local citizens out of doors and chatting peacefully, who gave friendly waves and nods to the new arrival. The stallion nodded pleasantly in return and gave a sweep of his pomade-shined mane, making sure his ruffled shirt was properly displayed under his black waistcoat and open black jacket. His flank was clear enough, showing off the red apple with a cut out wedge, revealing a sickly green interior. Good so far.

He trotted his way into the center of the town through the intuitive down design. As in most towns the center was a water feature. It was a fairly impressive fountain, understated but still looking nice, spewing water all around into a moat-like area. Atop the spewing column was the figure of a pony, looking faintly like Trotlas of Hipposian lore, except, he was standing tall, contra traditional depictions, almost seeming to be glaring down arrogantly upon the populace.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” While he was looking up at the statue, another stallion came up behind him, smiling broadly. He was a white unicorn stallion with parted golden mane, swept back in accordance with the modern fashion. On his flank was a river crossed by railroad tracks. He was dressed in a sharp charcoal-gray suit and was flashing a huge smile. “Hi there. Streamford Grade, Mayor of this fine, FINE little town. We’re always glad to have a new face around here. What’s your name, sir?”

“Bataud Carp, socialite dandy and professional traveler. I just LOVE finding new places that are lovely and telling ponies about them. And this place… this place looks perfect.”

Streamford’s eyes lit up on hearing the occupation of the new arrival, and he closed in with a huge grin. “Is that so? Well! Please sir, allow me to extol the properties and amenities of this wonderful town. Come with me sir, come with me!”

“My word! Is it always so friendly in this place?” Bataud followed along with the mayor as he led the new arrival along the streets of the clean and beautiful town, a mixture of loving spaces, hotels and businesses.

“Of course! Oh my good sir, you can tell all of your socialite friends that this place is the friendliest place on the face of Equestria. And as you can see, the cleanest, best-planned and most modern that has been created ever.”

“I see, I see. I know all sorts of ponies. They have many, many needs. For example, are there any gaming establishments in this place? Or at least places of entertainment like saloons and taverns and cabarets? Hopefully with late hours.”

“Entertainment? We have that! Plenty of it, in fact. We just finished up a local festival, and there’s a wonderful semi-formal ball coming soon. We DO have places of entertainment such as cabarets and gaming halls. Now, I recently lifted a curfew but I had to shut down the gambling wheel because it needed more magic-proofing to prevent cheaters.”

“So long as such things exist, I can assure you folk will be glad to hear that. I like the sound of this place already.” Bataud looked at a couple of old ponies sitting on a bench, who smiled quickly to the mayor and his charge. “You don’t happen to know of a good place to stay? Someplace middle-of-the-road, so I can assess the quality of the middling place to get some concept of what the upper and lower might be like.”

“Of course, mister Carp! We have a large number of affordable boarding places. Here, the Streamford Down. A little bit of honor for making this place nice.” Streamford smiled broadly and indicated a bland hotel front, looking fairly plain and regular. “Please, sir, seek me out if you need anything of me during your stay. I am always willing to help such an important fellow as yourself.”

“I will certainly remember that. Thank you much, mister mayor.” Bataud slid into the hotel and looked around. Nothing exciting. The floors were wood, the walls as well, bland water colors of fruit, knick-knack shelves, plain furniture. But for all its blandness, it was clean and well-tended. The mare behind the counter was a Pegasus, a light blue with a leafy green mane and a small collection of greenery and flowers on her flank. “Hello, sir. Welcome to the Streamford Down. Will you be staying?”

“Most certainly. I have been assured this is a wonderful place. Can you direct me to the gaming hall? I have some things to take care of.”

“Of course. It hasn’t been the same since they stopped the wheel but the card tables are open. It’s right across the way, under the sign of the Butterfly. I’ll sign out a room for you, mister..?”

“Bataud Carp. B-A-T-A-U-D C-A-R-P. Thank you very much miss..?”

"Rosemary. Rosemary Savor. I should have this set up and a key ready by the time you get back. May I take your pack?”

“No, thank you. I like to keep it close at hoof. Until then, miss Savor…”

“Rosemary.”

“Rosemary. Until then, I will be off.” With a nod of his head, Bataud trotted out of the hotel and across the well-tended street to the Butterfly.

The sign above was marked with a golden butterfly, while the door resembled a frontier design, after a fashion. Within, the place looked suspiciously like a saloon as might be found in Appleoosa: Dark-ish, wooden, everything low and slightly rough. But there was jaunty music coming from the player piano and nopony looked distressed.

Some of the tables were occupied by groups of ponies idly dealing out cards and passing bits around as they won and lost their games. Bataud simply sat down at a table containing another stallion and smiled. “Afternoon, friend. Can I interest you in a game?”

“Why of course, sir! I take it you are a visitor to our fair town.” The other stallion, a sable earth pony with a light cocoa mane, shuffled a deck and placed a bit pouch on the table.

"I am. For now. But soon? Who knows. I may choose to make this place a regular vacation destination." The caramel stallion sat down and took out his own bit pouch.

"An excellent choice, sir! A very excellent choice! We can always use new regulars, being that we're so new and want to grow." The other stallion distributed the cards and dropped a bit in the middle of the table.

Bataud laid out his ante and checked on his cards. A fine suite of varied garbage. He laid out another bit and nodded as his tablemate matched him. “I’ll have two. So, what do you think of the place, honestly? It does me no good to tell all my friends about the place if I can’t get the skinny from the folks here all the time.”

“Well sir, what can I say about the place that has not previously been said? We’re a very well-planned community, the streets are clean and safe, and the folks around here are perfectly friendly. It’s the ideal little Equestrian town.” The stallion slipped himself three cards and tossed two bits to the center of the table.

Bataud looked over his cards. A pair of threes. He tossed three bits into the center of the table. “Raise. Sounds lovely.”

His opponent was almost too eager to throw his cards down. “Fold. I’m not willing to take that risk.

A jittery player. No confidence, easily spooked. Not exactly the most entertaining player but easy to work on, good for bleeding out a few bits. “How fortunate for me, eh? Well, it cannot continue, of course.”

But it did continue. Through weak hands and strong hands, the winning was always on his side. He had minor setbacks, but only when he chose, when he folded with the advantage on his opponent, or bluffed a strong hand when he had nothing, but did not pull back at the last moment. He could not help but win.

“Well, sir! You’ve cleaned me! That was a good show. You must be an old hoof at this kind of thing.” The trounced stallion was all smiles, looking to Bataud with a kind of thoughtless joy, even in the midst of losing.

“I’ve play a game or three. But I must say, I have never felt so competent. Thank you for the entertainment.” Bataud rose, jangling pouch at his side, an insincere smile on his face. He left the Butterfly with a shake of his head, impacting rather heavily into another pony. “Oh! Sorry, didn’t see you there.”

“Hey! Watch out where you’re… oh. Sorry about that, sir. Uhh… entirely my fault. Should have been a bit more careful about where I was going.” The pony in question was a unicorn, an older gentlecolt with a gray body and white mane, a thin moustache on his lip. His cutie mark was a pair of interconnected gears. He was dressed in a black vest with a gold star attached to it, marked with the word “Chief.” His face had initially been one of annoyance, as could be expected from a stricken individual, but on seeing the identity of the one who had run into him he quickly changed to an expression of obsequiousness.

“No, no, entirely MY fault, Chief. Nothing for you to say about it. I really should learn to keep my eyes on the streets.” Bataud bowed to the stallion and looked around. “I must say, you do fine work, Chief…”

“Grind. Steady Grind. And I can’t take credit for this wonderful calm. No, this town is just… that is, this town is so perfect, so well-planned and so perfectly made that is just exudes perfection and keeps things in line. Why would they even need somepony like me? No, I’m just here to look nice with the rest of my cops…”

“Mister Grind…” From out of nowhere there appeared a very tall pony, wearing a sharp black suit coat and sunglasses, a earpiece in his right ear. He was a pure white Pegasus stallion, like the sort that would be right at home in the Royal Guard corps. “Are you bothering this fine visitor to our town with trivialities when you could be back at the station organizing some sort of team activity?”

“Ahh, no, no, he just complimented me about the peace and quiet of town.” The older stallion looked quite intimidated by the figure.

“Yes, thank you sir. Our constables exude quite the aura of protective influence. I’m sure you will enjoy your stay here, and I’m certain you will tell your friends about this place.” With a nod, and a subtle motion to Steady he walked away, Grind following in his wake, almost seeming to do a perp walk behind the Pegasus.

“Well now… Spooks in a vacation town? They can’t be after me. I never broke laws that high in the chain. Seen them around doing this and that. But why care about a nothing resort? This place is going to be quite interesting to be sure.”

Bataud spent the rest of his day wandering around the town, looking in on the knickknack shops and various restaurants. All manner of food from all corners of Equestria. He even had a light lunch of shahi paneer at a Ghora restaurant, which also served some of the most delicious chapattis he could ever remember eating. He not only remembered to say so, but left a generous tip. On leaving the restaurant he looked back to see another sharp-dressed stallion, this one an earth pony. Suit, sunglasses, earpiece.

It continued as he went. Every place he examined or entered got a visit from some Spook in a dark suit, all white fur and creepy ubiquity. None of the met ponies looked happy to see the figures. In point of fact they seemed genuinely terrified, or at least concerned by their presence.

It was late evening by the time he reached Streamford Down, the shadows stretching over the streets, every electric and gas light popping on with an almost-disturbing unity. The true terror was the sudden lighting of every building in synch with the external lights. There was not a single moment of hesitation. All on one signal, there was light.

“Good evening, mister Carp. May I show you to your room?” Rosemary was still behind the front desk, as though she had been frozen since his parting that morning.

“That would be lovely, I think I need to rest. It was kind of a big day.” He looked around the room, as though seeking another dark-suited stranger.

“Yes, our town is quite large and varied, isn’t it. Will you be ordering dinner in your room, sir, or will you be at the dining room?” The mare led him up the stairs beside the front desk and up the landing to the second floor with the actual rooms.

“I had a rather large lunch and I’m trying to watch my figure. It’s the ‘in’ thing for classy ponies now, after all. So, no dinner. I’ll just turn in early.”

“Oh…” The sound was almost disappointed, Rosemary’s face falling just slightly before it pulled back to the default happy position. “Well then, that will save the kitchen staff a bit of effort. Here is your room, number 101. Here is a key, if you need anything there is a speaking tube connected to the front desk. Just inform me and I will do what I can.” She handed over an ornate brass key with a tighter pull of her smile.

“Yes, I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.” Bataud took the key then reached into his pouch. “Here you are. Thanks for the good work.” After passing along a few bits he opened up the door and slipped inside.

The inside of the room was standard for a middle-of-the-road hotel. The walls were plain but painted in two tones, some molding along the middle of the walls creating a stark dividing line. The room came equipped with a large armoire, a lower bureau with a large swiveling mirror over it, two large chairs and a bed. It was of a modest size with white sheets that seemed clean and fresh. There was also a closet in evidence and an attached bathroom. Very modern and welcoming.

The first thing he did was to casually stroll around, like any curious rube looking at all the lovely amenities he got. His practiced eye picked out every little scrape and scuffle, signs of moved furniture and shifted equipment. He even found a pinhole hidden in the ceiling, a glass coating showing the presence of a lens which could allow for either wide viewing of the room or specific focus if it was mobile. It would be trivial to guess the rest of the rooms were similarly equipped. It wasn’t paranoia if somepony was out to do something.

He got into bed fully dressed, with his pack held against his body, trying to make the curious action look as natural as possible. He did not look around like a dime-store shifty hood; he just slowly closed his eyes, looking around before the lids completely shut, when it would be harder to notice the action. Nopony was in his room, yet. But at any moment, they could well be watching.

Bataud awoke just before sunrise, in the same position in which he had fallen asleep. He could see some faint pulling on the sheets near the bottom of the bed, as though somepony had leaned on it. They had been there, looking in on him.

After a quick trip to the bathroom to freshen up and re-pomade his mane he traipsed downstairs to find Rosemary back at her post, looking slightly tired but otherwise cheerful. “Good morning. Is there an a la carte breakfast or do I get a set meal?”

“Unfortunately, sir, we only offer a la carte for dinner. There is a set breakfast of granola, a croissant, cherry juice and toast with cherry jam. I hope that is acceptable.”

“Food is food. I’ll take it.”

After a swift breakfast, watched over by a smiling Rosemary, Bataud was off into town again, still with his pack. Before he left the hotel he turned to Rosemary and inquired, “Excuse me, can you tell me about the ponies in suits?”

“Suits, sir? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. If you mean the shopkeepers they like to maintain a very respectable attire. It increases the level of formality and makes it a better experience for all concerned.”

Bataud nodded, a sincere-looking smile on his face. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure sure. Please ask if you need to know anything else.”

“I will indeed.” After the door closed behind him he muttered, “For all the good it will do me…”

He was right back in the Butterfly after leaving Streamford Down, looking for the stallion against whom he had played the other day. He was not there, his position at the table replaced by a grinning Pegasus with a powder blue coat and bright white mane. “Hello, sir. Care for a game?”

“Where…” Bataud started to ask about the stallion he recalled, but he saw the briefest flash of a white hide in the back room behind the bar. “…should I sit to get this started?”

“Anywhere you like, sir. It’s all about your comfort and preference.”

“Of course it is.” Bataud sat and the game began. This time he made every effort to lose, intentionally bluffing badly, leading with huge antes, throwing away good cards and in general giving every opportunity for his own failure, like a raw rookie. And no matter what he did, in the long game, he still won. He more than broke even, he started cutting into what the stallion had with him. Past a certain point it just felt entirely wrong. At that point the rose form the table.

“S-sir? Sir! Are you finished?” The Pegasus looked a little panicked by the sudden departure. “Did I do something wrong?”

Another flash of white, and the low mutter as a voice into an earpiece‘s speaker. “What? No! It was a great game! But I’m going to go stretch my legs. Exercise is good, right?”

The stallion sighed and smiled. “Of course, sir.”

Bataud strode out of the Butterfly and wended his way through the straight, clean streets of the town, waving mechanically to the ponies in their homes and stores who waved to him. He trotted calmly, evenly through the town, to the police station, which looked just as clean and perfect as the rest of the place. Inside he found a single mare, a bored-looking gray and white earth pony wearing an olive drab button-up shirt with a gold star clipped to it. As soon as she saw the arrival was a visitor she placed a huge smile on her face and chirped, “How may I be of assistance, sir? Do you require a map or have you misplaced an item?”

The caramel stallion glanced around the station, noting how clean and new everything looked. He had never seen a constable station so clean. No chips or divots, no broken edges or scuffed floors. Just the desk at the front, to the left, and an open room filled with desks that were completely empty. “I wish to report an incident. I believe I’m being unlawfully stalked.”

“Unlawfully stalked, you say? Impossible. Things like that just don’t happen in this town. We’re a peaceful, friendly community with no crime at all. There are no criminals in this town to do such a thing.”

“Quis custodiet ipso custodes?” Bataud muttered to himself, fixing the officer with a hard stare. “How do you know there are no criminals in this town? They even have criminals of some stripe in Canterlot, of all places. So how could you say that this cheery little resort town is empty of criminals?”

“Because I said it is. What kind of perfect town would have criminals in it? You’re mistaken about whatever it is you think you saw out there.” Steady Grind stepped slowly from a back room, smiling as pleasantly as he could when the slight twitch in his face indicated he wanted to frown. “Constable Fine Grind, please take a break for coffee and donuts.”

“Yes daddy… I mean, chief…” Fine nodded pleasantly, her face unchanged from the artificial cheer, as she left her position and went to the back from where her father had come.

“Now sir…” The sweetness in Steady’s voice was saccharine, syrupy, an entirely artificial construct that did not belong in the older stallion’s vocal cords. “I realize that you are new in town, that you do not know how things work here, but I can assure you, there are no criminals in this town. I give you my word as an honest constable of great skill and experience. It’s why I was brought here.”

Bataud passed all comment, taking a different tack after a moment of consideration. “There was a stallion in the Butterfly yesterday. Nice colt. Black coat, cocoa mane. We played a game of cards and I won rather easily. He’s gone today. Replaced without a word. Where’d he go? What’s his name?”

Steady shifted, eyes flicking briefly to a space on the wall. Just the right kind of hidden spot for observation or a microphone. “I’m not sure what you mean. It’s not like the folks that play games at the Butterfly work there. They play games, come and go as they please. Just ordinary pony folks going about their regular business.”

“What’s his name?”

“What?”

“His name. He has to have a name. Everypony has a name.”

“I don’t know. How can you expect me to know the name of every pony in this town?”

“It’s a friendly town. Clean, crime-free, peaceful. Surely you at least know what they look like, are aware of what they do. You or your fellow constables. Maybe I can ask them. File a missing pony report and register my complaint about unlawful stalking.”

“No.” The reply was shockingly curt, dropping easily from the insincerely-smiling lips.

“Excuse me?”

“No… sir.” Disdain dripped from the cloying sweetness of the chief’s voice, his eyes showing the true emotion behind the friendly shell he placed on his body. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“Is that so? May I inquire as to why?”

“Because I can assure you there is no need. I don’t know what became of the stallion in question but I can assure you it was… nothing untoward. As for you being stalked well… have you considered it was an optical illusion?”

Bataud lifted his head, looking seriously at Steady. “What about the pony I saw you with yesterday? The suit. Did I imagine that too?”

Steady flinched, teeth grinding for a moment behind his perpetual smile. “Just a member of the Civic Pride Committee. They walk around town sprucing flowers and checking on shops to make sure we’re all upholding the high standards of this town.”

“Really? Well, that explains a lot. I guess I’ll just be on my way, then.” Bataud bowed politely, stepping out of the station and giving a long, slow stretch. While he was paused, he quickly glanced through one of the closing doors and saw a white coat and dark suit. Of course.

Though there seemed to be little point in wandering the town, he did it anyway. He had more of an idea of what was happening in town, but had nothing concrete. His hoof steps took him past a tourist map, which he studied with some interest. Stores were listed, as were hotels, restaurants, points of interest, and such things. What really stood out was what was missing. The police station was not listed. There was no mention of a hospital. And most striking of all, there didn’t appear to be a cemetery. No crime. No sickness. No death. That wasn’t perfect. That was impossible.

While wending his way around some of the less-promoted areas, he scented the distinct odor of hot washing water and bleach, along with the sudden rise in temperature and humidity, as though there was some industrial laundry around. The buildings all looked as bland and ordinary as they did in the rest of town, now seeming disturbingly ordinary, as though intending to be a kind of disarming camouflage.

The caramel stallion trotted along casually, looking around with a charmed smile on his face, while looking through the lowest windows and subtly sniffing the air to find the highest concentration of scent and humidity. He finally found it by a low bungalow, that appeared to be just another nicely-painted home. A look through the window into the basement showed a great deal of steam, several indeterminate machines and a few ponies trudging around. He even though he caught a glimpse of a very dark coat…

“Pardon me, sir, pardon. Are you lost?” A white unicorn strolled casually up along the sidewalk, dressed in a dark suit and sunglasses, with an earpiece very firmly placed in his ear.

“A little bit lost a little bit… curious. I’ve said how nice this place is, and it REALLY is. But I may even consider buying property here, making a second home of it. I was just checking around for likely spots off the beaten path, as it were.”

The suited stallion smiled, a practiced motion designed for photo ops with a curt nod of his head. “Very generous and admirable of you, sir. Permanent or semi-permanent residents of great class and style are always wanted. You ought to speak with the mayor about that.”

“You know, I think I just might. Where can I find him around this time?”

“City hall, sir. Please, allow me to direct you.” The inflection showed that it was not a suggestion, but a demand that was not open to refusal.

“That would be most kind and convenient. Thank you kindly. I still don’t know my way around.” A lie. The map was very informative. He could get anywhere. But to be proper, he fell into step behind the suited stallion.

The trip was silent, a farcical mummer show. There was no cheer in the two-pony-parade and both wore iron-hard masks of feigned ignorance, neither knowing if the other was aware of the counterfeit nature of the gentility expressed. It all ended in further silence before the doors of city hall, with a nod from the unicorn who departed into parts unknown.

The structure was grand and overly-embellished, certainly not keeping with the aesthetic of the town, though seemingly more in keeping with the aesthetic of the statue in the town center. It was a large marble building in Hipposian or Equusian style; it was hard to tell the difference, as Equusian tended to be Hipposian with the names changed and the serial numbers filed off. Useless columns stretched to “support” the architrave and it’s topping frieze, which depicted various, powerful equine figures performing feats of strength and science, some of whom seemed vaguely familiar, like characters from a book.

Inside the building the needless grandiosity continued, every modern touch and design convention was followed to the letter, from the shining chrome to deco touches to the wildly imaginative furniture designed. It made Bataud itch, giving him a most uncomfortable sense of déjà vu.

Even so, he still went to the mare behind the desk, giving what he could see a once-over. She was a unicorn, white-coated and black-maned, wearing small glasses, coiffed in a decades-old style that was still more modern than his own, and in attire just barely more forward-thought than his. She looked up and gave the same plastic smile that everypony else gave. “Welcome to city hall, sir. How may I help you?”

“Hello there, yes, I was just wondering if Mayor Grade is available for consultation. I have a very important business matter to discuss with him and I’d like to see him as soon as possible.”

The secretary shook her head firmly and responded, “I’m very, VERY sorry, sir, but Mayor Grade is often very busy and required appointments be made several-”

“Oh, miss Toothy, no need for such formality.” Mayor Grade appeared at the door to his office, beaming a beatific smile. “Mister Carp, please, come in. I am always happy to discuss matters of business.”

“It is quite kind of you to meet me like this, Mayor Grade, on such short notice and with no real idea of what I want.” Inside the office of the mayor the aggressively modern, deco design continued and flared to an almost-absurd level of individualistic aesthetic sensibilities. Very few things were conventional or recognizable, save for a few imported pieces from various near lands and large paintings of what looked like a mountainous region near Stalliongrad.

Mayor Grade waved a hoof as he sat down behind his grand desk, adjusting a small, decorative mounting plate at the center. “Never mistake my canny business sense for anything as base as altruism. I have very few personal rules for interaction, but I will not be mistaken for a giver.”

The uncomfortably familiar itch returned, and a kind of cold nausea worked through Bataud’s barrel. “Indeed, mister mayor. I understand completely. Reminds me of something I read in a book once.”

The mayor pointed across at a bookshelf filled with thick tomes, indicating several particularly oversized volumes near the middle. “I think I read the same one. Several times, in fact. It’s how I got where I am today. The self-made stallion who is concerned for his own will and mental effort.”

The cold sickness became a writhing blizzard, a chill that reached the heart and called forth memories of bodyguards and silver canes and thoughtlessly over-designed architecture. While Bataud’s body seethed with the emotional turmoil of the memories, his poker face remained unchanged. “I have similarly studied several works. Its situations and characters have been most informative and instructed me, giving me a model of behavior derived from following an antithesis of what was written.”

“Ahh yes, truly one of the underappreciated functions of the antagonist.”

“Yes, the antagonists… Mayor, as you know, business is a fast stallion’s game, and I am a VERY fast stallion. I have been here only two days and I can already tell this is my kind of place. I know it intimately.”

“Is that so, mister Carp? Well then, how may I be of assistance? What do you intend to do with this feeling of appreciation for my town?”

“Well, it is as I said to a stallion out there, I wish to purchase property in this town, a vacation home, something to use during the leisure seasons between working hard and developing the new world-moving systems.”

“A home! Purchasing a home for vacation purposes! Splendid!” The white stallion was up and around his desk in a flash, greed in his eyes and a broad smile on his lips. “You can see the wonderful bounty of our town and report it to all your friends!”

“My very intention. I am more dedicated than ever to the idea of telling everypony I can about this place.”

“Most splendid, sir!”

“I still have to make the decision, I have to spend longer than a few days. Maybe attend the ball you mentioned. But I can assure you, they will only move my appreciation forward and make me more eager to reside here.”

“Understandable, understandable. Men like us, we must think and consider carefully. We must be rational and wholly intellectual. But I will begin drawing up the essential paperwork, so they will be ready for you when you return again.”

“And believe me, mayor, I will be back soon.” Before he left, Bataud looked at the strange metal plate on the desk. “What is that?”

“Hmmm? Oh, this plate. One of my little innovations. The life of important ponies can be a fairly turbulent thing if the lower, uncreative creatures get agitated. This is the mounting-point for a personal defense firearm that uses gas power to launch a very particularly-designed projectile that can devastate an opponent. It’s only one at a time so far, but it works very well.”

Bataud nodded slowly and walked out of the room. “Very informative, mister mayor…” He spoke mostly to himself, slowly strolling past the front desk.

“Sir…” Miss Toothy waved a touch to get his attention. “Sir, have you chosen a place? The southern section of town is off the beaten track, as maps will show. I suggest you look down there for houses.” Her face twitched just a touch, an indication of something.

Bataud nodded, a smile and slight raise of his eyebrows answering the motion from Toothy. “I looked around down there. I saw something… promising. I would have looked closer but a member of the Civic Pride Community led me here to see about the proper process.”

“Well please, allow me to give you this card. You’ll know what you ought to do.” She passed along a card with the mayor’s information on the face. He could feel something exceptionally heavy behind it, in the shape of a cone with a very pointed tip.

“I know exactly what to do. Thank you, miss.” He tucked the card and cargo away with a smile, and trotted out of the building.

Back at Streamford Down, things were the same as ever. Rosemary was behind the counter, smiling brightly, while the lobby and dining areas sat empty and unused. “Good evening mister Carp. Will you be having dinner?”

“Indeed I will. I am quite famished. Please get me a menu.”

“Right away!” As Bataud took a seat at a table in the small dining area he was brought a small, cloth-bound menu by Rosemary. “I recommend the seven grain roast with the Hipposian yogurt-based sauce and dandelion side salad.”

After giving the menu a quick once-over he gave a nod and passed it over. “Sounds perfect. I’ll take it. And just a glass of apple juice.”

Rosemary dashed off swiftly into the kitchen, the door held open for just a moment. The inside was immaculate, occupied by three hungry-looking ponies in chef’s whites. They looked almost… tragically hopeful when the door opened. Should he trust a thin chef?

The meal came with amazing rapidity, decoratively shaped into seven small, separate shapes depicting each of the grains used in the making of the dish. The side salad was dressed with a hint of vinegar and oil, and tossed with petals. Even the juice was lightly carbonated, a very nice touch. He took up a knife to cut into the roast, when he saw a reflection in the polished silver, the smallest sliver of the front desk. Rosemary, speaking with a white-snouted individual. A small twist of the knife showed a trailing earpiece and dark glasses. It was almost enough to kill the appetite.

After the meal was finished, Bataud lightly patted his stomach, a smile on his face. “Quite delicious. A good choice on your part.”

“Thank you, mister carp. I like to think I have fair taste.” Rosemary motioned towards the front desk. “Will you be retiring for the evening?”

“I think so. I need to prepare myself for the ball that’s coming up. It’s tomorrow, if I recall correctly.”

“Indeed it is, sir. Please, allow me to accompany you to your room.”

“That’s not strictly necessary but it would be very gauche to refuse.” Bataud walked slowly away from the table, casting his gaze around for the suited pony. “So I’ve considered moving here part time.”

“That’s… excellent, mister Carp. Your own property. I assume you’ve seen the mayor.”

“Of course. I’m doing this right. But I still need to find a good location.”

“May I suggest the southern part of town?”

“I already looked in at it. The mayor’s secretary suggested it as well. But I had already seen property there that looked promising as far as such things went.”

Rosemary just nodded as they arrived at the room. “Here we are.” She hesitated a moment. “So… just so you are aware, this is a full-service residence facility. There are certain additional amenities you can have, for a modest fee. If you just ask for them.” She stepped out a front leg, and turned a bit to show some flank.

Bataud gave a slow nod, looking Rosemary up and down. “Just to know, how much would this additional service cost, in generic terms?”

She hesitated a moment before responding, “One hundred bits. Less for some things.”

He paused a moment. “And how much to NOT do that? Can I pay you to go quietly away and pretend it never happened?”

“Sir?”

“If anything were to go on, I’d prefer it be the result of a long string of activity, not just because of a business transaction.”

“Sir… The mayor believes very strongly that superior ponies enjoy… certain activities and will always seek to perform those activities at every opportunity to demonstrate superiority.”

“And I am guessing there are means by which the mayor could discover if one has or has not been engaging in such. Well, here…” He took out a few bits and passed them over to Rosemary. “Here’s a down payment. If I decide to stay I will finish payment and then use the funded services. Until then, good night.” With that, he closed the door to his hotel room, leaving Rosemary looking nervously around the landing.

Bataud was up bright and early the next day, groomed and pressed and ready for a formal occasion. Though his attire had not changed it looked fresh, clean and bright, dark as most of it was. Even his mane looked especially shiny. He was ready to question Rosemary but she was not at the front desk. A complete stranger was there, a young earth stallion with a pale blue coat and light turquoise mane and tail. “Wait a moment. Something seems different.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sir. Nothing has changed, nothing of which I am aware.” The new desk clerk was all smiles, a slightly vacant look in his eyes.

“There just seems to be something different… It must be my imagination. I guess I’m excited by the prospect of a ball, and of moving here.”

“That must be it indeed, sir. Will you be having the set meal this morning?”

“Indeed I will. I want strength in my limbs for dancing and other forms of merrymaking at this little hootenanny that will be transpiring tonight.”

“Very good, sir. Please come along and you will be served.”

As Bataud followed the new clerk to the dining area he cast his eyes about. Just because he couldn’t see them didn’t mean they weren’t there. They had had their fun. But that evening, it was his turn.

The to-do was being held in a large hall, one of the entertainment establishments that had been cleared, cleaned and decorated. The dance floor was occupied with residents dancing and stomping their hooves, while the bar and refreshment areas were similarly populated. The band was a collection of local citizens playing very lovely dancing tunes that moved between folk melodies, classical pieces and newer, experimental pieces. All were met with dancing hooves in equal fervor.

Bataud strolled into the dance and was met by a cheer from the assembled. He flashed his toothiest smile, nodding to whatever new ponies made eye contact. He still looked smashing, not the least reason being his boutonnière, which was a cunningly crafted silk flower, a blue bulb with blue stamen and blue leaves. It looked almost unnatural, yet was clearly based on a real plant, and could hardly be distinguished from a living thing despite being nothing but fabric and glue.

“Very bold and original, mister Carp! Tell me, is this something of your own creation? I applaud your modern sensibilities.” The mayor approached, all smiles, looking fine in a white tuxedo.

“No, no. I am ashamed to say I do not know anything about this flower, other than that such a thing exists. Not even its name. However, this silk representation was sent to me by a relative, because it makes quite an eye-catching accessory. I was skeptical at first, but now I see it is true. Most excellent.”

“I should say so. How do you find this little soiree so far? Quite a thing, is it not? Just imagine it when it is filled with these friends of yours that have been attracted to your new part-time home. That will be quite a sight, eh?”

“Yes yes! But, I have another matter to discuss, one that I have been meaning to broach for a short while.”

“Please, do continue. What is it?” Streamford leaned in curiously, ears turned fully forward.

“I was wondering if, before I make a more formal declaration, I be allowed to meet the Civic Pride Committee. After all, I have much civic pride. Or will, once this becomes a place which holds significant significance to me. And they DO keep everything looking nice. As I understand it they spruce flowers, clean smudges and in general tidy up loose threads.”

Streamford looked thoughtful for a moment before nodding and motioning with his head. “Certainly. They’re all here, enjoying a bit of rest after all the work they do keeping the place spit and polish.”

The mayor led Bataud from the main area into a semi-secluded back room with dim lighting and a long table set with an opulent feast. Arranged around the table were twenty near-identical stallions. Earth ponies, pegasi, unicorns, all pure white, wearing dark suits and sunglasses, though all lacked earpieces. They turned as one to look on the arrivals, their low, muttering conversation dying away to nothing.

On seeing the assembled, Bataud’s face grew into a huge smile. He immediately rushed up and started to shake hooves, pressing in close and occasionally tossing his silk flower about, only now and then touching the ponies at the table. “This is a great pleasure and an honor. You do such fine work. I have never seen a cleaner, better-tended or more beautiful community! I really think I have made the right choice in moving here.”

The ponies all looked nonplussed, unsure about what to think of the overly-friendly stallion. A quick glance at the mayor, and his scowl of disapproval at their lack of reciprocation, told them exactly what to do. They began to return the glad-hoofing and close contact, one of them even contacting, “You know, it’s wonderful to find a pony who appreciates what we do for the town.”

“Believe me, I know how hard you have to work to keep this place going. By the way…” Bataud took a sniff from his silk flower and then leaned in. “Have a smell. My relative treated it with the scent of the actual flower and it has a good persistence. I still don’t recall what it’s called, but it smells just lovely.”

Dutifully, all the stallions sniffed at the flower, nodding thoughtfully at its scent, a few sneezing afterwards. “Certainly is unique…” Was the only comment out of any of them.

“In any case, I didn’t mean to interrupt your private function. Enjoy your evening.” Still smiling, Bataud made his way back to the ball proper, leaving the stallions waving and nodding their heads. “Mister mayor, if I may take my leave, I should return to the ball.”

“Of course, mister Carp. And enjoy yourself!” Mayor Streamford remained in the back area with the members of the Civic Pride Committee. He never noticed that after mingling back in with the crowd, Bataud worked his way, via dancing and slow steps, out the door and into the night.”

The next morning Bataud awoke naked in his bathtub. The warm water from the night before had assumed room temperature, and made his body a bit pruney. But a quick dip of his head and an examination of his body met with his approval. He pulled his form out of the water and worked himself over thoroughly with several towels, two of them just to get his mane fully dry.

Those matters taken care of, he took the clothes from the previous night and threw them in the tub along with the silk flower. He then slid a hoof-full of pomade through his hair to set his style just as he liked it. Dry, coiffed and unfortunately nude, he made his way down the stairs with his pack on his back. That morning, no one was at the front desk, as he expected. He did not expect anypony to be at the hotel.

Just outside the door he encountered one of the white stallions, a unicorn, his attire ruffled and barely-on. His horn was swollen out to an uncomfortable level, red and faintly throbbing, every breeze seeming to make him wince. “What did you do to me? What is this?”

“Just a joke. I’d say I’m sorry for this next part, but we both know the truth.” That said, Bataud viciously slapped the unicorn across his swollen horn, tearing an unimaginably agonized scream from his throat, as the caramel stallion casually trotted on.

His gait was easy and even. No urgency in any part of his bearing. His good memory took him down the streets, along the streets to the police station. On his way there he found more white stallions, one of each type. The Pegasus’ wings had become shrunken into uselessness, flapping ineffectually at his sides; the earth pony was just barely able to move, his muscles so grossly oversized that he could hardly flex an inch without straining; and the unicorn was hardly able to lift his oversized head, his cranium inflated in size and leaving him almost ready to fall forward with each unsteady wobble. “How?” The Pegasus spoke for the three, anger and disbelief in his voice.

“Can’t take a joke, can you? Well, it’s hardly surprising. Prison guards have notoriously bad senses of humor.” Bataud broke into a quick run, calling on his earth pony genes to propel him suddenly into the Pegasus. He impacted the pony with a grunt and sent him tumbling down the street.

The stricken pony lay on the ground silently for a long moment, his fellows attempting to assist but attacking his attacker. But the earth pony could barely move fast enough to attempt an attack, while the unicorn toppled and wobbled with each attempt at activating his horn. The Pegasus at last made a sound, a pained laugh. “’Prison guards’? You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“No, you’re right.” Bataud passed the fallen pony, who did not bother trying to get up; without his wings he was just another Cloudsdale-standard fragile speedster, no match for an earth pony on the ground. “You’re slave overseers; a prison without walls, and slaves without chains. Except the monetary ones. Stay down. It should be easy. You slime should know how to heel for your Boss.” The last word was spit sharply, and actually made the scowling pony cringe.

He trotted on to the station, where there was a bit of a fracas, with loud screams and lots of thumping. Bursting through the door revealed the source of the commotion. Another of the white ponies, apparently an earth pony was frothing at the mouth, throwing his head around and fighting against the ropes binding him. When he turned, he revealed he was, in fact a unicorn. His horn had been repositioned on his body, and was emerging from his hindquarters. It was lit with a magical aura, but the force produced was randomly striking, completely uncontrolled.

“What in Celestia’s name is going on here? What happened?” The Chief, who had been in charge of the officers holding the raging stallion, turned quickly on Bataud. “I know this was your doing somehow!”

“Yes. So, are you going to thank me?”

“Thank you? THANK YOU?”

“You’re welcome.”

“This is…”

“I got them all. All twenty of them. They might not all be completely neutralized but everything they prided in themselves have been twisted around to make them weak and ineffectual. They’re not a threat anymore.”
Steady stopped in shock, looking at the raging stallion with a thoughtful expression. “Did you plan on this?”

“I planned something. The effects of Poison Joke are random, but always at least modestly discombobulating if not seriously debilitating, though not deadly. I though if I got them all, you could do something.”

“What? Me?”

“You and your constables. Now’s your chance.”

“I don’t know what you’re thinking of, mister. But I am a bare barrow; I’ve been put to pasture out here. It’s why Grade hired me. I was a month from retirement in Fillydelphia when I got the message. He wanted to hire me to play chief with pretend cops. They’re all legitimate, but we were never meant to do anything. It was always Grade’s design. We let the Civic Pride ponies do anything they wanted, they observed us and we played nice. In exchange we were supposed to put on a nice show for tourists and occasionally do team-building exercises and public service. And never ask questions about where ponies went.”

“South end of town, at least some of them. Industrial laundry facility. He might be importing from other places. I think I figured out how it works. No work, no pay. If a hotel customer doesn’t order dinner, the cooks don’t get paid. A player at any of the halls is wagering his own money, and HAS to lose. Anything for the customer. And absent money, the only thing to do is slave away for pittance in the laundry until he can go back. A vicious circle.”

Steady nodded his head slowly. “So what do you expect me to do about it?”

“Your job. I’ve been pinched by enough constables to know that no matter how grizzled and tired you get, you’re always a constable. Pastured or not, feeling neutered or not, you said it yourself. You’re all REAL constables. Now act like it. Throw him in a cell, working or not, jam it closed and at least let the folks out of the facility. And if you feel like locking up the rest of the Civic Pride idiots, that’s your business.”

Chief Steady tapped his hoof on the ground a few times before he turned sharply on his constables. “Get that bucking idiot into a cell and seal it up tight; I don’t need him blasting his way through. Constable Fine, get the equipment, dust it off and get everypony ready to bring the law.”

“Right daddy! … Chief. Chief.” Fine Grind saluted and dashed off, the other constables in the room drawing the struggling stallion along.

“I’ll lead you to the place if you don’t know where it’s at.

“The mayor was good about keeping us out of the look. And I was damn good at not caring. Kept my head down and my snout clean. Still got harassed by those Civic Pride jokers for my trouble.”

“Bullies are bullies. Just say when.”

It took a few minutes, but the small pack of constables returned in dusty but proper gear, including helmets and back-mounted rams with attached electric prods. “Lead on. We’ll… discuss things later.”

The streets were still clear, nopony daring to leave their homes or businesses, if there was any difference between the two. The Poison-Joke-stricken members of the Civic Pride Committee were either in hiding or too debilitated by the effects to stop the small cadre of constables, ten in number.

They made their way down into the southern part of town, into the neighborhoods that were perfectly made but empty shells. Bataud was going to mention the specific house that was the location of the forced labor facility of which he was aware, but the small ring of white ponies on the lawn was indication enough. They were a sad mix, including a Pegasus whose wings drooped like they were made of putty, a unicorn with their horn seemingly inverted, leaving a gaping but cornuted divot in his head, and an earth pony shriveled up to almost nothing, sticks and skin and barely more. “I think you can tell, but that’s the place.”

“I think we can handle this. Got anything else to do?”

“Head for city hall after you’re done here. I’ll either need medical aid or the mayor will need to be arrested. It seems like a good day to end this.”

“Right. Good luck. Alright, constables. These are the ones that made you a mockery of what you should have been. If you’ve got any shame left turn it into a drop of anger and apply just a dash of constabulary excessive force.” He tossed a helmet onto his head, slid down the facemask and took up a large truncheon in the grip of his magic. He charged the gathering of disadvantaged white stallions, who clearly were fighting as a last resort; exposed to justice they could rightly be afraid of harsh judgments and even the risky proposition of facing the citizens they had bullied and disadvantaged.

Assured the constables would triumph Bataud took to his hooves, galloping loudly down the street towards the overblown city hall, stopping only to spit on the statue at the center of town. The front doors, though closed, were unlocked as he found when he gave them a push.

Behind the door he found the secretary miss Toothy, apparently hiding from potential invaders behind her desk beside two white earth ponies, one of whom was trying not to show pain inflicted by incredibly-swollen eyeballs, while the other stood stiffly, his legs rigidly set. “I thought you locked that thing! You said you locked the door!”

“I-I was so flustered I must have forgotten! Go get him!” Toothy hunched down lower, her horn glowing lightly.

“You think this is funny, you bastard? My whole body is insufferably stiff. My WHOLE body. I’m gonna teach you- UGH!” The stiffened stallion got only that far before he was viciously smashed on the back of the head with a metal decoration, just enough to knock him out. The same happened to his big-eyed compatriot, leaving them both down for the time being.

“Hope I didn’t alarm you.” Toothy got up from behind the desk and walked towards Bataud, who was searching through his pack. “He locked his office but I have the key. You’ve got one chance to get to him, and maybe not even that.”

“Oh no, I’ve got more than one chance. Unlock the door.” He hid something in his hoof and set himself before the imposing double doors to the mayor’s office. The key levitated slowly into the hole, quietly, as to give no indication that it was being inserted. All of a sudden it turned, the lock clicking and the doors shoving inward.

The doors opening revealed a scene of chaos. The decorations had been toppled and arranged into what looked to be makeshift barriers between the door and the desk. Streamford was behind the desk, fumbling with something beneath. He popped his head up with a look of obvious shock, which changed to narrow-eyed anger. “You! What have you done? My town! My perfect town.” He brought up a complicated device of pipes and tubes, with a large gas cylinder attached to a blocky section. The device in view, he swiftly locked it do the plate on his desk.

“Did you think I did this without a plan!” Bataud showed off what was in his hoof. A conically-tipped piece of lead, with a long body that flared slightly at the base. And he ran as he showed, hampered by using only three legs but powering forward in any case.

“What?!” Using his horn Streamford lifted two hooks and opened the side of the blocky portion of the device. There, he saw an identical object, properly placed and ready for use. “You second-hoof…”

The delay had been sufficient. Bataud tossed the projectile, striking Streamford in the eye with the blunt end and following through with a vicious shove from his front right hoof, his rear hooves bucking out to crash into the machine. It flew off the anchoring plate in a shower of metal fragments and a cloudy hiss of escaping gas from the ruptured connecting tubes. “Just stay down and shut up for once.”

“My eye! Second-hoofing parasite! Altruist! Giver! Asexualist!” Streamford held a hoof over his eye, which had a thin trickle of blood running from it. He was writhing on the ground beneath the body of his attacker, horn wavering in its glow, unable to get a focused power burst thanks to the distraction of pain and the attempts at physical escape.

“You only wish those were insults to me. Now shut up. It’s over. As I did in Cereal Acres, I’m doing here.”

Streamford stopped, completely. Not even a little wiggle came from him as his good eye stared disbelievingly at the caramel stallion with the gleaming hair. “Bardacelsius Pomacious. The nanny-stater, the second-hoofer, the giver, the altruist. The true monster of all true objective businessponies. You destroyed the beauty that had been Grain Gulch. Dry Gulch became a bitless wretch because of you, all his assets stolen by the state. All thanks to you.”

Bataud brought his head in close, staring with an unwavering gaze into that one good eye. “And don’t think you will get away one bit better…”

“Just like you said, the water in your bathtub cleared up the Civic Pride ponies.” Hours later, following much confusion and chaos, things were settling down. Steady grind was having a conversation with Bataud, who was drying his clothing over a fire. “We’ve got them in manacles and horn-caps. We’re just waiting on the pegasi we sent out to the nearest community to send some higher-end constables for transport to a bigger prison.”

“And what about the mayor?” Bataud touched the jacket, nodding slowly. Nearly done.

“The FORMER mayor is manacled, capped, blindfolded and restrained in a cell. We’re sending him to a royal tribunal for all the serious violations around here. Turns out you were right. He was importing laundry and manufacturing projects from other areas and using poor ponies to do it. He paid them what HE said their work was worth, and docked pay for essentials. They needed the money and employment and were always “strongly encouraged” to never leave. Even when they made enough to get out of that place, they only made money as employees of Grade when they were working, timed down to the very minute, with punishments for intentional delays. No work, no pay. And if you didn’t project the aura of a happy town citizen…”

“A prison without bars, and slaves without chains.” Bataud slipped his clothing off the drying bar one piece at a time, getting each piece fully on and closed before putting on the next layer. “Seems like everything is fine here. Oh! Did you happen to find miss Rosemary out there?”

“Broke her out of the laundry facility. She was apparently put in there for failure to properly perform her duties, though she didn’t say much more than that. Says that she is rather interested in seeing you, to thank you.”

Bataud shouldered his pack and gave a long stretch. “Please extend my apologies. Tell her that our business is concluded. She can keep what was given, but I have opted not to stay.”

The chief nodded slowly, not understanding at all but determined to pass the word along. “So, just going to head off?”

“I have places to go. I actually made a detour I thought would be permanent. That was not the case.”

“It was a pleasure having you here. If you ever feel the need for a vacation, Cherrywood Acres is always here for you.” Chief Grind nodded politely and turned back towards the town.

Bataud extinguished the fire and directed his hooves in another direction entirely. With an even pace and a few long stops along the way he’d make it to Canterlot just in time for the Grand Galloping Gala. If he was very fortunate he might even be able to sneak into the thing. It could just be his lucky night.

The End

Apple Shrugged

A/N: Any non-divided italicized portions within the texts can be considered to be either a reference to something else or a direct quote, modified for Equestrian usage.

“The moon’s my constant mistress/ And the lowly owl my morrow/ The flaming drake and the nightcrow make/ Me music to my sorrow.”* Bad Apple sang cheerfully as he strolled along the path north of most of the regular habitations of Equestria. He was high in the northern latitudes of the land, along a similar line, if slightly higher, than the city of Stalliongrad. There wasn’t much up there, to be sure. Barely any maps listed it, and the rivers had their headwaters near the area. The mystery, the blankness, it all drew the adventure-seeking pony. Surely no space in Equestria could be truly a void. “Still I sing bonnie…” The song ended abruptly as he saw something… The sky was darker than it should have been, and it smelled strongly of sulfurous smoke. That wasn’t right. There was no general indication of heavy industry. He would have known about it. He was near some mountains, however, and that reminded him of the accursed book. A blank northern nothing fitted with improbable heavy industry by the mountains. It was good enough to draw him on.

The path seemed to vanish, yet still continued, a cunning attempt at hiding a hoof-path opened up like a dissected figure before his canny eyes. It was in no sense a main heavy-product artery to wherever it terminated; most likely he had located a secondary entrance that was meant to be walked by those leaving the main terminus for whatever they may need. It would be far less conspicuous than drawing attention to the heavy goods path. Mountains, a hidden path, and the stink of unregulated industry. The nightmare had at last come true. Some madpony had finally done the unthinkable. And he was there to find it, as he always knew he would be.

The path wended its way between slowly-increasing mountains. The imposing rises of stone would have intimidated the average pony, but he always expected just such a thing. He was prepared for the surroundings. The end of the path spilled out at the top of an overlook. He looked down on a scene that had never existed before, save in his nightmares and in the pages of books that he had assumed were merely nightmares pulped and bound. A sprawling industrial complex of smoke-belching factories, a honeycomb of mines, squat gray residences, a small line of walled compounds looking like manors, and a gargantuan skyscraper stabbing into the sky, though still protected from view by the surrounding mountains. He couldn’t see everything but could well guess what he was missing, likely a major rail depot somewhere behind some of the further mountains and an airfield in a similar location.

Bad Apple made his way slowly down the trail from the overlook. It appeared to lead down to the front of the gargantuan valley, near the large factories. As he went he took a hooded bluish cloak from his pack and put it on. He slid the hood up and checked his field of vision, ensuring it was still somewhat broad. He’d need to see every last detail.

At the bottom of the trail he was met with the looming sight of a tremendous stone edifice. He had seen them before, of course. Such things were perched comfortably and harmoniously well outside of places such as Fillydelphia, Las Pegasus, Chicacolt, even Manehattan. Cloudsdale was practically built around those made of cloud. It was a huge example of an industrial center, some kind of fabrication plant or possibly an ore processing center. The place looked pretty imposing, with barred windows, where they could be found, and warning signs indicating the requirement that employees remain productive at all times. But as well, there was a single sign of a Deco-styled unicorn in silhouette, joined by the words, “A pony chooses; a slave obeys.”

He approached one of the side doors, which was marked as a delivery area. Using the metal wires in his black lace he picked the lock on it and gingerly opened it up, sliding inside with a glance around the area.
Immediately the air was filled with an industrial tumult, rhythmic thuds and clangs echoing around the place while machinery chugged away and various kinds of whistles screeched out on their own schedules. He had emerged into a small loading area, for the delivery of smaller materials. There was a small corridor that led into the facility as well as a ladder that went upwards towards what looked like a catwalk or scaffolding which ran above the whole lower level of the complex. He chose to climb the ladder, smoothly traversing what would, for most ponies, be a challenging bit of equipment.

At the top of the ladder was a service tunnel, probably for the examination of things from above and maintenance of anything that might be placed high in the complex. It was made of concrete, about the width of the average pony, very dark, with only a faint glowing from around a dogleg deep inside giving any indication of features. He did not hesitate a moment but dived into the musty passage, which was almost chokingly thick with the unfettered sulfurous stink of unrestrained and unfiltered industrial production exhaust.

The walls of the passage were rough, as were the ceiling and ground, allowing for a better grip, but meaning that the cloak he wore took a good amount of friction, scraping its threads to a slight fraying before he wiggled past the dogleg and crawled the short distance out into the hazy light of the upper factory walkway. There the tumult intensified to an almost deafening level, as though trying to make up for the lack of light by filling the atmosphere with noise.

It was, indeed, a large fabrication facility. The specific products were impossible to see if, indeed, only one thing was being manufactured. Given the sprawl of the place there could been any number of production lines being created at once. Light was delivered by small windows and smaller electric lights, as well as the glow from machines and some spots of redder illumination that were almost certainly molten or semi-molten metal being passed through the fabricators. Working at those devices were ponies of all colors, and of both genders. Distressingly, there were also fillies and colts in evidence, performing the exact same tasks as the adults. It may have been a trick of the light, or perhaps a strange quirk of probability, but there seemed to be no variation in the composition of the workforce. It was all earth ponies, not a Pegasus or unicorn to be found.

That thought turned into a memory. All the more elite types had been unicorns, from Dry Gulch to Streamford Grade and on. There were highly-placed pegasi, and some inner-circle earth ponies with especially useful skills. But the echelons of this thing were very stratified by pony race. With zero inclusion of non-ponies. He had absorbed some kind of indication that might be the case from what he had read, but here it was so blatant and pure, it was disgusting. But he should have expected it. He’d seen signs on the path to this place.

“Ugh!” The light pink unicorn mare with a flaming red mane thrashed about beneath the pony that had tackled her, attempting to activate her magic. An iron horn cap slapped down over the offending appendage, secured around her head by deft hooves. “Release me! Get off of me this instant!”

“I think you’ve had quite enough ‘release’ and ‘getting off’ for one lifetime… wow. She’s really rubbing off on me… and there’s another one.” The caramel earth stallion mused lightly as he began to clamp manacles onto the squirming mare. “In any case, as I said a while back, Nightwatch-supported warrant server number 7777 executing a Canterlot-backed arrest warrant for one Morning Star d’Venus. You’re my month’s expenses, and then some.”

“Imagine! The very idea. A strong, handsome stallion like yourself, impeccably styled and so suave and debonair…” Morning licked her lips and winked. “And what do you do with your skills? You arrest innocent mares on false charges! Oh my… unless this is an elaborate game. I must say… I admire your spirit, my handsome buck. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been zebra-painted, have you? Maybe put some feathers in your mane and grunt as I’ve heard the buffs do?”

The manacles were cinched on extra tight, effectively hobbling the haughty unicorn and making her cry out lightly- though with enough delight in there to make it an uncomfortable Pyrrhic victory. “I won’t give you the respect of explaining why that is deeply offensive to me and my family, or why that is just deeply offensive to zebras and buffalos. You, miss Morning Star are going to the dungeons. And if my rumor senses are right, I know one very royal mare that will be glad to see you behind bars.”

“Don’t talk out of your place, peasant!” Morning turned from seductive to petulant in a flash, thrashing in her restriction. “I don’t care if you have a warrant from Canterlot, you’re nothing but a lowly, disgusting peasant. And while I may take all the pleasure I can from you, you’re unworthy to even THINK about courtly matters. I’d spit on you for your insolence if I didn’t think you were unworthy of my noble unicorn saliva!”

“There’s power in a peasant, or rather, a union. Don’t you remember the last time nobles thought they were some better breed, above their lowly peasants, and set so high they could keep the common ponies from Princess Celestia? The ponies of that region of Percheron certainly didn’t enjoy their rulers. The superiority you claim in nobility didn’t last long in those tumbrels, brought to the artful machines designed to sever those nobles from their ridiculous notions and bring the citizenry back into contact and concordance with Canterlot.” Bad Apple grinned broadly and stood up, to watch the helpless mare squirm.

“To think, they lost to a mongrel rabble. They! Unicorns…” Morning muttered angrily to herself with a shake of her head.

“This isn’t Unicornia, and you’re hardly Princess Platinum. Take that unicorn supremacy and stuff it where it belongs, caput catso… she’s really got a hold on me. But that’s a good sign.”

“You and your simple-minded foolishness. It’s not unicorn superiority as you so basely suppose it. It is understanding that unicorns, who manipulate mighty, mystic forces, are more deeply in tune with the universe and open to more cryptic messages and hints, leading to greater intelligence over all. It only means no superior earth pony or superior Pegasus pony will ever be AS superior as a superior unicorn. That’s just the fact of the matter.”

“Keep on telling yourself that while you rot in the dungeons. And not the fun kind you imagine, more like the ones I had to break into. A dank hole with no sunlight is too good for you but compassion is the name of the game in Canterlot.”

Morning’s reply, thick with smug superiority, chilled her arrester to the bone. “That’s why Any Random condemns your second-hoofed parasite morality, and why Vault’s Vale will rule all.”

He was seeing the price of that attitude. Each slaving pony below was an earth pony. And he knew the sorts that listened to the book morals of his ultimate prize thought nothing of putting foals through the wringer of industrial machinery to squeeze every last bit of usable work out of the population. He was staring into the mouth of unstated supremacy, as earth ponies toiled for Pegasus taskmasters under unicorn overlords. It spurred him on, making him take a camera out of his bag. He snapped photos of the working ponies, especially the foals.

In the middle of taking the shots he heard a shriek of agony and dragged the viewfinder over to the source. It was one of the large stamping devices which continued to pound away as machines were wont to do; to the side there writhed an earth pony mare, screaming and holding up a bleeding leg which had been severely crushed in the pressing jaws of it. That deserved a photograph.

Like magic, there were three pegasi on the scene, having their images captured on film for posterity. There wasn’t much in the way of compassion or help for the fallen mare. There seemed to be a great number of admonitions, inducements to return to work, and, finally, the press-ganging of several surrounding ponies into removing the injured mare from the floor. Immediately, her station was taken up by another pony. It was certainly all ‘go’ in the factory. But from what he knew of the place and its intentions, that was hardly a surprise.

With enough pictures, Bad Apple tucked the camera back in his bag and skulked on through the high walkways, headed for a door he could just see at the end. If there was any sense to the place, that door would lead to the roof and to a way to get down to the ground.

As he had suspected, the door exited onto a narrow walkway just below the roof, which wound around the facility, with several ladders attached to the side to allow for easy egress. He took one of those, carefully. The entire place had been built by the lowest bidder with effectively nothing in the way of competition, ensuring the invisible hoof would never come to punish wrongdoing and corner-cutting. Despite that, his hooves finally touched the ground, leaving him in a sheltered spot between the factory and the mountain, still within the factory complexes.

The way into the central living hub, which he had observed from the overlook, was littered with crates and debris, save in places where large transport needed to go. If he dodged around and avoided the direct path, he could make it without observation. A circuitous route through the equivalents of alleys and ducking behind things would take him in the right direction.

The external features of the factories were bland and ordinary. They were perfectly designed, of course, created with an eye to the deco touches with which all his most truculent enemies had favored. But there was hardly anything beyond that. Individual boxes of differently-designed gray stone with few windows and zero indications of what was within. Only at ground level was there anything resembling true individuation. There were riveted metal signs admonishing workers to work hard, not get hurt and not complain. And spread out, frequently, was the poster from before. A unicorn silhouette, deco design, and the blaring words, “A pony chooses; a slave obeys.”

The housing was probably provided as a part of the employment. The most mocking imitation of largesse that could be conceived by the pony mind. It was not a gift. It cost each worker dearly. They had to toil a minimum amount just to afford their little room. Likely, the same could be said for the food they ate and many other things, if they were not paid in some other fashion. They probably never saw bits. He had seen if before.

“Gorge Pullpony.” He had stopped shouting a long time ago, after he knew the arrogant old stallion had heard him. The third dodged bit of debris had told him that. Not bad in the driving rain. “Cease and desist attempting to escape from a duly-authorized server of a Canterlot-backed warrant. I know you saw my badge, Pullpony. You know it’s over.”

“N-no! It’s not over yet! It’s not over! Pucertonnes! PUCERTONNES! Curse your Pegasus hides! I hired you for things like this! Drop something! Attack something! DO SOMETHING!” The slightly-older pale pink unicorn stallion with a graying mane stumbled through the muddy streets of a town that looked like a plywood Appleoosa. His black suit was torn and dirty, and his top hat was barely hanging together on his head. “DO SOMETHING!”

“Your Pucertonnes folded like a rookie player with a hoofful of nothing. One look at my badge and a glance to the warrant and they were on the floor, begging for protection from prosecution. They’ll be singing your dirge once the constables unlock the manacles and put them in the royal pokey. They’ll gladly take all the years they’ll get for confessing to what they did for you and this… what did you call this little slice of Badlands?”

“It’s called a Company Town you mendaciously malefic simpleton! Don’t play at ignorance, it is a simple term. And it is BEAUTIFUL! Imagine it, a unicorn of vision and mastery forging a town by strength and foresight, populating it with eager workers and making it its own self-sustaining and wonderfully productive location!”

“More like mocking a town with thrift and miserliness. The cheapest materials to house the most desperate ponies you could find, slaving away in abject misery for this worthless toilet paper you call scrip!” Bad Apple extracted a sodden mass of paper, throwing it at Gorge’s form. It landed with a wet, pathetic thud in the muddy street.

“That scrip is fully, duly authorized and acceptable legal tender in all locations throughout Pullponyston! It is as good as and better than those nanny-state-backed bits you altruistic, second-hooving takers and parasites use! It is tied to our WORK! Work and might!”

“Thing about a bit is…” Bad Apple pulled a bit from his pouch and flicked it into the air. “If I make a bit, find a bit, borrow a bit, get a bit, I can take that bit from wherever I worked, searched, borrowed or asked, and go to any point in all of Equestria and any bank in the Griffon or Zebra lands.” The bit came down and was deftly caught in the air. “And guess what, Pullpony? That bit spends exactly the same. It turns into candy, hay, shillings, zebraks, what have you. Exactly the same.” The bit was flipped again, with a wicked flick and painfully accurate aim right at Gorge’s face, pinging off his horn hard enough to knock back his head and draw out a cry. “Your chamber-pot-scrubbing funny money is worth just barely the paper it’s printed on one hoof step outside of this little prison.”

“How dare you..!?” Gorge suddenly realized the plan when the iron cap clapped down over his aching horn. Distracted and angered he had been hornswoggled. The manacles were already locking over his legs. “You’re no constable. You’re nothing but a bounty hunter. Why would you serve the state?”

“I’ve been a constable. I served the state impersonally and VERY personally. Why?” The manacles were secured, and Gorged was dragged along the muddy streets. “Because I live in the state. And I’d rather my neighbor serve the state as much as I do so it will still be there when I inevitably need it. And make no mistake, Pullpony, soon or late, everypony needs the state.”

“Needs it, yes…” Gorge slumped, going limp and looking up into the pouring rain. “But in our new world, in the wonderful Vault’s Vale, it will not exist. Separating the truly masterful from the takers. If they cannot surpass, they will be surpassed…”

Leaving the factory complex was easy enough. There was no gate or wall. Just a simple but implicitly sharply-defined line that meant the complex ended and the residences began. It looked, at least, like an ultramodern city, like Fillydelphia or Manehattan. The residences were high and clean, brick and mortar and stone. The sidewalks were concrete and the roads asphalt. It was a whole city of workers, lifted up out of a metropolitan area and planted down in the middle of the mad vale. It even had a central hub, where all the roads met. And in that center, as it had been in Cherrywood Acres, a giant statue of the unburdened Trotlas of Hipposian lore, glaring arrogantly down on the town, back to the grand skyscraper, facing down the factories. Trotlas was watching.

The citizenry wandered through the setting in the most defeated way possible. As at the factory, mostly earth ponies, with the occasional pegasus that had, apparently, been demoted to the status of the earth ponies. It was unusual that any were around at all. All of them were supposed to be at work. The sudden realization of the cause of it all came when Bad Apple saw a pony wearing a bandage on his leg. They looked defeated because they were. In the world of the Vale, they were the walking dead. Nopony was allowed to give them anything and none was allowed to help them. They would slowly starve and die if they could not go back to work.

A sign caught his eye, pasted on a building. It was that accursed unicorn again. Slaves and ponies. More like masters and slaves. It was too much to bear. There were doubtlessly Pegasus enforcers somewhere in the area to quash anything that even smelled of defiance. The thought sent him leaping to the base of Trotlas, hood up on his cloak and forelimbs spread out wide in perfect conpony sweep, the quacksalver special for drawing every eye and turning every head.

“Friends and Equusians I’m your brother, just scratching to hang on, but this pursuit of worthless scrip is just a riverboatman’s con! When some expired spinach mash can change your point of view… well, I may not look it but I have been you. As these masters of the slaves destroy your hopes and dreams inside these cellblock mountains by any given means, you give up on each other as the way to get ahead according to an old mare, just more lies you were fed! Come on you can still reach for the moon and stars! Break out of these company town prison bars!”**

His tongue was as limber as ever, tripping the light fantastic through a pat declaration of solidarity and encouragement. It wasn’t FULLY extemporaneous; he had been considering it since Pullponyston. But some elements of the surroundings had been integrated, and the whole thing was given a beat, a cadence to get ponies to notice. It had worked for the conponies that had nearly cheated his family. He had taught them a valuable lesson when he caught them.

He had drawn an audience, exactly as intended, all the injured ponies slowly trotting up, looking around with great fear. Presumably, even looking at such a transgress figure as himself would be tantamount to disloyalty to the vale. And the disloyal would presumably fare even worse than the injured, weak and sick.

It was truly amazing, how quickly the response came down. The crowd of injured parted with small cries of fear, scrambling into the buildings as the sky was suddenly invaded with a number of pegasi, wearing sharp suits and sunglasses. Unlike Streamford’s enforcers they were of various colors, of both genders, and lacked earpieces. That was ideal. No communication meant slower spread of the alarm.

“Fillies and gentlecolts! Gather ye ‘round, fillies and gentlecolts, and hearken to my words! I see I have an audience, and quite the fancy audience at that! Now now, I don’t discriminate. I am quite happy to talk to the fancy as well as the plain. Roll up, folks and let’s have a chat.”

“Are you stupid or are you just one crazy bucker? Just where did you come from and where do you get off standing here in the middle of this peaceful street yelling your drivel?” A particularly unfriendly-looking red stallion flapped down close to Bad Apple, practically bumping muzzles with him. “You know where you are, don’t you?”

“Well, of course. What do I look like, a Randomoid? I can be aware of my surroundings and act appropriately. That’s exactly why I was down here under the statue of Trotlas calling out the garbage I see when I’m in here. Have you got a problem with my empowered and surpassing will and free speech backed by my powerful mind?” Bad Apple smiled behind his cloak, face still well-hidden. His whole body was well-concealed, in fact, his attire hidden and body by and large disguised.

“Oh you bucking bastard! Just who the hay do you think you are to talk to us like that? Think you’re something, do you? Got that smart mouth on you and a big brain, do ya? You’re still just an earth pony! And even if you have wings under that cloak you’re not better than me. You’re coming with us, stranger!” The other pegasi started to draw in, while the lead reached for Bad Apple.

“’Under’? Not at all. But made of… you might say that.” Bad Apple smiled brightly and tapped hard on the neck of the cloak, breaking a fragile gem and releasing a flash of magic. Instantly the cloak broke apart into a fluttering, surprising cloud of bats that immediately set upon the pegasi interrupting their escape.

With all the pegasi distracted Bad Apple was free to make a run for it, dashing across the square and into one of the housing blocks, his exposed form drawing a dull flash of recognition from one of the pegasi, who lost the pony as she fought off one of the bats repeatedly flying into her face.

The housing block interior was a gilded lily, or more accurately, a polished horse apple. The large lobby-like room inside the entrance had polished marble floors with deco design flourishes, which extended into the metalwork, with geometrical patterns and designs up the walls and even onto the ceilings. The main lobby area split off into three directions, left, right and forward, each path passing doors and ending in small elevator lobbies.

With no good notion of what to do, and in need of a quick exit, Bad Apple dashed to the left and punched the elevator button. It was a very old style of elevator, showing the ossified adoration for the somewhat-disgraced deco design aesthetic. The gate certainly showed a desire for that. It slid across with a rattling clatter and showed off a carpeted interior, carved and polished wooden walls and a decorative ceiling grille. He punched one of the buttons at random and shook his head. This wasn’t how things happened the last time one of those Randomoids became anyhow entangled in the housing of non-elite ponies.

“Damn you!” The body hit the ground, rolling slightly with some clattering of hooves on the polished marble floors. “Stand still and let me end you!” The red unicorn mare attempted to light her horn but found herself unable, for some reason. “What have you done to me?! You miserable second-hoofing wretch!”

“Better a second-hoofer than a murderer. I wish I could say I took your powers away forever. But it’s only temporary. It will last long enough. You may have bought the local constables, but the corruption has been exposed. They’re not going to support you when the outsiders come in to arrest them. You’re going to prison. Forever. Probably the Canterlot dungeons. Never been there, probably never will be. That city is big and dangerous for innocent hucksters like me.” Bad Apple quickly tied a rope around the mare’s leg and then attached it to a heavy wooden table.

“Altruistic scum! Monster! You monster! You’re working for them! For the sneak thieves and hoofpads sitting in their dull-witted offices stealing bits out of my pouches and throwing them into the gluttonous maw of the idiot-class! To fund, of all things, a perversion of architecture stuffed to the gills with poor louts, and donkeys and mules besides..!”

Bad Apple fell upon the mare, hoof held up and trembling, caught in a moral quandary about striking the subdued prisoner. “You… I don’t work for the constables or the state. I serve the state of my own free will, not for the lure of taxed bits. I do it on my own time and my own cost. But that doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t matter if I was a fully-paid agent of Celestia herself, salaried exclusively with bits taken physically from the pouches of the hereditary peers at weapon point. I’d still be above you. I didn’t callously plant fireworks under cover of night and detonate them in such a way as to destroy a housing block while it was full! They all died! Every last one of them..!”

The opening of the door would not have been sufficient to break the reverie of reminiscence, had it not allowed into the elevator box the sound of whimpering and dominating grunting, together with the hard, steady thump and squeak of old bedsprings. And most jarring of all, the weepy repetition of, “No, no, please, no.”

Not far from the open elevator was a door, laying slightly ajar. Just inside the door was revealed the conditions of the living quarters for workers. There was the same over-wrought style within, and bare furniture packed into a small space, with a single small bed occupied by two figures. Lying on the bed was a yellow unicorn mare, surely not one of the more dominating ones, tearfully thrashing beneath a big body. She seemed to have only one leg remaining, a rear one that kicked uselessly at a muscular umber Pegasus, his wings spread dominantly. One particularly well-aimed kick jostled one wing, prompting him to cuff the mare hard across the face, drawing forth more sobs and yelps.

“Shut up!” The Pegasus hissed, face leaned close to the mare. “How dare you do that! I am a powerful mind and will, like Renard Hick. Just like him, I don’t hold regard for what society holds sacred, and have a consciousness all my own. I don’t realize and feel ‘other ponies’, don’t see them as existing for me, and I don’t know why they should.”*** The squeaking resumed while the unicorn sobbed anew, though without fighting any longer.

There were only a few more squeaks, before a heavy thud sounded around the room and the pegasus fell heavily upon the victimized unicorn, filling her field of vision and causing her helpless body to squirm around wildly, her single leg kicking desperately out at random. “What’s happening?! What’s happening?!”

There were a few pulls and jerks of the unconscious body, the heavy lug thudding heavily to the floor. His removal revealed a large, bleeding gash on the back of his head, and Bad Apple, looking down on the unconscious pony with burning contempt. The caramel stallion gave the unconscious stallion a further kick in the side. “May I have some of your bedclothes?”

“My… my what? Who are you?” The yellow unicorn pulled her body up a best as she could, using her single leg to cover the lower part of her body as best she could.

“Sorry. I need a sheet or something similar. He’s not dead. And I’m not willing to just kill the stupid oaf. He needs to be put on trial and shoved in a dank cage for the rest of his life. So I need to tie him, gag him, and shove him somewhere until somepony official comes along to get him for that. Don’t worry, I’ll move you to a different place. I only wish I could help you recover.”

The mare looked at Bad Apple disbelievingly, as though he had just started speaking Zebrian to her. His concepts almost seemed impossible. Eventually, however, she pulled the sheet out from under her with her magic and shivered. “P-please… just… get rid of him. I don’t think you’ll ever get him in a cell. But I want him tied up and thrown away somewhere…”

“Don’t count me out yet. I’ve put bigger monsters than him inside a jail cell. It just takes time and a slippery scoundrel to outflank them.” Bad Apple carefully tore the sheet into strips, twining them together into strong ropes and using them to securely binds the legs of the knocked-out Pegasus and double-silencing him, cloth placed in with mouth and tied in there, his muzzle then tied securely closed. “Any objection to me storing him under your bed? I can take you to any other room you might like.”

“Stuff him there. Jam him in there, and I hope he rots.” The mare spit onto the bound body, glaring daggers at him.

“I like your style. You’ve got some fire in you.” Bad Apple smiled as he unceremoniously shoved the Pegasus under the bed, shoving him hard with a lower hoof. “Don’t worry about somepony being home. I can… finesse the lock. I’m sure they won’t mind you sharing their space. It won’t even be for that long.”

“N-no, no… I can’t. Sharing is forbidden. I’d be punished. And they would too. Crewelwork and Forlorn Hope do not mess around with lawbreakers.”

“I’ve read the books. I know all the rubbish rules. That’s not going to happen. I promise you, nopony will have a chance to punish you.” Bad Apple trotted close to the bed, offering his back to the unicorn for transportation. “What’s your name?”

“My name is Sun Fire.” She writhed and wiggled on the bed, pushing as best she could and using her magic to move the mattress around and work herself onto Bad Apple’s back. “What’s your name?”

“Udan Ibai.” Bad Apple responded, slowly walking his way through the door and closing it securely. “Just to keep things looking normal. Just pick a door.”

“No need to worry. Use the one on the right. They don’t let us have locks on the door. It makes it easier to enforce the rules that they had us agree to under contract.”

“Figures. I told you. I read the books.” He opened the door to show off an entirely identical room, save it looked completely uninhabited. “If I may ask, about your legs…”

“I was a low-level manager at one of the fabrication plants. I was completely inappropriate for the job but I did it anyhow, doing nothing but making mistakes that were blamed on the workers. All because I was a unicorn. Then there was an accident caused by shoddy standards and my own incompetence. I tried to help the workers, but there was just so much debris and burning metal… They punished me with the loss of status, after I fixed my own limbs. If I had left them all to die, I would have been given a slap on the hoof.” Sun slumped on Bad Apple’s back, her body shivering.

“You’re going to go far. Never doubt it.” Bad Apple gently moved Sun over to the bed and gave her a nod. “It was a good thing you did. The right thing you did.”

“I know. It was. That’s why they threw me in here to die.” Sun flopped over onto her side, looking at the wall.

Bad Apple looked back at Sun once, then slowly left the room, closing the door behind him. He made a dash for the elevator and hit the button for the ground floor. The pegasi would be looking or him, but they would have spread their numbers out. And he had plenty of ways to evade the numbskulls peeking in windows and lifting up flowerpots.

Back outside the building, he was right about his presumption. The pegasi were desperately searching external spaces, in reduced numbers, likely meaning the others were inside the buildings. Once more, Bad Apple’s famous luck had let him miss the ones searching the building, if they had even entered the one had had entered.

It was only a small matter of waiting for observation to be shifted away, and he was off, towards the line of high walls protecting the manors meant to hold the mighty ones, the rulers of the complex. His hate blinded him to the approach of a pegasus, who threw him against the wall of an alley, and lifted the back of his coat to get a better look at a his Cutie Mark. “It’s you. Bataud Carp!” The voice was clearly female, a combination of anger and disbelief.

“Cherrywood Acres. Somepony remembered. Not a Civic Prider. No mares in there. And besides, they’re never getting out of prison, not by any means.” Bad Apple showed no fear, and denied nothing. He accepted the hard press against the wall of the alley. He knew the danger always existed. “I’m amazed anypony remembers. Chief Grind rounded up everypony. He was a trusty old lawstallion. Bare barrow indeed. But… best get it over with. What will it be? Neck break? Dropping from a height? Stabbing?”

“You’re not getting off that easily.” The figure turned Bad Apple around and revealed herself. She was light blue, with a leafy green mane, a small collection of greenery and flowers on her flanks. “You could have had the decency to say goodbye to my face. I know you waved me off. Tell me why. Not into pegasi? Was I not pretty enough? A Colt Cuddler?”

“None of the above. And easy on Colt Cuddlers. I’m a close, personal nearly-friend with two. It’s good to see you again, Rosemary. I just had to be on my way. It was better to cut down on the awkwardness. I told you when I was there. I wanted something like that to be organic, not a business transaction.” Bad Apple did a good job of keeping the surprise out of his eyes as he looked over the mare he had not seen in years. “I must admit, I’m surprised. After suffering under the likes of Streamford, you’re in the heart of the madmare that inspired him. Did you twist your psychology to want to be like him?”

“Never! That bastard stole part of my life. All our lives. I’m here for the exact opposite reason. I came here to find some way to undermine the place, destroy it, destabilize it, something. Something that would make a difference.”

“I admire your spirit, but doubt it would be that effective. How long have you been here?”

“A few months now. I happened to meet somepony who knew what happened at Cherrywood so I played up my outrage at the arrest. Turns out they were recruiting pegasi as enforcers. I told a little fib about studying with the Civic Pride ponies. Guess they didn’t know it was all male. I could spout all the garbage from memory, and that was what mattered. I’ve actually got access privileges to the main facility. Nothing too big but it’s something. I’m guessing there’s better evidence in the floors above forty. It looks like offices and drone tasks below that.”

Bad Apple considered Rosemary for a while, stroking his chin with a hoof. “I need to get in there. I’m gathering up my own evidence. I don’t mind getting caught but I just need to get there first.”

“I could get you to the skyscraper and give you my access pendant. It seems like the least I could do, though given security and all that you’ll find in there, it seems more like I’m condemning you to death.”

“I don’t fall that easily, as you probably noticed. I’ve got all I need to get the evidence out of there and into the right hooves. I just need a chance to bring this place down. It’s been a nightmare in my skull for a long time. I didn’t actually think it would exist. Now that I know it does, time to make it a memory again.”

Rosemary nodded and offered her back. “I’ll do it then. Hop on, lie low and keep quiet.” She waited until she felt the pressure on her back, then launched herself up and out of the alley, streaking towards the giant spire of metal and glass in the not-considerable distance.

Bad Apple looked down, watching the depressing grayness give way to magically-maintained fields and grand manors packed close together. “Serfdom, revived. I pity the earth ponies maintaining the gluttony of the ponies in those places.” He then looked to the back of Rosemary’s head. “So tell me… what brought on this crazy scheme? This is pretty dangerous.”

She was silent for a time, finally saying, in almost a whisper, “Shame.”

“Shame?”

“Shame!” Her flight wavered as she was overtaken with a tremble of anger. “I gave in to Streamford without a question. I rolled over and took it when I could have done SOMETHING.“Another quiver ran through her soaring form. “I drank for a while. Considered… what my reflection was like in a knife. But I finally figured out I wanted to do one good deed before I died. I remembered a scoundrel coming into town and respecting me, and saving my life. I followed your example. I’d say I was riding your coattails if you wore them.” A nervous chuckle broke the heavy emotions, and her flying straightened out.

A short time later, after passing beyond the manors and farms, they alit a short distance away from the shining skyscraper, which looked especially imposing and grand, surrounded as it was by high walls of rock, and as it was the most modern and imposing structure in sight. There were surprisingly few ponies around the area, mostly marching pegasi and a few standing unicorns in white coats in conversation. The lower part of the building, which was stone and steel rather than glass and steel, was marked with warnings about restricted entry, plus two posters. The pony and slave poster, as ever. But also another one, this with three deco-inspired silhouettes, a unicorn, a Pegasus and an earth pony arranged in a triangle, with the unicorn on top. Vague lines formed that figure into the letter A, which had beside it an equals sign, and beside that a repeat of the first complex of images. Beneath it all were the words, “Objective Truth. Ask No Questions.”

“Subtle. Very subtle. Looks straightforward, though. I’ll need a bit of a favor, though.”

“What is it? Not much I can do as far as getting you in there, you’d just be transferred to more loyal, higher-access pegasi. It’s about the only way to get up past floor forty.”

“I need your access pendant, your sunglasses and any information you may have on the more specific content of the things on the accessible floors.” Bad Apple slipped his jacket off and slid it back on over his pack, buttoning it up securely. He then rolled his cuffs back into the sleeves, leaving him appearing to be a Pegasus with a jacket over his wings, and seeming very similar to the security pegasi.

“Papers, cubes and only a couple of labs on thirty-nine and forty. Accounting and planning are on twenty-two and twenty-three. It’s pretty dull. Even the labs are just about railroad tracks and resource gathering.” Rosemary passed over the sunglasses and her pendant, a simple silver globe set with a glowing gem. “How are you going to get things out?”

“I’ve got a plan. And this time, it’s not based on random jokery.” Bad Apple slipped on the sunglasses and placed the pendant’s chain around his neck. At a cursory glance, he looked very much like a proper guard Pegasus.

“It’s gotta be some plan. Well… anything else? You’re heading into a manticore’s den. So I’m probably never seeing you again.” Rosemary looked around, shifting uncomfortably.

Bad Apple gently tapped Rosemary on the cheek, shaking his head a little. “It wasn’t a good start. And as much as I cared, I had to move along. And now… the boat is down the river. I’m sorry… but as for other things, when the pegasi come down, point them in the right direction and tell them, “Moonlight Peace.” They’ll take you in but you’ll get full immunity from everything. Just spill everything.”

“What? What pegasi? What kind of plan are you thinking of here?”

“Just go with it. It’ll all make sense, sooner or later. Just hide out until the time is right.” With a final nod, Bad Apple casually strolled out into the open area in front of the skyscraper, past the knot of unicorns that did not even turn to look at him. He walked straight up to the front, head held mostly erect, and the pendant showing against his chest. The pegasi at the doors looked over, but barely deigned even to notice him as the glass doors were pushed open to give him entrance.

Inside, it was just as deco-styled as anything else, but far better maintained than any of the other examples he had ever seen, from the originals to the bare copies of prior excursions into the hearts of such places. Everything gleamed, all stone and chrome and brass polished up to dazzle the audience with ostentation. The lobby opened up into a wide, airy area, with a huge fountain in the center, topped by the domineering image, not of Trotlas, but a mature unicorn stabbing at the ceiling with her horn, which was wrapped in polished gold.

Around the place were a number of unicorns, some in white coats and some in business suits, with a small sprinkling of pegasi and a lone earth pony. They turned slightly to look at the new arrival then returned to their own activities, ignoring the caramel stallion clopping his way across the stone lobby to the gleaming elevator banks, where he entered pressed the button and sat placidly down to wait.

Inside the elevator the bank of buttons only went up to the fortieth floor, with only the first twenty crystal buttons being lit from behind. Beside the button bank was a small depression, in the shape of the pendant. Touching it to the divot caused the other buttons to light up, allowing Bad Apple to press the button for the twenty-second floor and send the elevator up.

As described, there was a certain dullness and plainness to the floor. The walls were gray-toned and unadorned, the floor was carpeted in a medium-thick pile, and the windows were slightly tinted, letting in muted sunlight, which was enhanced by the internal lights. It was like any other office building in Equestria, a Manehattan or Fillydelphia staple.

Moving around the floor he found a room marked, “Records,” which he entered quickly. Inside was a large, artificially-lit room containing boxes upon boxes, a desk, and a haggard-looking earth pony, with no mane and a purple coat. He looked up with rheumy eyes and asked, in a tired voice, “What is it now?”

Bad Apple motioned with his head, face set in a cold, stony look, enhanced by the sunglasses. “Go eat a peach. I’ll watch over things.”

The watery eyes narrowed a little bit, looking with unfriendly intensity at the black-suited stallion. But the functionary eventually rose and slowly walked out from behind the desk. “Doughnut and coffee. It’s about all that gets me through. Don’t screw it up. I’m not getting fired for you.”

“I’m no fool.” The door clicked shut and Bad Apple was in action. He had taken out the camera again and popped the lid off of boxes labeled with very recent dates, snapping shots of the papers within, especially those with logos and names of companies and individuals, along with shots of the numbers tied to products and services. There were plenty of them, all across the face of Equestria, but nothing too big, the little individual places that thought much of themselves. He recognized a few, having suspected them from his own research. But confirmation always made it far more comfortable.

Before leaving, he slid a few pieces of parchment out from his hidden pack after tucking his camera back. He placed one piece into each box and then set the lids back onto them. That completed, he slipped out of the door and moved back to the elevator area, moving up to floor forty.

The elevator opened into a space that was so different from the last floor that he was almost convinced that he had somehow been teleported into a different building. The floor was bare and polished stone, with a central line of gritty tape. The walls were made of metal painted a brilliant white, which enhanced the overhead lights into a gleaming whiteness. The floor, so far as could be seen, had no windows at all, and there were no decorations at all save more lithographs of both posters seen at the base of the skyscraper.

The place seemed largely empty, the only sounds being the humming of the fluorescent lights and vague sounds of thrumming and dull pounding from within the spaces that probably held the laboratories. The first door he found was unlabeled but looked promising enough, as it was heavily barred and imposing, though the pendant worked in the divot beside it to open it.

Beyond the door was something that looked almost amusingly like a high school science laboratory, with long black composite tables, set up with various tools and pieces of laboratory glassware. Around the edge of the room were cupboards, one set forming a long work surface, and the other set above just to hold extra items. At the far end from the door was a single unicorn in a white coat and hard helmet, with a bulge to keep his horn shielded. He was working with a series of railroad track sections, subjecting them to various blunt impacts, sources of heat, pressures and drilling. A pen was flying fast over a page, writing every single reaction.

Railroad tracks. What a bit of idiocy. Useful, helpful, but not the be-all-end-all of everything. The lesson still had not been learned.

Shank Rearedend violently stuffed papers into his case, a his horn glowing brightly, drawing in forms and plans from all around the room. His green coat was shining with sweat beneath his sharp business suit, his black mane disheveled and all askew.

“Sir! Sir!” The door to the office burst open and slammed shut, leaving the room in the darkness it had been, the only light the glow from the unicorn’s horn. “The shareholders are almost rioting! The workers are striking and clamoring for you! They can’t believe it’s true.”

“No! How did word get out so fast? This is ridiculous! Tell the shareholders the leaks are all lies and as for the workers… handle them.”

“’Handle them’? How am I supposed to do that?”

“HANDLE THEM! I didn’t hire those burly idiots for nothing. I don’t care how badly they are injured, just pacify them. Kill them if you have to but give me the time to escape before things go worse. I just need to get set up elsewhere…”

“Kill them? You’re telling me to order the hired goons to kill the workers so you can get away?”

“What’s making you so squeamish you idiot? You knew what you were getting into when you got here. This is Rearedend Metallurgical! We CRUSH our opposition.”

There was no initial response, just the soft click of the door locking, lost in the crinkling stuff of papers being packed into the case. “I knew plenty well, rear-end. That’s why I came here in the first place. But I was surprised just how far you’d go for a few bits.”

Shank stiffened, turning quickly and looking hatefully on the figure past the glow of the horn. “What? You can’t talk to me like that! Who are you? Show yourself!”

The figure stepped closer, showing off a dark suit and ruffled white shirt, with lace at his throat. His shining mane and caramel coat were impossible to mistake. “It’s me, rear-end sir, your loyal, simpering toady Bradawl Carpus. The one who saw all the papers and so carefully wormed his way into being indispensable. Oh the long game. The glorious long game. Worst month I have ever spent.”

There was a look of surprise on Shank’s face, then a narrowing of his eyes. “What was your game in all this? How does this make you richer? What good is it just to topple me? You’re out of a job you lickspittle grifter!”

“It’s all about bits with you, isn’t it?” Bradawl slowly paced around the room, avoiding getting to close to Shank, shaking his head sadly. “That’s why I was suspicious. A company making one thing? Sure, metal is useful. Lots of places make metals, but usually more than one kind. A proprietary metal? I suppose you can argue for that. But eventually the use would spread wider and if you were the only source if it was really useful there would be an outcry and boycotts. It’s not exactly indispensable.” He paused, drawing in a breath. “And then you tried to make it indispensable by stronglegging out the other metals that could be used for the same purpose. Railroad tracks. It’s about all you can do with this garbage, isn’t it? It’s useless in any other context. It makes one object. And if you use it for that, replace every inch of rail in Equestria, and lay track everywhere it can go… what then you madpony? It ceases to be useful, especially if better transport comes along. You just want to pump out as much as possible, make a ton of money and then let your entire industry collapse into nothingness, putting your workers entirely out of work. And ruin your investors. Even your fellow grasping, greedy fools aren’t safe from your gluttony.”

Shank snorted loudly. “Peasant! Your tiny earth pony mind cannot comprehend the power of my majesty. I created the metal. It’s not my fault that it has only one use, and it’s not my fault if the workers are too stupid to survive after I get my money. It’s my metal. I can sell it for my price and force things out of the market if I so choose. The collapse of the industry is not my fault. I’m grabbing my majesty and getting all of the money I have earned.”

“And screw everypony else?”

“What did they ever do for me? And I have all the bits. What can they do to me?”

“You’re going to wish you had never said that.” Bradawl slunk back to the door and threw it open wide. “He’s here! He’s here! Right in here! Come on! He’s got all the evidence he intentionally intended to destroy the industry and destroy all your investments! He WANTED to spread misery!” With a grin, he ran out of the room, his retreating hooves lost in the gallop of many hooves and the shouts of angry voices…

“You!” Bad Apple snapped to reality with a sharp, crisp cry of command to the unicorn.

“What?! Who?! Oh… what is wrong with you? This is a delicate process! What does security want now? We’re working as hard as we can.”

The caramel stallion trotted forward slowly, approaching in an officially-threatening manner. “I need to take you up to the upper floors. There’s been movements on the Whinny’s Torch project. All the scientists are being called upwards.”

“Already? That old mare is doing too much too quickly. We’re still working on this. Fine, let’s move.” The unicorn removed his helmet and set it on one of the tables.

“Wait! Do you have your upper access pendant? I’m not about to take you up if you’re not even worthy of accessing the upper reaches. Your intellect must be up to the challenge required. You know how it works.”

“Don’t you act so arrogantly, you’re just a Pegasus! Sure, better than a lowly earth pony but I’M a unicorn. Of course I have upper access. Even a doltish Pegasus should know a noble scientist like myself is free to access the- UNGH!” The unicorn crumpled like a piece of paper as the double-hoof buck caught him in the back, sending him into the cupboard and knocking him cold.

“I will have a niece who is a Pegasus. Keep a civil tongue in your unconscious head.” Bad Apple used his efficient capacity for raiding a room to find thick twine to bind up the unicorn and gag him with several rags besides. The scientist was stripped of his coat and pendant, an iron horn cap taken from the pack placed on his head before he was stuffed unceremoniously into a large storage space beneath one of the large tables.

There was a general rearrangement of Bad Apple’s attire, the pack slid around to rest on his belly, so that the coat lay flat on his back. He secured a horn cap onto his own head and then put on the helmet, the iron cap lightly tapping the inside of the horn-protecting space like a real one was there. He left behind the lower guard pendant and sunglasses, walking out of the lab with a smile.

The access pendant worked on the elevator to open a hidden panel revealing buttons that slowly lit up. These buttons went up to seventy and were labeled with a description of the floor. Mostly scientific-sounding things such as metallurgy and chemical research or such things. One of the words stood out among all the buttons, “Munitions.” Several floors were labeled as such. It boded so ill that his hoof was drawn to the button, hitting it and lightly lurching as the elevator rose.

The revealed floor was very similar to the prior floor, very industrial and insulated, with a grip-taped floor and painted metal walls. But there seemed to be more touches to it. There were warnings about stray magic sparks, signs demanding caution, and black and yellow caution tape placed around. As Any Random did not believe in worker safety, the precautions would have to have been direly necessary. It was not shaping up well at all.

He moved along, looking studious and somewhat scatterbrained, just a little bit lost like the average distracted intellectual. He didn’t encounter anypony, but heard some sounds intermittently, small thumps and booms like the distant thud of fireworks. The doors were spaced further apart than the prior floor, and one plaque stood out somehow, “Personal weapons.”

The access pendant opened the door to an empty lab, filled with whiteboards containing mathematical formulae and diagrams of various mechanical systems. Besides the whiteboards were several blueprints, both rolled up and pinned open, showing more mechanical systems and entire weapons. Along one wall was what looked like a water tank, and a table, which held a few weapons. One was a long barrel attached to a ratchet-boxed stock with a plaque on it reading, “Little Smith and Worcestershire long-range projectile-delivery device“. Below it was a much smaller device, a short barrel and cylinder with a hoof-holder below the nine-chambered cylinder, stamped with, “Big Pippe close-range projectile-accelerant device”.

The camera was out as soon as the devices’ uses came into clarity. Photographs were taken of the finished devices as well as the boards and the open blueprints. The photographs taken, a few of the open blueprints were unpinned and tucked into the bag, a piece of parchment extracted from the bag and rolled up to be inserted into one of the rolled prints.

The laboratory was left, with one change. A candle was left behind, burning, with the parchment-stuffed blueprint resting against the edge. Again Bad Apple assumed a casual gait, back to the elevator to move on to another of the “Munitions” floors.

A carbon copy of prior designs greeted him. Bland and repetitive. Surely the droning aesthetic theories of Any Random rebelled at such mundanity. But practicality, as ever, had probably forced a “reconsidering” of matters. As ever. Pragmatism was the real motivation behind the naked egoism and all else was contrived to legitimize the pronouncements that poured forth in torrents onto the page, a misused flood of ink stamped onto pages that could have been put to better use in any other manner.

Dark thoughts swirled in Bad Apple’s head, as he approached a door marked, “In Progress.” The door was not mage-locked, it opened with a simple push. Within was a pair of unicorn stallions in white coats, going over some chemical formulae on a whiteboard. They turned to regard the new arrival but turned back quickly enough. “What is it? We’re busy.”

Thoughts rushed back to the bank of buttons, and the names on the upper tiers. “I’m spreading the word. Floor sixty-two. Meeting about Whinny’s Torch. There’s been movement. At least that’s what I heard from a Pegasus.”

“What are the odds that’s true? Musclehead pegasi are always saying something idiotic or another…” One grumbled.

“Better safe than sorry. That’s a big project. And they need all the heads they have available for it. Are you going to come up?” The other looked curiously at the unfamiliar pony.

“I need to do a few more notices here and the next floor.” The answer was smooth and even, Bad Apple trotting out of the room, rudely letting the door close behind him. He swiftly ducked around a corner in the opposite direction of the elevator, listening for the hoof steps of the scientists as they left the room and trotted away, still arguing some point.

With a stealthy tread Bad Apple returned to the room, armed with the camera once more. He wasn’t even sure what he was shooting, he just shot quickly, stopping only long enough to focus before moving on to the next thing. Only when he was finished getting pictures of everything did he lower the camera and actually look at the presented items.

It was an eclectic mix of proposals and plans. Some seemed to involve annexation of certain lands via shady company dealings and the establishment of de facto company towns, most particularly in the region of Appleoosa and deep in buffalo territory. In addition there were designs of airships and conventional ground transports, but heavily reinforced and equipped with projectile launchers. Included with those were designs for things to be launched and dropped. The detail was frightening, as though it was already real, that such a thing was laying in one of the other labs. A metal shell packed with energetic powder, waiting to destroy from above.

“Is that really your only solution? You’re getting repetitive.” The plans for annexation and weaponry were taken and stuffed into the pack, another parchment removed and scattered in amongst many pieces of paper in a pile.

Another elevator was summoned and boarded, to see about a strange anomaly on the button bank. It sat there, among more descriptive plaques, being very bland and unhelpful. Etched into the metal were simply the words, “Annoyance Counselors.”

The floor was cold. Not merely the temperature, which had a distinct chill from too much air conditioning, but the whole aura. The walls were an unwelcoming gray color tinged with a light dash of sickly green. The floor was a bare sheet of polished plastic, and was chill as the air when any portion of frog touched it. The lighting was low and tinged with yellow, not a single shaft of natural light to be seen anywhere. And there was a scent… a very strange scent that was like heavy disinfectant with a whiff of iron and burned hair.

There did not seem to be much in the way of offices or anything else. There was simply one large area, whose doors opened easily and led to a bare room, painted blindingly while. The lights within were turned up too much, nearly washing out the scene. Near the far end of the room was a single low table, onto which a pony was strapped. He was an earth pony, with a brown coat and a green mane. He was wearing a black vest and black trousers, and struggled hard against the bonds.

A slight squeak halted the struggle and drew Bad Apple’s attention. A small silver cart covered with a white cloth was pushed along by two ponies. Unicorn mares. One was slight and lithe, with unfeeling brown eyes, a dull brown mane and an unforgiving steel gray coat. On her flank was a thick needle trailing thick red thread, which had sewed something that looked like the lacing on a corset. The other was stronger but just as sleek, with a kind of feline grace to her. Her cruel eyes were the rusty color of dried blood, her mane was cut close to her head and matched her coat, a very dark charcoal gray color. On her flank was an equal-armed brown cross, small streams of red coming from the two side arms and bottom portion.

“L-let go of me! How can this even be happening? This is clearly a contract violation and hardly a means of arbitrating a dispute between free ponies on a rational level!” The stallion pulled at the bonds more, head held up to look at the approaching mares.

“Oh Forlorn Hope… isn’t that quaint? He thinks he can reason his way out of the situation. How ridiculous.” The gray mare smiled with mirthless lips and dead gaze. Her voice was low and hollow, like a wasteland lived in her throat.

“Now now, Crewelwork, he has a point. Any teaches us that we must approach rationality and reason, and work between ponies as rational means.” The gray mare grinned in a predatory fashion, eyes shining like a cat toying with a mouse. “But words mean exactly what Any means they mean and not anything else. The contracts specify broad powers to handle dangerous radicals that might upset the working conditions…”

“’Dangerous radicals’? What kind of cop-out idiocy is that? What are you talking about? How in the world am I any kind of dangerous radical?” The stallion struggled and yanked hard, arching his back in a futile attempt to escape his bindings.

“Hill, Joe, laborer in the sheet metal fabrication section in factory three.” Forlorn Hope recited the identity from memory, slowly walking around the pony identified as Joe Hill. “Guardian pegasi brought forth charges of attempts to foment rebellion and discontent, calling for shorter hours, greater rations, payment in bits and a ration of salt.”

“Those are rational and reasonable concerns and necessary items. Scrip is useless outside of the vale, the hours are nearly impossible to maintain continually, starving ponies don’t work well, and salt is a necessary mineral.” Joe laid out on the table, attempting to calm himself, trying to be the rational one.

“Well, we can give you one thing…” Crewelwork whipped a cover off of the cart, showing off a pile of salt beside a number of scalpel blades. “You can have all the salt you could possibly want. Isn’t that great?”

“I don’t think he’s very appreciative. He earned this. It is not being given for nothing, like some second-hoofer altruist. This is an equal exchange, act for item.” Forlorn lifted one of the blades up and slashed over Joe’s body, making him hiss as his vest was cut open. Further cuts slashed at his trousers and vest, cutting them open and eventually mostly off. The cutting of the top revealed a dyed mark over his heart, a small circle of overlapping objects, a hammer, a sickle and a lightning bolt. “Oh my! My oh my… Look Crewel, this explains everything. He’s from Stalliongrad…”

“A generational Przewalskivek. Your ancestors were traitors to ponies and reason. They persecuted Rice Pudding and forced her to take Any Random from the haven of the Boss’ World and broke the perfection of the land. You disgusting monster.” Crewelwork levitated several blades, bringing them down to slash shallowly at the mark, following it with a sprinkling of the salt. “You will suffer. Suffer unimaginably, beyond your capacity to comprehend. And like your cohort John Brown, when you have learned the price of your insolence, you will be put in the ground.”

Forlorn prepared a selection of blades like the claws of some beast, preparing to cut across Joe’s stomach when a click broke her concentration and made her drop the sharp implements with an echoing clatter. She quickly whipped her head around, to find the door slightly ajar. She thought it had been closed. Yet she heard no hoof falls at all. With a shake of her head she picked the blades back up and slowly ran them through the pile of salt. “You will thank us later. You will abandon your idiocy. You will give up your ways and believe in what is right. That is the only fate your kind deserves.”

The elevator rose slowly, Bad Apple shuddering lightly as he fought his own muscles. He was inclined to go back, to help that poor stallion. But the more reasonable part of his brain reminded him that he could do no good dead. There were certain realities he needed to face. But it still tore at his heart to know that he was leaving him to torment. The only small favor was that death would not come quickly, leaving a chance for his release.

He exited on a floor that had been marked as “Aeronautics.” That floor was far more active. There were several milling unicorns and a few pegasi, including a couple of familiar unicorns. “Hey, you! You said that there was a meeting about the Whinny’s Torch project here. Nopony knows anything at all about that.”

“That’s just what I was told. There was a Pegasus down on forty that told me that. He interrupted me in the middle of an experiment on railroad tracks. Next thing I know I’m being sent up the place doing his job. Lazy idiot.”

The unicorns laughed loudly while the pegasi fumed. “Watch it! Fine, one of us is being a lazy mule. Give us a name and we’ll get on him.”

“Do you think I got a name? I was lucky I even got a look at him. He was red, coat and mane, really bad attitude, practically got in my face, tried to get those sunglasses to make him look more angry and imposing than he really was.”

The few pegasi conferred with one another, somewhat puzzled but also with recognition on their faces. “Wait, that guy? He’s security for the housing section. I mean, yea, he has the access for the building but he’s not high enough ranked to know anything about that.”

“Are you telling me he was lying to me? Did I just get taken by some kind of joke?”

“Now wait a minute…” One of the unicorns lifted a hoof and considered. “Didn’t you tell us you were going to tell others? Why would you do that just on the word of some Pegasus that didn’t even have access?”

“Easy on the pegasi, egg head!” One of the guards threateningly shook a hoof.

“Well how am I supposed to keep track? All these pegasi look alike, and sound alike too. Just big, angry idiots. Even the mares sound like stallions.”

“Well, he’s got a point there…” The unicorn noted, his fellow unicorns adding a chorus of laughter.

“What did you say, bucker?” One of the pegasi was right in Bad Apple’s face, nearly knocking the helmet off his head. He could see beneath, just barely noting that the horn covered by the helmet wasn’t the same color as the head from which is supposedly emerged, and there may have been some kind of straps under the helmet. “What..?”

“Back! Off!” With a flash of magical energy the lead unicorn researcher yanked the Pegasus back and pushed him against a wall. “Don’t presume to be so overbearing against your betters!”

“Better this!” The other Pegasus battered against the unicorn holding back fellow guard. With that action, the two pegasi began scuffling with the weaker unicorns who held their own with flashes of power and strong stances to keep them from being pushed around.

While the scuffle in effect, Bad Apple was free to silently scoot away, a rather stressed expression on his face. “Dame Fortuna… that golden wheel is never still, is it? Oh, Fortuna, can’t you leave me alone for a second?”

He slunk through the halls and into a lab that was partially open. Inside were several airship designs. They were wholly unlike the ones with which he was familiar. They seemed very like the plans he had seen on the prior floor, but in far more detail. The separate munitions systems were detailed, propulsion proposed and diagrammed in several forms, fortification outlined, lift calculated. Everything. Several names were spread out, some circled with arrows indicating them, such as “Mighty Trotlas”, “The Streamhead”, “Ecstasy”, and “Random’s Reason.”

He did not have an opportunity to steal anything or photograph the surroundings, because there were already ponies in there, a unicorn mare and a unicorn stallion, who were looking over a very small scale model of one of the ships depicted. The mare looked up in annoyance. “Just what do you think you’re doing in here? We’re very bus… what is that squabbling noise?”

“Pegasi muscle heads are busting up some of the scientists because they got called names.”

“Musclehead idiots… Come on. No wonder we are the superior ones.” The mare motioned the stallion out of the door, not looking to see if Bad Apple was following.

The camera was out immediately, clicking away at the presented things, including the model. “Hey what’s that weird clicking noise in here?” The stallion pushed the door open, face falling from confusion to stunned disbelief as he saw Bad Apple standing with the camera.

“Stupid golden wheel…” Bad Apple stuffed away the camera and charged the door, heavily impacting the unicorn with his helmeted head. The combination of surprise and earth pony strength bulled him out of the way to hit the wall opposite the door. As a consequence the helmet fell off, revealing the false horn and slicked mane.

The mare shouted at the retreating earth pony, firing off a bolt of magic that struck the wall with a thud, leaving a scorch mark. It was followed by another and a cry of alarm. “Stop! Intruder! Intruder! Idiot pegasi, get over here!”

Bad Apple was in a fix. The elevator bank was still occupied by the fight he started. Why did his cunningly random plans sometimes come back around to bite him in a random and unexpected way now and again? If any of the labs were unoccupied that would not provide cover for long. He opened the first door he found, finding the stairwell blocked by a screen. His pendant unlocked it and gave him access.

The stairwell was barely acceptable, metal stairs running up and down. It was in no way an emergency escape route. That would have been an extravagance. More than likely it was meant to be used as a way to get up and down if the elevators went out, but was just acceptable for the task. Given its usage, he was still trapped, just in a different form.

As he unstrapped his pack, he heard an alarm screech out, echoing up and down the stairwell. He popped an emergency flare out of his pack and struck the top, the hot, white flame hissing out loudly. “Halt! Put down that flare!” From above an angry voice rang out down the stairs. Himself to the end, Bad Apple did as he was told, dropping the flare onto the pack, which burst into a raging, smoky blaze, the whole thing consumed in extremely short order.

“Think you’re so clever, do you? We’re taking you to the creepers. You won’t think you’re so slick with them.” The Pegasus who had seen his false horn swaggered through the door and loomed over him. “On your hooves, earth pony. This is what you get for trying to rise above your place.”

“Wait a minute. Wait… a minute…” The unicorn stallion that had been head butted approached slowly, recognition in his eyes. He lit his horn, ripping the white coat off of Bad Apple to reveal the black coat underneath, with the black waistcoat and ruffled white shirt, and the black lace at his throat. His eye fell to the mark on his flank, making him stagger back. “Manacle him up! Tie him up good and tight and then take him up! Any Random will want to see him. It’s him. He’s the one. The one who destroys. The stallion of a hundred names.”

Bad Apple was marched out of the elevator, led along by a group of four pegasi and two unicorns. His head was bowed, but a smile was on his face, despite the slight trickle of blood falling from his lips. His hair was something of a mess but was largely still in position. His legs were heavily chained, locked in strong manacles, leaving him unable to take steps that were too large. His attire was completely disheveled, shirt ripped open, waistcoat torn open, coat completely rifled through.

The floor into which he was brought was a broad penthouse-like space. It was a gargantuan, deco-decorated office space, with a heavy pile carpet, scroll work on the walls, metalwork on the ceiling depicting powerful unicorns in various powerful poses. The place was bright, from the tremendous plate glass windows to the left and right from the elevator. Before the elevator was a giant wall, covered in knickknack shelves with artifacts from all across Equestria, photographs of many ponies and places, and shelves of thick tomes standing imposingly over the scene. Before the wall was a tremendous, polished desk, covered in decorative geometric patterns and laden with papers and writing implements. Behind the desk, rising from a sitting position, was a unicorn smoking a cigarette in a long, slim holder.

The mare was ancient. She looked old enough, though still somewhat strong and together. There was simply an air about her that seemed anachronistic, lost from a time long past. Her coat was a brilliant white, while her mane was dark black and pulled back into a severe bun. As she came around the desk she was shown to be wearing a sharp gray suit coat and long wool skirt, with a white flower in her lapel. She pulled a drag from her cigarette while a guard unicorn levitated over a folder to her own magical grasp. Bad Apple lifted his head and pulled his smile wider. “Any Random… well now, what are the odds? I figured you’d be dead by now. I’m no youngling myself…”

“My word… just what do I call you? So many names here.” Any Random coolly flipped through the folder, thick with papers. “”Brigandine Jasper Saltingslide” seems a bit much. “Bradley X. Higgensbotham, esq.” has a nicely affected ring to it, just the sort for a bitless grifter like yourself. “Bardacelsius Pomacious,” an ancient and ridiculous name I know shall not be forgotten. Perhaps “Bataud Carp,” who ruined what was perfect…”

“If it could be ruined, it was not perfect.” Bad Apple interjected.

“Silence! Hmmm… “Kako Udan Ibai.” No. No, you are no Zaldi or Roa. That much is certain.”

“How can you possibly know? What are we, really, but what we appear and what we make of ourselves? Why, I could ask, what are you?”

“I…” Any Random inhaled imperiously and released her words as a smooth exhalation, “Am a philosopher.”

Bad Apple’s reply was curt and piercing. “And I am an honest pony.” He smiled as the black-maned mare’s head whipped towards him. “Insofar as I am situationally and conditionally honest, you are situationally and conditionally philosophical.”

“Oh how little you know. Have you any idea of the power in my words and ideas? I have moved many ponies through all of Equestria. Created companies, liberated ponies from the iron grip of the evils of altruism and second-hoofing morality. I have created a greater system, a better means of living. I have lifted all the land up, higher and higher than anypony could have imagined. And all while being, as you said, “situationally philosophical.” Very effective situationalism I would say. But you know I work only in objectives.” Any slammed the folder closed and slapped it hard onto the desk.

“Oh yes. I know well enough. Objective madness, objective cruelty, objective misery, objective suffering. Or perhaps manifest would be the better term? A manifest destiny? Such a ridiculous notion. Old, practically cobweb-infested. The princesses do not want to expand their borders beyond reason with any speed, and expand only when population deems it necessary. And even THEN, only by negotiations and fair exchanges for the expanded property. I noticed you had some plans for Appleoosa and the buffalo territory. First of all, you go near Appleoosa with evil intent and the ponies will do more than throw pies at you, they know malevolence when they feel it. And I'll be first in line for my own personal reasons. But beyond that, that is THEIR territory. Your slimy hooves don't belong anywhere near that terri-” Bad Apple grunted as he face was viciously cuffed by a pegasus, initiated by a nod from Any.

“They don’t have any rights to the land, and there is no reason for anypony to grant them rights which they have not conceived and are not using. What is it that they are fighting for, when they opposed ponies in that region? For their wish to continue a primitive existence, their ‘right’ to keep part of Equestria untouched, unused and not even as property, but just keep everypony out so that you will live practically like a non-sentient animal, or a few caves above it. Any pony who brings the element of civilization has the right to take over the region.”**** Any snarled out her response, and punched a button on her desk, bringing up a crackle of electricity and magic. “Check the labs and all the offices that may have been visited. And begin incinerating the pertinent records and other documents. We can rely on redundancies until things calm down.”

Bad Apple chuckled a little bit, shaking his head a little bit and rattling his chains. “You try that. Try planting your idiotic company town out in that territory and I'll stuff you in the same hole I stuffed Gorge Pullpony, with more violence and a bigger profit. Good deed for all of Equestria plus some bits in my pouch. And you know what? Besides what it takes to keep body and soul together I donate my fees. I have built orphanages and schools, donated bits upon bits to charitable endeavors. Gained from serving the warrants on your followers and collecting the reward for their arrests. Sometimes both. I've been altruistic with the money I get coming and going.” Another few hits rained down on his face, making him spit out a bit of blood and smile a bloody smile. “Is that supposed to intimidate me or are you just getting off on it? I know how much you love involuntary sex. I've read your books. And I've had contacts that have read your personal writings.” Another cuff landed, making him stagger.

“I believe it may be instructive. After all, the invisible hoof of the market corrects all errors in time. It takes pressure and time but all wrong-thinking will be fixed in time. Direct actions in the correct direction merely speeds things along. Sexuality is important in the lives of the truly superior because the repression of sex is mere parasite morality imposed by the mystic and mendacious that honor the second-hoofing princesses that plague our land and hold back our real glory.” Any walked up to Bad Apple and slapped him with a heavy paperback book. It was one her own, the one that improbably worshiped architecture, of all thing. The thing that created Dry Gulch's monstrosity of a manor. “Any desire, no matter how slight, how merely implied, may be taken as an engraved invitation. Mere wanting is sufficient. The parasite morals must be peeled away and the true freedom of the superior revealed for all to see. The feeling of possession... THAT is full justification for activity, however it might seem to the weak-minded inferiors.”

“And here I was assuming that all Cannonites were earth ponies. Or maybe you're a griffin under that unicorn hide. Go on, you can tell me. Which female-despising group captured you a long time ago? You were up in Stalliongrad originally. It must have been griffins. And normally they're very good about not importing misogyny.” Any slapped him with the book again, knocking the grin from his face for a moment. “Well, thank you for not using a hoof.”

“That can be arranged.” With a nod the pegasi battered Bad Apple all over his body, smirking as their blows thudded heavily. “But I should not do too much. After all, you need to be unprepared for the corrective measures to be taken by my helpful ponies. Correction requires true professionals. Only experts, the top of their fields, can truly do anything. It is required. As you say, you've read my books. You know that I prize expertise over all other things.”

Another glob of blood splattered the carpet, the smile considerably more crimson than before, but still undiminished. “Yes, I stopped by that floor. Got a nice photo of your lovely mares working their magic, if you will pardon the terrible pun. By the way, your hired goons could do better. You really need earth ponies as goons. More natural muscle mass, though I suppose pegasi have a more naturally annoyed and rage-filled side. So it evens out on some level. But I should tell you... I've been roughed up far worse than this. So I feel confident I can judge the relative failings of your angry walls of muscle and-” He was silenced with a hit from one of the named pegasi, who acted without orders.

“You!” The pegasus was gripped in Any's magical field, screaming as he was thrown back and tumbled along the floor. “You undertook an agreed position with the understanding you would wait for orders before acting in such a manner. Get out of here! Go down there and... oversee the search and destruction or similar.”

“My comment stands. You probably missed this in your research, because it was very, very heavily covered up, but I've been beaten worse during my stint as a constable. It was a magical creature that did it. It had claws in addition to horrible battering. And it literally filled my veins with festering hate all the while. You're not breaking new grounds in personal torment.”

“You have not had the pleasure of the company of my pair of encouraging mares. I'm sure they will impress you far more than this present rabble. Do not fear. You will learn that my great talent for finding superior ponies creates much better results than the simple happenstance of whatever put you in conflict with a mere magical creature.” Any sucked a long, slow drag on her cigarette, blowing the smoke in Bad Apple's face. “Do not doubt that, whoever you are. Just a huckster, a grifting nothing. You were lucky, wrapped in the warm cocoon of your second-hoofing parasite morals and society. You had plenty of collectivist altruists there to help you. To “give”, the ultimate objective evil. But you are not in the realm of your princesses any longer. This is my realm. You will not have your good fortune to help your slide through as before.”

Bad Apple blew through the smoke and pulled a huge smile. “I am so pleased you're being so open. Your realm is it? Well, presumably you're paying in scrip, just like that Gorge Pullpony. Another company town. But beyond that, just how much do you think you control? Have you made your own laws? No, impossible. You must use the same laws as in the rest of the Principality. You live there, after all.”

“Bah! What would I do with the laws of second-hoofers and parasites? The worthless laws of precedent and ministers and the princesses. No. I reforged the laws into the proper form. The law of identity is first and foremost, A is A. But only very slightly below that is the most important law, the imposition of the forbidden. The word that may never be uttered.”

“”Give.”” Bad Apple laughed, loud and long, with such force and duration that Any initially intended to order further abuse but slowly changed her plans and settled her face into a look of disturbed disgust. “Yes, I see your new law. The iron law. Is that really how you build a strong, robust and stable society? Would you actually prefer to RULE a dead rock than HELP enrich a live land?”

There was a long moment of silence. Then the heavy thuds of a few blows landing. “Rule creates order. Stability. Control. The dead rock will spring to life under the careful tending of an objective being. Great intelligence, power and money will force all growth.” Any pulled a draw on the cigarette again and blew a cloud of smoke to the ceiling. “You are not in favor of chaos, are you?”

Bad Apple groaned softly, shaking his head a bit and rattling his chains a bit, to keep himself on his legs. “Not at all. Not. At. All. That would be terrible. But I'll tell you one thing, miss Random, there's one thing I DO love quite a great deal. The truth. And let me tell you, there are some factual errors in your glossy propaganda.”

Any held up a hoof, an amused smirk on her face as she approached the beaten stallion. “Really? Is that so? Well then, mister nameless conpony, please do enlighten me! In all my great intellect and reason, how did I manage to make errors in my posters that were designed in perfect objectivity.”

“First off, the least egregious is your A is A. It's true for math but there are so many variables in real life that you can't make that claim at all. And it's so ironic because it runs right into your claims of superiority. One plus one plus one is equal to three. But three ponies working in concert will always be stronger than three individuals, all other things being equal. All of us are stronger than the lot of you. We work together because it works. So, your claims of equivalency aren't well founded, beyond math. And who uses math besides card counters and accountants?”

Any ruffled Bad Apple's mane and flicked it disdainfully. “Oh you charming scoundrel. You missed your calling as a lawyer. You could defend your precious criminals and parasites. But what other possible errors could you concoct? Do tell me. It's fascinating how your second-hoofing mind works.”

“Oh that's very easy. It was the first piece of propaganda I saw when I arrived. “A pony chooses, a slave obeys.” If I may be so strident, that is pure garbage. I would say, in fact, that you have that ridiculous platitude entirely backwards.”

The condescending smile fell from Any's face, her hooves coming up to grab Bad Apple's cheeks, pulling him up into a hard gaze. “You think you can concoct a more reasoned idea than me? Impossible.” She tossed his head to the side, turning around and angrily sucking another puff from her cigarette. “Go on then! Astound me with your wonderful logic and reason!”

“It's easy, really. A slave chooses. Slaves, by definition, have nothing left. Their very lives are mere commercial items to be passed along. If they toil they toil because they have weighed the options and decided that they should do so. They have little to lose in rising up and trying to free themselves. Everything has been taken away, and they could take it all back if they chose, or die trying. A pony, and all other sentient species, obey. They obey laws. They maintain civilized society with laws and adherence. We all obey, because, just like before, all of us as one are stronger than a multiplicity of screaming individuals. Helping a neighbor makes all the community stronger, and means that they might help me. We get along and play nice because the war of all against all just makes you tired. And you can believe me. I'm a scoundrel.” Bad Apple gave a bright smile, giving his chains a little rattle and dropping a wink to the fuming crone.

“No. Ponies operate as strict individuals, rational ends in and of themselves. They have no responsibility to their neighbors or any other pony around them. Parasites demand that others serve them. That is all. Objective. Rational. True!” Any Random stomped her hoof, prompting another flurry of battering hooves to rain down on Bad Apple. “Remember, soft tissue, no breaks. He needs to be conscious to appreciate correction.”

Bad Apple swayed on his hooves, crossing them, staggering on them, weaving lightly between the guards that had just beaten him. He breathed heavily, with a slight bit of pain finally starting to work into his voice. “You did it again. I said it when I saw Cherrywood Acres for what it really was. A prison without bars stuffed to the gills with slaves without chains. And this isn't just a gaudy tourist trap. This is a nightmare factory. You're pumping out products for the domestic market sold through shell companies and finished in the other shops. But you're also developing and building things that will harm and kill. I don't know how much is just blueprints and how much is ready, but any amount of progression is too bucking much.”

Any backhoofed Bad across the face, glaring down on him hatefully. “You know, I have many reasons to hate you. But you had to mention the biggest. Streamford Grade was a genius! You saw my development program. It could have been so much more advanced with his expertise. I had been keeping track of his developments and his insights. I was preparing for him when YOU intervened. His arrest set me back ages.”

Bad Apple replied, with a simple, passionless syllable. “Good.”

Any laughed, a cold and harsh laugh. “Oh? Hipposian responses? Laconia does not suit you. You're too much of a slippery conpony to be such a cold and hard pony. You are trying to be what you are not. And that is just lying, to yourself and me. How rude.”

With a shake of his head, Bad Apple lifted his eyes up to Any. “I can see you are prepared to hurt ponies. Kill them. Spread terror and sorrow and misery. Lay waste to the land. Probably to force the Princesses to capitulate to stop the suffering. But what if the populace wants to fight back? The Princesses will be inclined to oppose you because the ponies, as one, will stand against you, with allies like zebras, buffalo, Diamond Dogs, donkeys, griffins... how could you possibly hope to last against many acting as one?”

The stillness and silence that followed stretched on, while Any seemed to be contemplating something. Her horn glowed and she brought a paper from her desk, showing it to he captive. It was one of the air-dropped shells, but tremendously larger, as shown in scale beside a pony. “Energetic powder, enriched and purified into a most destructive form, pure annihilation. All with a core of magically-infused crystals and suspended in an infused lattice of the same. A magical destroyer, the powder's energy converted to magic, with an output so energetic it is measured in terathaums. The terathaum bomb. If this could ever be developed, there should be enough energy in it to destroy anything. We're trying to enrich the powder at the moment, then the core and lattice will need to hold sufficient magical energy. But this is our stated end. This is the ultimate weapon. This is victory.”

Suddenly, Bad Apple reached out for the paper and grabbed it out of the air, making his guards and Any stagger back a bit as his manacles and chains rattled on the floor. “Wow. And I thought your books were disgusting nightmares. What kind of sick, hideous mind could conceive of such a thing?”

“Wh-what? You imbeciles, didn't you chain him up properly? What do I pay you for!?” Any grabbed the dumbfounded guards one at a time and threw them around with snarling contempt.

Bad Apple stuffed the paper into his opened shirt, a necklace dropping into view, having been tucked back around behind his neck and held down by his mane. “Oh don't give them grief. My lace has lock-picks in the ends, sufficient to open simple locks. Combined together they can work as a shim. And I hate to say it, but buying from the lowest bidder is not the best idea. Manacles are mass produced and often share the same key across huge production runs. Knowing how to shim one means you can shim a bunch of them. Did you really not notice all the chain-rattling and shuffling? You're easy to distract.”

Any was ready to lash out at the smug Bad Apple when her speaker crackled to life. “Emergency! Emergency! Pegasi are entering our space! Reports incoming of an invading force! No reports of specificity but there are still new guards coming in! Emergency!”

“Well, now that was much, much faster than I anticipated. I actually thought I'd have this little tete-a-tete, be a cheeky little wag and then get tormented a bit before anything happened. I'm rather flattered. Then again, enough unicorns and enough official orders can speed anything along.” Bad Apple lifted up his silver-and-ebony pendant and gave it a kiss. “Direct and to the point.”

“Y-you? What is this? A gang of thugs from your checkered past? The second-hoofer parasites from all those towns you ruined?”

“Oh no. I leave the hired goons to you. Tell me something, do you know how enchanted distant-communication parchment works?”

“WHAT?!”

“I presume you don't. Well... parchment is infused with a mystic field that is particularly attuned to a particular pony or location which is made into a receipt node. A bit of an egg-head thing to say. But I had it explained to me. I also learned that parchment so enchanted produces a field around it such that it can be used to transport more than just itself, like, say... tickets, or a book, or maybe... a box of incriminating paperwork, or maybe an entire pack full of evidence. All sent off to the receipt node.”

Realization passed over Any's face, a kind of stunned mask settling over her features. “No... you can't be an official from any of the government agencies. I'm sure I would have known of you. Any mission would have made noise, noise enough to get some kind of notice...”

“Royal guards!” The speaker on the desk burst to life again, crackling as the voice on the other side maxed out the decibel capacity of the device. “Reports confirm royal guards! Multiple squads. Unicorns and pegasi have taken the factories and are moving into the residential areas! Guards in retreat! Mass arrests!”

“And there's one other thing about receipt nodes. At a very close range you can use them as a kind of locator. The approach of the parchment can be tracked in flight. So, let's just make this a little easier.” Bad Apple swiftly shimmed his manacles completely off and then took up the loose chains, twirling them around and then hurling them with great strength at one of the huge plate-glass windows, hitting it solidly and filling it with giant, jagged cracks, but not really shattering it.

“So impressive. And here I thought you said earth ponies were so strong. Now that you're free and now that you have released the petulance upon my window, what do you intend to do?” Any sneered sarcastically, and stubbed out her cigarette in a large ash tray on her desk.

“Tsk. Temper temper. Defeat seems to have made you rather unfriendly.” Bad Apple looked out the shattered window, with a smile, the high tower giving him a vague view of the spread of the vale, with some small, flying figures barely visible over the sprawl.

“I am hardly defeated. My ideas are spread across all of Equestria, in the minds and hearts of all the most powerful and superior ponies. I think, in fact, that I have won. Besides, I can escape quite easily from here. I can blend in and sneak away.” Any motioned towards the elevator, which opened up.

“Not all of them. Not in the slightest. You mocked the Zaldi and Roa but I know that... oh, here we are...” A green smoke cloud snaked its way through the cracks in the window, rushing to his necklace and popping into a parchment. It fluttered to the ground and showed a simple statement. 'Incoming.'

Shortly after the message appeared there was a tremendous crash, the cracked window shattering to pieces as a large mountain stone smashed through it and rolled casually into the room. Following through the hole came a knot of gold-armored pegasi, some of whom released silver-armored unicorns, whose horns lit threateningly. The lead pegasus was a strong, tall stallion with fancy piping on his barding and a larger-than-average crest on his helmet. He cast his golden eyes around the room and gave a small smile and shake of his head. “I seem to see you all too often.”

“Cavalier Golden Stare. Officious as ever, but as ever, a dedicated and heroic figure. And so punctual. I didn't expect you for hours. I suspect there was a mass call and a mass transport. Would that mean Destrier Dark Skies is out there?” Bad Apple slowly trotted his way to the lead pegasus, a friendly and amused smirk on his bloody face.

Golden tossed a cloth to Bad Apple and shook his head. “When L... her majesty orders, you obey, fast. We were ready; we've been ready and on edge. She got the pack and suddenly we were off, exactly as directed. You're not an easy stallion to find. Glad the message came through quickly. We figured you, being you, would be in a place like this. But not exactly in here. Penthouse office. Impressive.”

“I'm an open secret, aren't I? Well, let us get to it all, then. You probably don't believe it, but this really does hurt. I've just been through worse. Do you have anything for me or can I see the medical corps?” Bad Apple slicked his mane back as best he could and wiped at his battered face, adjusting his attire to be slightly more presentable.

“You've still got a job to do. Her majesty specifically gave orders that you were to handle this.” Golden hoofed off a rolled scroll, stamped with the seal of Princess Luna.

“Wait a minute... something's missing here. You know I want to do this right. It has to be good and legal.”

“Suddenly you're concerned about what's legal? Come on. You act like I've never met you.”

“Give me some credit. After all, I have to get paid. And there's a lot of hoops to jump through.”

“Like she'd ever make you jump through hoops... not thinking about it.” Golden dug around in his saddlebags and pulled out a silver object, hoofing it over to Bad Apple. “Watch that scroll, I'll bet the ink is still wet on it.”

Bad Apple opened up the scroll and looked it over with a nod. “It's all set, right? The specific parts will follow from this thing, right?”

“Of course. You're not dealing with amateurs. Her majesty is wise in the way of these things. So get to it.” As almost an afterthought Golden also gave over a set of manacles and a horn cap.

Bad Apple took the objects and turned back to Any Random, who was standing there looking indignant. “You wanted to know who I am? I'll tell you all you could ever possibly need to know.” He affixed the silver object to his attire and showed it proudly. A crescent moon badge. “Nightwatch-backed warrant server, badge number 7777. It has taken years, upon years. And I never thought I would be saying this, or even saying it at all. You've been a nightmare for so long...” He stood up straight and adjusted his clothes again, striding grandly over to the old mare. “Any Random, you are under arrest for high treason to the crowns!”

“Any Random!” Weeks later. Bad Apple had been sequestered in a private suite, tended to medically by the trustworthy apothecary Zecora, who had been brought to live in Canterlot during the recovery period, together with Applebloom. It had been greatly pleasing to Granny Smith to know her granddaughter was being brought to the capital city, though she had no clue her discarded offspring was being helped by the zebra about whose status she crowed. In that time his testimony had been collected, along with other witnesses desperate to reduce sentences or escape punishments such as exile or solitary confinement. The papers and other items found in the Vale were pored over by scholars, adding to the evidence. It finally came down to a closed-chamber confrontation. Any Random, in manacles and horn cap, faced by none but Princess Celestia, Princess Luna and Bad Apple, sitting by the throne of the night. “Come forward. You stand accused of high treason to the crowns and Principality and the population thereof. How do you plead?”

“I refuse to recognize your power over me! As a rational being made of my own will and standing tall as a singular creature controlling my destiny I do not recognize your social contract which was imposed without my will and I do not have to conform to your second-hoofing parasite morals!”

“No plea entered. You stand accused of treason. Your specific crimes directly against Equestria, ignoring all lesser crimes, are usurpation of authority, counterfeiting, slavery and the production of dangerous objects for the purpose of turning them against Equestria in rebellion.” Princess Celestia stomped her hoof, sending out a thunderous crack through the throne room.

“And where is my lawyer? I know all about law. As the accused I get a lawyer of my choice because I certainly have the money to afford the best in all of Equestria, who is, I assure you, in accord with my philosophy. Bring me Tome Seeker, he will serve me well.”

“Money? You're broke, miss Random. Broker than laws when I pass through.” Bad Apple piped up with a cheeky, grinning voice. “All your assets have been confiscated for the Equestrian coffers, even the ones you thought you hid. And should any other stores be found, those would be taken too.”

“Aye, thy chastening shepherd speaks true. All thy ill-gotten wealth be in our hold. Thou hast not a cracked groat or mustard token to thy name. But thou art not before the judgment seat as thou conceivest it. Thou are standing afore a tribunal of out sister and our self. And thy accuser be thy captor, face and voice of the population of Equestria. Thy doom be delivered with the absoluteness and force of the diarchy.”

“Huh! So this is a farce. A fake court to persecute a helpless elderly mare.”

“Oh get over yourself. This is to prosecute a traitor to the realm. And don't grouse, you mendacious crone. I have been before a one-princess tribunal. I got off, in the legal sense. I have to clarify since, as I recall, you are completely obsessed with sex, usually with questionable consent.”

“Are you still on that? Really, it was ONE scene. And... some diary entries. That's unimportant! The idea is that it was casually laid out so that ponies could understand what power and will can allow.”

“To return to the proceedings, the evidence is overpowering. Slavery. You held ponies against their will...” Celestia began.

“I did no such thing! I offered work, had contracts and gave them encouragement. They chose to work in the factories.”

“Wrong.” Bad Apple sorted through a folder and pulled out a paper. “A confession from the head of the factory guard. Doors were chained to keep ponies inside during working hours, the residences were carefully monitored to ensure nopony slipped out during the night. The only way to escape was to buy out a contract, but only for the pony in question. They could not work for their family members or any other pony, enforcing the official selfishness. No free egress, trickery, manipulation of the amount of money made for amount of work. You were afraid your secret would get out. You needed slaves, so you chained ponies in paper and ink.”

“Charge, upheld!” Luna cried loudly and stomped a hoof into the ground.

“Counterfeiting. You knowingly and willful produced currency with the intent to present it as true money for the repayment of debts and liabilities.”

“False! I did no such thing. It's not like I was stamping out the fiat slag you call bits and imprinting my face on it or some such thing. I was making scrip accepted freely in all applicable locations within Vault's Vale, suitable for paying mounting debts, purchasing things at official stores and for personal usage in any manner. And it was all tied to work. That made it valuable.”

“Confession of the lead accountant. You took in money in the form of bits, all profits of your shell companies and other endeavors were not converted to scrip. And besides that, you presented your rear-wiping funny money as real currency. I have been informed that according to the Pullpony Act, presenting self-created currency as recompense for liabilities, especially when done by business owners, it is an act of treason, an attempt to say that they have more minting powers than the government.” Bad Apple winked down at Any Random. “By the way, you probably knew, but I was the one that arrested Pullpony.”

“Second-hoofing monster! Government parasite!”

“Charge, upheld!”

“Usurpation of authority. You presented yourself as the ruler of the land and in doing so presented yourself in imitation of myself and my sister, a misrepresentation of your status and position.”

“And to cut you off, you unlawfully annexed a portion of Equestria. You're lucky you didn't go further north, you would have been invading the Griffin Kingdom. Besides the annexation, you formulated your own laws that violated the laws of Equestria. In that manner, you were imitating the princesses, as lawgiver and enforcer. That's treason, almost by definition.”

“Charge, upheld! Thou art loud and filled with naught but echos, as an empty vessel.”

“It is not treasonous to my own will and self, the only loyalty that matters at all in the world. We are all but wills and selves and not any sort of connected creature, much as you pyrite-plated thugs may claim it is so. 'Harmony and togetherness' are the lies parasites tell to keep themselves from realizing ego and selfishness are the only true morals that exist.”

“Yes well... I read your books. You DO go on. Endless, babbling speechifying seems to be your stock-in-trade. I think there is only one last matter.” Bad Apple looked across at Celestia, gently patting at the breast of his coat.

Celestia nodded solemnly and glared down at Any. “The last charge, the production of dangerous objects for the intent of rebellion. Plans. Prototypes. Working models. Photographed, sent here, seized. These things you conceived... assault airships, dangerous personal arms, refined explosive devices. Dangerous. But capable of being withstood...”

Bad Apple took his cue, reaching into his coat and pulling out the plan he had taken from Any in her office. “Then there was this. A concerted intent, direct and terrible, to literally kill the princesses and destroy both Canterlot and all it represents. The terathaum bomb. Presumably to be delivered by one of your ships. This is not ambiguous nor could you claim self-defense, as I'm sure you were going to, claiming that your idiot book was a blueprint for a perfect society and you needed protection. This is not protection. This is murder.” He produced a small lighter, recognizable as Any's own, and ignited the paper, letting it burn to ash and blow away.

Any was silent for a long while, her eyes sullenly tracing the drifting ash as her dreams blew away. “Rebellion is not murder. It is setting in place what ought to have been. Rationality tells us what things are. And in that rationality, we may known that greed is the right way.”

“You will never reach your ought with that 'is.' That was always your failure.” Celestia slammed her hoof to the floor, her sister matching the motion. “The penalty for all charges so enumerated and confirmed is incarceration. For life. With no possibility of parole.”

Any only smiled, and shook her head. “Altruistic second-hoofers to the end. I planned to kill you, and you're leaving me alive. Pathetic.”

“Because we art not thee. Now go ye off, to darken not our court for the rest of thy days.”

Electric lights glowed steadily, illuminating the smooth-carved passage in the mountain that jabbed into the dim distance. Chains clanked as Any Random trudged along, her horn lacking a cap but her magic not flaring up as pegasus and earth pony guards escorted her down the corridor. She passed a barred cell and looked inside, seeing a strong, noble unicorn stallion, pure black with a white mane, wearing pince-nez spectacles. He stared at her curiously, almost seeming to recognize her. “Yes, the malevolent parasites have captured me as well and thrown me here. Don't worry, things will change.”

The stallion's eyes widened in recognition, and he motioned to one of the guards. “Where is she going to be placed?”

“Next cell down, just in conversation distance.”

“We can commiserate and discuss the injustice of...”

The stallion cut off Any with a clank of hooves against the bars. “Please, no! I know her. I've read her works. You cannot put her anywhere near me. This place would become unbearable. Use the deep cells, the easy access ones that allow for the delivery of food and other items without extended contact with others. Keep your wits about you. She deserves to be here.”

The earth pony nodded his head and saluted. “Right away, Professor.”

As Any was pushed down the corridor towards the depths of the mountain she seethed. Then turned to the guard that had responded. “So you obey the prisoners here? Then will you listen to my theories on society?”

“The Professor is here because he thinks he needs to be. He felt it was best for the world that he stay in here. We all like him, and we want to keep him happy. He seems to really have it out for you. So you're going down where we won't have to deal with you often at all.”

“Altruists condemn me even in here. But it's not over. Not yet...” She muttered darkly as the dimness swallowed her and her guards.

“The news is getting around, or at least what news was permitted to get around. The Official Secrets Act has had the desired effect. The arrest and crimes of Any Random have been spread around, and there have been some sporadic celebrations because of it, especially in communities that received their own citizens back. And a grand celebration in Stalliongrad, with parades and floats and cheers for some mystery being that captured the great nightmare. Are you sure? You can have all the adulation and adoration you could ever want. You've earned it and then some.” Celestia looked down with a smile at Bad Apple, sequestered in a side-room with him, away from prying eyes.

“Maybe... no. Not now. I'm just satisfied with how things worked out. I feel like I earned my place in Canterlot now. I'm worthy of my position inside the palace.” Bad Apple stretched out a bit and tried his best to look humble.

Celestia lifted Bad Apple's chin with a shake of her head and mirth shining in her eyes. “You “earned” your place in the palace when you made my sad sister smile. You slippery thief. You stole her heart right out of her chest. And I thank you for it all the time.”

He smirked winningly and slid a hoof through his mane. “I took her heart. And she took mine. A fair trade, to be sure. But I mean, this isn't the personal earning of a position here. I earned myself a spot among the elite by hard work, clean living and fancy hoof-work.”

“Two-thirds of that statement is true. Maybe.” Celestia gave a soft laugh behind her hoof and lit her horn, levitating over a pair of golden scrolls. “You earned some reward. I can't give you any public honors because you declined things such as titles and lands. But I think you deserve these.” She passed along one. “This is a warrant. Signed by myself and my sister. It is a fiat warrant. Completely blank. Put a name on it, a crime on it, a date on it and sign it. It allows arrest, search, seizure and holding. You could arrest anyone and search for all the evidence you want. There would be consequences, of course. But in the initial case, you wouldn't even need a bench warrant, a bounty tag or anything else. I don't think I need to say this, but... use it wisely. You only get one.”

Bad Apple took the scroll and nodded slowly, sliding the scroll around and into his coat. “I most certainly will. And that one?”

Rather than hoofing it over, Celestia unrolled it and read from it. “Let it be hereby known that by the royal decree of their majesties Princess Celestia and Princess Luna, the bearer of this scroll, which by means of magic can only be held by the true and sole pony for whom this decree was made, by any alias known prior, has official, full and complete royal pardon for all crimes, civil and criminal, committed on or before the date below-written.” With a flash, Celestia produced a quill and swiftly wrote in the date. She then rolled up the scroll again and pressed it to Bad Apple, a flash of golden light illuminating the room.

There was a moment of stunned disbelief before Bad Apple took the scroll in his hooves and looked at it. “You mean... I'm not a criminal anymore?”

“I didn't say that.” Celestia winked at the stunned stallion. “It will always be with you, discreetly. If you call for it it will be at your side and nopony can take it from you. That's all I wanted to give you. You flatter me with your imitation focus. But I know your head is where your heart is. Go on to her. I think you earned that too.” She kept smiling as Bad Apple bowed and dashed out of the door. “You didn't say it, but I understood it. You paid a dowry you never owed.”

What happened when Bad Apple reached Princess Luna was a private thing, a very personal activity. It lasted many hours, and they never let one another cease touching one another. There was always some contact, some small touch that kept them connected, flesh to flesh, as a representation of heart to heart.

After Luna had raised the moon from behind her windows, and closed the thick, heavy curtains once again, she slowly walked to the bed, grinning over at Bad Apple, who was laid out in the bed, bare, his mane a wild, spiky mess, still shining in the low light of the bedchamber. He looked to be lightly dozing, but opened his eyes as she got close to him. A smile spread on his face and she returned it, reaching a bare hoof out to slide his mane back. “Did I wake you?”

“I hope not. I'm not dead yet.” He grinned and popped his eye-ridges cheekily.

Luna laughed gently and leaned down to kiss his cheeks. “Clever. Are you truly my match in all things.” She sat beside the bed, while Bad Apple rose up and leaned in against her neck. “Such a long path have you trod. And reached your end. So much has been made of this. Have you seen?” She levitated over an official-looking parchment and a small bronze badge, with relief images of a hammer, sickle and lightning bolt. “The ponies of Stalliongrad have presented this to the unknown force who rid the land of Any Random. 'Tis no mere honorarium. 'Tis a true badge of office. As this decree doth proclaim, you now are a member in honest standing of the Stalliongrad Red Legion.”

“I feel so... legitimate.” Bad Apple took the badge and decree, chuckling softly and setting them down on a side table. “A real jurisdictional power in the city and environs of Stalliongrad, plus my Nightwatch powers that let me act as a constable for arresting those wanted or under warrant. I never imagined that I would ever be a constable in any city. I thought I might be in love... but I'm a wanderer. I was always taught, if you put a seed in the ground, you STAY there and watch it grow.” He settled into a heavy, contemplative silence, looking down at his hooves tapping together before him.

Luna kissed him on the forehead and gave a slow nod. “Aye. Your life has grown like a great tree. Blasted, gnarled, twisted, but in spite of blight and the lashes of fortune, made grand and mighty. 'Tis a testament to your strength. You have endured.”

He continued to look contemplative, tapping his hooves together slightly more softly. “Yea... endured. And it's been so long. I took my new identity on the river, and found Grain Gulch. And I found the horrible books that inspired Dry Gulch. The first, but not the last. Since that moment, implicitly or explicitly, I chased her across the face of Equestria. And now... it's done.” His head turned slowly, to regard Luna. “I can enjoy rest. And I can ask...” He sucked in a deep breath. Five words. Five small words. “Luna... will you m-”

A dainty hoof placed itself against his lips, stopping the word before it could burst into the room. She slowly shook her head, slipping her hoof from his lips. “Nay...”

Bad Apple worked his mouth, gobsmacked and disbelieving. His breath became shallow, head slowly falling, eyes darting around rapidly. “B-but... I...”

“My black knight-errant... my champion of gold heart and silver tongue...” She laughed gently, leaning in to nuzzle at his snout. “The auguries speak. The time be wrong. Nay... Your sword, your lance, your shield. You may not lay them to moulder in the flowers. Your quest be not yet done.”

“She's... gone. The Vale is being taken apart piece by piece. Her agents are on the run or going into hiding. I did what was needed...”

“Aye. Aye... Random be gone, her accursed land be cleansed and her scurrilous miscreaunts be set to fly, or gone to ground. And yet... you have but cut the head. As a hydra, the vile body doth yet live.” Luna sighed, and slowly strolled away, towards the window. “You will be of better physic to the principality, seeker of the evildoers, than to mine heart and body. Though it hurt. Though it doth hurt me to the soul.”

Bad Apple clumsily scrambled out of the bed, approaching Luna with a kind of reverential empathy. He hurt. But he could feel, in almost a tactile way, that she was hurting even more. The suffering of a goddess “Then why not let me do this? Why not let it end so we can both be happy?”

Luna slowly brushed aside the heavy curtain, to peer out through the smoked glass. Even with the shading, she could see the lights of the terraces that made up Canterlot, the glow of a thriving city, filled with living beings that, whether they thought of it or not, needed her to defend them. Needed the crowns to defend them. All of a sudden, she sang out, a heavy, mournful tune. “Th starnys are swithe bel a-bouen th palais walles/ Thei schyne wit par wlite a-bou far humbler halles/ Ich wacche tham fro min fenestre ah teyrre bryghte en-sweemen leme/ Munes me o th fraunchise ich a-gife sae longe a-gon/ Th roial bege of brayde gulde restes lichtly on min frount/ Ich ones thoght onlich of th rightes thes bege wolde dowe/ Ah ones ich tooke th corone which ich hefde bee scoled and bred/ Ich fand it heuy on th huerte tho licht vppon th nol/ Al if ich am th lede of stalle in sooth ich am th leste/ Th soth kwene kenns here leode fed fore heo sittes farmen/ Th bayn kwene kenns heo leode sauf fore heo ta's heo reste/ Thenks tweye and threye and yete eft-sone fore heo ma's requeste/ For thei aren al min cheldren al that ich swore fenden/ It is min duete be-comen bothe kwene and truste frend...*****”

There was a moment of silence, as Bad Apple parsed the much more archaic words, putting them into proper translation in his head and catching the meaning of them. “I see... I... see... If I may ask... what is that from? It's very... instructive.”

“'Tis an ancient verse. From before even the time of Discord. 'Twas composed as a tale that must needs guide the ruler of each nation. “The Cost of the Good Queen's Crown” as 'twould be rendered in this modern tongue. Howe'er it may pain... land and subjects first come. Ever. Else am I a traitor to them all, foul as Any Random.”

A trembling hoof was gently placed on Luna's back, giving a gentle stroke. Rough, strong, yet nimble. He pressed in, warmly offering himself as a source of comfort. “So... back to the grind? Status quo, as ever. I'm very used to hiding from the spotlight. I turned down less just this afternoon. I'll be the constable to the principality, mopping up the mess Any Random left behind, and getting rid of anything else I may find. I'll do it, as long as you need me to.”

Luna slowly leaned in against her lover, still looking over the land. “Your earned desert for this errand...”

“'Desert'? You mean a reward. Never mind that.” Bad Apple waved off the idea with one hoof, shaking his head. “I didn't start this thing for a reward. I just bumbled into it. Things happened.”

“In sooth, this is so. But you did it for the good of this land you love, this land which we rule and care for with such love we must place aside our own heart. For subjects that know not your name but praise you in heart and mind. The desert, unbidden, shall be a seat besides the throne of night. As consort in name and rank. The Grand Duke.”

“Grand Duke... it has a nice ring to it, I will agree. It's a nice thing to consider. I certainly hope I can do enough to deserve it.”

“I have no doubts. You have already. And for another rich desert... when you come again, to claim your earned reward, shall you also take me with a belly full of young bones.”

A smile grew across his face, as a wistful look twinkled in his eyes. “A seed to watch... Sounds like my kind of reward.” He looked back to the bed, and made a slight motion. “I want to set off, so I can discharge my duty all the faster. Can I get one more good night of sleep before I'm away again?”

“Aye... aye, mine heart. And as well, I shall be with you all the night long.” Both ponies walked back to the bed, the covers pulling back to grant them entrance. Bad Apple offered to let Luna go first, but she permitted him to go in first.

“Guess I get to try my luck some more. Good thing I've been at this for a while.” He settled against Luna's body, curling in tightly against her as she settled onto the bed and magically pulled up the sheets. His body was an open book to her. She could tell when he had actually gone to sleep. His chest rose and fell against her, head resting shamelessly against her warm, divine form.

She caressed his slick, pomade-anointed mane. It felt smooth and sleek beneath her bare, royal hoof. He was like his mane. Dark, yet bright in the right angles of light, slick, smooth, flowing easily. Yet... it took much effort to maintain. And as time wore down on him, as it would ever wear down on mortals like him, it would be harder and harder.

She had left out much from the song she had given to him. The middle concerned the lamentation of the queen on sending her most faithful out on sallies. And there were no promises in the sending of warriors. Even if constables had different dangers, they still faced some peril, especially a scoundrel with only the veneer of a constable's stability and backing. She pulled him in tighter, watching him through the darkness. She would send him back out, until he could not serve. He had proved himself most worthy and competent. Strong. Powerful. Too useful to the Principality, and the citizens. They needed him more. They had locked away a creature of selfishness. She could not think of such avarice. But, holding him in her grasp, looking at him, sleeping and filled with love and contentment...

“Ah godes thet by biyonde th starnys if ou canne hiere min crak/ And if ou owen arm-hertnesse lette me sende na mo a-swelten...*****

“You let him go.” After sunrise the next morning. “He was fully recovered, Any Random has been sent to prison for the rest of her life.” Celestia was standing with her sister on top of one of the towers of Canterlot. “I know there's not much chance to talk when you are together but you have to stop sometime. At the very least he has to eventually run out of sperm!” Celestia was increduloudly watching her sister, who was watching a small, dark figure walking away from the castle.

“Nay, sister. I do believe his stones be wholly without end. But that be not the crux of your objection. You must ken, sister... it was most vital he be free to serve. The Principality cries for the sword and shield and lance of the black knight-errant. He must go. Howe'er it may be... he must go.” Luna held a neutral visage, appearing strong as she traced the figure leaving the high gates of the palace itself.

“But... WHY!?” Celestia turned her sister, forcing her to face her. “He has arrested a traitor, broken a criminal organization, saved towns... he stole the heart out of your chest and breath out of your lungs! He even all but admitted he felt he had paid for a dowry that never even was expected! Why would you let him go?”

Luna kept her face strong and rigid, but a tiny tear slowly slid down the side of her face. “The Cost of the Good Queen's Crown.” The words were spoken with a small voice, tight from restrained emotions.

Celestia's face fell into a pained look of complete understanding. She gathered her sister up into a tight hug, squeezing securely. “Oh my sister... I had always hoped that you would never feel the weight of the crown, as I have.”

Luna pushed the tiara higher up her forehead, shuddering a touch in her sister's hold, and turning her head to watch the fast-receding figure growing less and less distinct. “'Tis not mine head that doth groan 'neath the burden.”

Celestia turned to look as well, giving her sister a comforting stroke. “It never is, Sister... it never is...”

*: “Tom O’Bedlam” Traditional English folksong
**: Modification, “Master and Slave” by Cherry Poppin’ Daddies
***: Modification/alteration of private journal entries written by Ayn Rand concerning William Edward Hickman, alias The Fox, convicted robber, kidnapper and murderer.
****: Ayn Rand, Q &A Session following address to the graduating class at West Point, March 6, 1974, modified for Equestrian usage concerning Buffalo as opposed to the original context of Native Americans.
*****: Middle English transcription of the poem “The Cost of the crown” by Mercedes Lackey. Original lines follow.
The stars are very beautiful above the palace walls/ They shine with equal splendor still above far humbler halls/ I watch them from my window but their bright entrancing glow/ Reminds me of the freedom I gave up so long ago/ The royal circlet of braid gold rest lightly on my brow/ I once thought only of the rights this circlet would endow/ But once I took the crown to which I had been schooled and bred/ I found it heavy on the heart though light upon the head/ Although I am the head of state in truth I am the least/ The true queen knows her people fed before she sits to feast/ The good queen knows her people safe before she takes her rest/ Thinks twice and thrice and yet again before she makes request/ For they are all my children all that I swore to defend/ It is my duty to become both queen and trusted friend.

And the last two lines' translation is here.
Oh gods that dwell beyond the stars if you can hear my cry/ And if you have compassion let me send no more to die.

I, Bad Apple

Out in the smaller communities of Equestria, it was easy to get lost. Not in a simple sense of being removed from an intended course, but more fundamentally; to simply drop off the map and vanish into their quaintly charming anonymity. Such things tended to make city ponies nervous, and even made some country folk hesitant. But some ponies liked it that way. Vanishing for a bit was a good way to relax and let life get slow and calm.

Bad Apple treasured such opportunities. He always needed a chance to vanish for a while, letting things cool off before venturing forth once more to take on whatever was out there. This time, he wanted a bit of time to answer a letter he had been neglecting. So, after pretending he was an expert at water systems, and after faking his way through a few dumb-luck fixes, he had actually managed a decent repair of the town water system, and earned himself a place to stay and implements for writing. His needs taken care of, he set to work with pen and paper, jauntily writing down his letter.

Dear Miss Rainbow Dash,

It is always a pleasure to receive a letter from my niece, even if it was written for somepony else. It always means I’m somewhere with decent food and a soft bed available for myself, even if I have to occasionally stop and remember which name I’m using. That usually resolves itself; somepony will say my name sooner or later. I have a signature look, after all. You’d think I’d be less successful with that, but no, even looking like this I can still get by. I guess it helps that I only leave an impression when I want it. No sense in making sure ponies remember me when I don’t need them to. Or don’t want them to.

So, my niece tells me that, while you’ve picked up bits and pieces of my story, you want the whole truth. You know, I don’t think even she knows everything. Maybe she has the broad strokes of the early days, but nothing detailed and concrete. I certainly haven’t been forthcoming about that, but for very personal reasons. You can share selected parts of this letter with her, if you can find time in your busy schedule of… carnival trips, concerts, listening to the radio in bed, watching the moonrise. Whatever it is young mares do these days when they’re serious about one another.

So, I’ll start at the beginning. Maybe you know this. Maybe not. You’re from Cloudsdale, and pegasi are somewhat ill-informed about ground-based matters. Before any of us, there was just my pappy, Adam Apple. A farmer, naturally. He inherited a little one-story shack and a lotta land of brambles and rocks. He pulled out an existence with a few trees fed by a twisty stream and clear land, but mostly, he grew rocks and weeds. To his benefit, actually.

Everypony knows that Earth ponies grow such big harvests so often because their land is fed by the natural flow of mana. I’m sure your friend the unicorn can explain it better. But Earth ponies have a strong connection to the land and can influence that. Plus, some areas have more than others. Pappy’s fields had been fallow so long no one ever realized. That was why they grew rocks and weeds so well. Heck, he well could have been a rock farmer, but I suspect that kind of story will come from that pink one.

Pappy Adam, he was a sturdy stallion. Imagine Big Macintosh, but bigger. Yea, that was pappy. Bay, flaming red mane and tail. If you wanna know, I got momma’s mane and tail. The caramel was just a lightening of pappy’s color. Anyway, pappy could work hard, and he did. He cleared those fields, turned the soil and planted apple trees. He also opened the stream up, fed his land a little better.

Now, with the trees growing their woody little hearts out, pappy had a new problem. He was making bits hoof over frog, but he was working himself to the bone to tend to all of his trees, never mind the harvest and selling. I would imagine, even with his skill and stamina, it was very like when my niece convinced herself she could tend to all of Sweet Apple Acres on her own.

His solution was investors. Or employees, I suppose. It was a little bit of both. Like some version of the system they came up with in Stalliongrad. Ponies paid to own a portion of the orchard, and then got the right to sell the apples, with a percentage of that coming back to him. He got them coming and going. I really admire pappy for many things, and that was one of them. So with that going on, he became the richest stallion in Pericarp County.

Richest, and most eligible, I should say. If the stories are true, every mare wanted a chance with him, but were put off by his wealth and bearing. The only one with the nerve to try was momma, Eugenia Smith. She was the daughter of one of his investors, Stony Smith. An odd mix, to say the least. You’ve seen her. Can you imagine her with a Bigger Macintosh? But back then she wasn’t as dried up and worn out. Somehow they made it work. Made it work enough to get hitched very quickly. I don’t intend to speculate, but maybe, just maybe, I was on the way. I haven’t done the figuring, but it’s possible.

I was born a respectable period of time after the union was sealed, with no cheeky wags daring to comment on the specific amount of time. And, since momma and pappy were rich, I was born in the nearest hospital. Back then, in that place, that was a luxury. Most of the time there was just the midwife in the kitchen. Momma loved being able to throw her snout in the air and say she had that luxury.

I was born with sticky frogs, as they say. And I was born with a quick bearing to me. I was coordinated and together right after I got dried off and given to momma. She’s ashamed to admit it, but the first thing I did was pick the nurse’s pouch. Got her bits and a watch. Momma used to tell me all the time exactly what she said to me when she found out what I had done. “Someone’s a bad li’l Apple. That name’ll stick less’n you straighten up.”

“Bad li’l Apple.” Nothing more perfectly sums up my early days than that. I had a natural inclination to mischief. And with the ignorance of youth, I couldn’t distinguish good notions from bad ones. Didn’t matter much at the time. All I did was nick little things; not that it’s an excuse. I suppose I was something of a little terror, as far as hiding things went. We had a lot of space to hide it.

As you might guess, pappy had redone the original house, with some direction from momma. It was an embarrassingly big country manor, with wings and parlors and two dance floors, one inside, one outside. There was a lot of room for trouble, and I used it all.

Momma relied on nannies to care for me; she worked hard to build up our land and entertain the neighbors. Or just dazzle them, really. I’m fairly certain that was what was behind her entertaining. Just the chance to see them awed. But even then, she could see how naturally I got up to mischief. Even pregnant with my brother Blenheim, she kept on trying to keep me in check. I admit, Blenny got a lot of love. And I got a lot of apple switches from momma. Still didn’t help any.

According to momma’s thinking, things were supposed to get better with time, and more switches. And then there came my sister Valencia and my sister Apple Brown Betty. You can well imagine, momma had children as often as she could, as fast as she could, because that was how it was done. And we had the money for it.

But I didn’t get better. If anything, I got worse. Because during that time, I learned how to talk. And if there’s one thing worse than a sneaky, crafty pickpouch, it’s one that can talk. I got pretty good at letting my words slip around like oil, slithering my intentions though flattery and manipulation. I could get any of the family servants to do anything I wanted. Momma finally figured it all out, and she was not pleased at all. Her solution was novel, and probably might have worked. On anypony else.

“Bramley… you do have yer ways t’drive yer momma to distraction! And ah ain’t gonna have that forever. Ah’ve tried t’train you up in the ways of our beloved Princess Celestia. But it seems ah’ve gotta keep yet little hooves busy so’s ah kin get to th’ important task of raisin mah other foals and keeping’ this farmland runnin’ smooth.” That was her speech. I actually remember it. It fronted one of the most important things to ever happen in my life. It was what really made me who I am. I remember where we were, too. The southern drawing room, with the lace-topped table and elegant apple wood furnishings. She put down a pack of cards in front of me. And then said one more thing. Ahhh, fate. “This’ll keep you outta trouble. I’ll whup yer hide so bad you ain’t gonna want t’see trouble agin. Y’all’ll learn all ‘bout losin’. And it’ll jes keep happenin’.”

Then she dealt out the cards and didn’t tell me anything. I had no idea what I was doing. She had to lead me by the hoof through every play and card combination. Thing is, I remembered everything. She was so certain I was just going to forget everything. I was so ridiculously inexperienced that she trounced me good. Now, I didn’t know she was a poker ace. She was always trouncing on somepony or another. I was just the latest one.

During that game, I also had a little feeling. It was like I could feel something from in the deck. And it always got stronger when there was a seven at the top of the deck, or in my hoof. And even a little something when there was one in momma’s hoof. Don’t tell momma. Or, anypony else, really. Tell AJ about it all you want. She ought to know. I don’t know how it gets worked into conversation, but go ahead with that. Maybe you two can play a game. She likes games. Just don’t go easy on her. If there’s one thing she hates more than anything, it’s pity.

Anyhow… Momma won, exactly as she said, while she explained the rules of the game to me. It was humiliating. Humbling. I wasn’t so slick. That taught me my lesson. I figured out I wasn’t quite as good as I thought. But, my life took a turn there. Instead of breaking me, momma made me stronger. I didn’t let all my losses show I was a loser. It made me want to be better.

So I did a lot of practicing on my own time. Not just with cards. Picking pouches, wheedling, trotting quietly. I wanted to be good at all the things I had always done. At that point, not for good or for bad. Just to be the best. It was all about my own pride. That was what momma had done to me. Wounded my pride. There’s no bigger encouragement than that. And I understand that’s what BOTH of you know. Don’t let it control you, but never let it lose the driving it gives you.

I played a lot of cards with the hirelings and the servants. They always had something going. It’s the way it worked in those days in that place. Country folks like to gamble on the sly and pretend they’re wonderful ponies all the live-long day. Here’s some advice: Never believe it.

I can’t tell you how many of them said the most crass and offensive things about donkeys and mules. Even momma, looking at the plains beyond Pericarp, always said vaguely conspiratorial things about the buffalos. I think she wanted that land. Some of it is good orchard land. Plus, she never really liked any critter that wasn’t a pony. We never let cows live on the land; she received rich griffins with a strained smile on her face; and hired donkeys and mules at less than the going rate, but never told them. Small towns, miss Rainbow Dash, do not breed big hearts, only big heads. Thank your lucky stars that you were born in a big factory town. There are problems there too. But I only know what I saw.

Anyhow, I was growing up and older, and so were all my relatives, as well as the size of the family. From Apple Brown Betty to my brother Baldwin, my sister Ambrosia, sister Pippin, sister Paula and brother Newton, the baby. So all of the first of us were getting into the school age, though there were available tutors for all of us that were old enough. We spent a lot of time wandering the ground by ourselves, too rich and good for the public school.

I remember one thing. It was while momma was pregnant with Pippin; Blenny and I were out by one of the tributaries of the river that fed our land. Yes, pappy had folks turn the creek into a full river, with tributaries and all. He got things done. Anyhow, we were out there, just looking for frogs to upset Valencia and Brown Betty. They thought they were yucky. Ambrosia was too young to be mean to. We were tricky but we were also good to our family.

While we were out there, the clouds passed from the face of the moon, nice and full. It wasn’t as pristine and perfect as it is now. The Mare in the Moon was still up there, looking down on us all. I was transfixed by it. I had seen it a lot, but for some reason that night I just wanted to keep staring. I stared so long my brother actually came up to nudge me around. He wanted to know what was wrong with me. And all I could say was, “I wonder if she’s lonely.”

“Who?”

“The Mare in the Moon.”

I have never heard such laughing as I did after I said that. When Blenny finally stopped laughing hard, he shoved me and told me it’s only an old pony tale. There’s really no mare in the moon. We know better now. And… Well, let’s just leave it there. A bit of beautiful reminiscing. You’ll have those moments of your own, I am quite certain. I know I seem like I’m pushing you to my niece but… I think that ship has sailed already. Now it’s just me being a proud, gushing uncle.

As I said, we were ready for school. Better than ready, I’d say. Tutors, like I said. I think momma wanted us to be obnoxiously overeducated little horse apples, to make her look good. I think that’s also why her library was so large. I don’t think she ever read any of those books. But it looked good. She was all about looking good.

That’s not really the concern, though. I’m just saying… Watch yourself around momma. She may want you to think she loves you. Maybe she does. You’re a filly fooler with a good job. You’ve got prestige from your championship win. She likes that. But make no mistake. You’re commoner stock from a factory town. She looks down on you. She’s just as common as anypony else but her taste of wealth and respect made her into a codfish aristocrat. Don’t let down your guard. If she thinks she found a more suitable match for AJ she’ll waste no time in getting rid of you. Look out for mares with titles, money and political position.

Sorry… The quill seems to have moved of its own accord. I didn’t mean to frighten you if I did. But I am concerned. I want my niece to be happy. And I think you’re the mare to do it.

We attended the local school. A private academy was not easily available, and momma balked at paying the exorbitant prices involved in the boarding of all the foals she would be sending. We were to be her big fish in a very small pond, with our bellies full of the classics and our heads overstuffed with formulas and figures. I was very good at spewing out rote lessons; I always had the best memory of anyone. It gave me a look of genius. I was smart, just not in the way they thought. I knew what ponies wanted, and I knew how to use what I had picked up to give it to them. That’s my secret, and always has been. Try it out. Just don’t use it to hurt. Only to help.

There’s a lesson they don’t normally teach you in schools. But an important one. I remember my time there very well because of the lesson I learned thanks to one teacher that wasn’t going to let me be me.

I suppose a little background is in order. I was a hellion at home, among the servants. But that was alright. They had come to expect it after so long, and had grown wary, to the point of making putting one over on them a challenge. They inadvertently honed my skills before I was unleashed on a whole new collection of unsuspecting ponies. And with no restrictions, I did what came naturally.

My sticky frogs got everywhere. Nicking bits and lunches and the occasional personal possession. It wasn’t necessarily the value of whatever I took. It was the challenge. I enjoyed the thrill of it. I also enjoyed just having secrets. No one ever knew it was me.

I wasn’t the only wrongdoer in school. It’s never just one. The others were more conventional. Large, oafish delinquents, the sort that would not be unusual to see in a chain gang breaking farmed rocks into pebbles or plowing up fallow land on a grand scale. I am almost certain that was their eventual fate. In any case, they were dumb, constantly in trouble, notoriously bad students and the sort to get in trouble.

They were idiots, but not entirely lacking in what might today be termed “street smarts.” They knew things tended to vanish around me. And were just criminally intuitive enough to make the connection. I was press-ganged into their coterie, despite the fact that my intellect was sufficient for a thousand of them. They were bigger than me, and could reduce me to bloody pulp easily. As I did not desire to be bloody pulp, it is easy to see why I followed along with their directives.

The ultimate fate of this association was disaster, of course. Eventually they were severely castigated by our teacher, and I with them. I recall him well. He was an imposing stallion, dark black in color, with a shockingly-white mane and tail, with the thinnest sliver of a moon on his flank. He made the odd choice of wearing pince-nez glasses, very small ones that I thought he could only see through while looking down. He seemed ill-suited to the work. Often I saw him reading thick, imposing books of various kinds, or spouting poetry at anypony that would listen. Presumably, he belonged in a university. His presence at a nothing school was odd indeed.

In any event… It was terribly humiliating, being caught. And not because of any error I had, myself, made, but because of my presence in a group of talentless muscle. I had delusions of great thief status back then. Those old books aren’t just dry treatises on alfalfa cultivation and the nature of mana. There’s plenty of gushing fiction talking about the wonder of elegant thieves who slip soundless through the night and liberate great treasure from silly, useless owners. It’s no use wondering what my ambitions were. I thought taking from others was right and proper. And that teacher… He could see right through me.

We were interviewed separately. Their crimes were base, blatant and easily displayed. They were very easily found guilty and punished for it. Back in those days, they paddled and switched bad foals. Flanks glowed quite often back in those days. The last one to be interviewed was me. I faced him, thinking I could defeat him. I was wise and cunning. And I could bluff my way out of anything. I flashed him my best smile and the game began.

It was an utter slaughter. It was almost embarrassing how badly the game went. My mouth let out words like graceful butterflies, flitting about with an airy grace. And he unleashed a torrent of steel-hard needles, tearing their wings to ribbons and pinning them to the ground. I writhed beneath his cutting logic and reason. It was unlike anything I had ever seen before. I remember the very end. He got me on all my thefts, every last one of them. And when he had me writhing in his glare, having all but confessed, never having rebutted his many accusations, he said to me, “Never presume that you are better than you really are. You are only a pony, as all of us are.”

Another failure. The paddling stung far, far less than being verbally chastised by that teacher. But more than that, he said one other thing before I left to cool my burning flank. “These colts… Why would you dare associate with them? You ought to be better than these thugs. Aren’t you better than base criminality? Can’t you do better? You have many skills… Why are you not using them to do good? Good attracts joy, happiness, and an easier life. Don’t you want that?”

I wanted it. I wanted it so badly that it hurt. I had my life, and my slickness. But nothing more. My only, forced, companions were thugs. And I was just snickering behind my hoof as foals looked in vain for what I had taken. Spare Applejack from seeing this. I’ve never confessed such depravity before. I didn’t mean to be so depraved. I was born with the skill. The depravity came from my lack of shame. And now I had been entirely shamed.

My first act was to find a way to be me, and do good. I figured I might as well try and undo those thugs. It was a happy coincidence that they offered me a chance to ease into it by making my actions against them a more personal thing. I care greatly about my family. Always have, always will. And when they forcibly stole from Blenny, and then intimidated him into silence, I had my chance to act as a scoundrel, and a saint.

It was late in the day, when our time was free for study or physical activity. I was not well suited to either. I often imitated study, to be left alone; not to say I learned nothing. It simply was not as deep and sincere as it seemed. One of my few demonstrations of lack of sincerity. If you can understand, I am deceitful, but not insincere. In any case, that is beside the point. We were at leisure, and the big lugs, three in total, were laughing over their mugging of my little brother. They stole minor, inconsequential items, really. A few spare bits he had been saving for a new length of lasso rope (as you can guess, Applejack’s father was as good with a rope as her, maybe better if you can imagine); a slide whistle as well as a grass whistle; some pencils and a very dapper bandana.

The action against them was deceptively simple. I talked fast and I talked well. I kept them off-guard and unfocused by discussing our recent punishment by the teacher. That certainly got them talking. It actually got them blaming each other. Nothing collapses the honor among thieves like bringing up punishment. The blame games begin immediately and never cease, providing they are stoked like a fire.

It’s very easy for a cheeky wag, who knows anything about those involved, or can make an educated guess, to foment dissent and ever-rising chaos in a group of ponies. Say one of them was looking too shifty in front of the teacher, on purpose. Or another was there talking too long. Or that another got one less paddling. The anger! The shoving and battering and head-butting. They stopped looking at their treasures to weed out the traitor in their group.

With the deftest of hooves I scooped up the little things into the bandana and quickly whipped it up around behind my upper arm and under my barrel, walking backwards just slowly enough to avoid notice when they had all turned on one another and were on the verge of battering one another bloody. After I was a fair distance away I trotted away in triumph and returned to more heavily-observed areas.

The first pony I encountered back in more populated space was my teacher, accompanied by some dry-looking functionary with a clipboard and glasses perched on his nose. I was invited back to the classroom, with some very odd words. “You did a good job, very good. Now, come to take the penalty.”

We moved back to the interior space, and the paddle came down from the wall. The words that came next have stayed with me, to this very day. He was very quotable in that respect. “Yes, you did a good thing. Took items back from bullies to help your brother. But you still stole to do it. There’s still a penalty. Perhaps you will not be punished as badly. But you still must be punished.” The paddle came down only a time or two. I don’t recall that specifically. But it was not that bad.

I hung about for a time, listening to the teacher discuss things with the follower. It was mostly conversation about the teacher’s level of education and some background on his life. Apparently, he came out of Stalliongrad, son of a Przewalskivek, in the time after the bosses had been expelled and relations with Princess Celestia had been reestablished. There were too many educated persons in Stalliongrad at that time, so he tried to get a job in Equestria proper. But there was nothing available, save for the school in Pericarp. What he wanted was a chance to get a good opportunity in a university. The compatriot, who mentioned something about Celestia and Canterlot, only made some marks on the board. All I know is that in a matter of days we had a new teacher, with no comment on what became of the other. I wonder what happened to him.

Home life was rather muted, because pappy was busy working and glad-hoofing, and momma was there to entertain and keep the neighbors, even the wealthy ones, constantly impressed and seeing us as the most amazing family in the entire county. That’s what I thought was going on with momma. She was a sly one, to be sure. Every so often she had over distinctly different sorts. They were like I heard we used to be. Farmers. Hardy, flinty folk that would never normally travel in our new sphere.

I used to just leave it be, until I got curious. You’ll find, miss Dash, that curiosity is one of my downfalls. I looked in on one of these meetings, which was held in the southern drawing room. Yes, that very room once again.

It was with a slightly older gentlecolt. He wore standard farmer attire, overalls and a straw hat. He also sported a fine goatee and a moustache attached, in a salt-and-pepper color, matching the graying of his dark mane and standing out against the deep roan of his coat. He was down at the same table, sitting across from momma with a deck of cards between them and a stack of chips before each of them. It was strange. I didn’t think she was naturally a gambler. I now know better. She’s a natural gambler. How does that strike you? We’re two of a kind. The mirrors of one another. But one of us is evil. I guess you just have to figure out which is which.

She wasn’t talking much, just making comments about her cards or her bet. Some conversation passed between them, of course, when there was an especially strong and overpowering win from one or the other. From the tone of the conversation, it was important. Momma was almost taunting him when he lost, and he seemed greatly relieved when he won, talking about how he was going to be fine. He wasn’t fine, though. He wasn’t fine at all. His chips were gobbled up by momma by the hoofful, taken by the kinds of wins that she preferred. She loved big flourishes. And won with another big flourish, gloating proudly over his crushed features.

The stakes of it finally came into being. He slapped down a paper onto the table. It was a deed. She had just won his farm. Never mind the legal processes, banks and negotiations and monetary outlay. Just beat him at cards and his property isn’t his anymore. And all he got for his trouble was a mouthful of momma’s Icejack, the liquor she makes freezing hard cider and extracting the high-potency stuff that didn’t freeze.

The next day, she was making plans with our workers for how to remake the new land as an apple orchard.

The curiosity never went away. I just kept on looking in on these kinds of meetings. I saw them coming around every so often, whenever there was a chance to expand the property. They came in, as furtive, single ponies or as couples looking awed by the surroundings. No matter what, the outcome was always the same. A deed came down, and the ponies went away. Sometimes they cried, sometimes they yelled. But they were always crushed. And momma never cared.

From there… Well, nothing really exciting happened. We just grew up, learned more, and gained more land. Momma ‘bought’ up all kinds of property and pappy managed it with joy and cheer, never caring where it all came from. He was just happy enough to work and look dapper. Luna bless him, he was a happy stallion. Momma could keep him in the dark too easily. I always say, and you may think this unkind but I can’t help my feeling, that the wrong one of them went first. I don’t know how Applejack feels about that. Don’t tell her that either. Let’s just leave that between the two of us.

I polished up my capabilities, by playing against the farm workers and the other household workers, and getting things out of them by guile. I always gave them back, of course. I’m no scoundrel. I won just to win, and to work with that unusual feeling that came to me whenever I worked with a deck of cards. I actually put a sheen of polish on that skill too. Vague feelings gave way to more broad knowledge of where the sevens were and how they were moving in the deck. It actually took a long while to work that up to a usable level, though. Don’t think I’m some magical prodigy. I just got lucky. A wild talent, like some pony folks have.

One of the greatest mysteries you may find with me is to wonder how I managed to become a mere huckster and cheeky rapscallion, rather than a genuine monstrous criminal. I have often heard that ponies absorb their morals and common personal activities from their parents. If that’s the case, I should be a ruthless land mogul extracting joy from the tears and pained wailing of ponies that I have taken. It always seemed to put a smile on momma’s face. And they say I’m the bad pony.

But that’s nothing to do with Applejack. She’s as good of a pony as you’ll find. Kind, sweet, pure as the fallen snow. She’s everything you could want in a wife, when the time comes. Ah, well… Not so pure anymore, am I right? Don’t be ashamed. We country folk know from getting a little… Romantic with pony folk before the ceremony. Even non-pony folk; but out there nopony admits it. Those mules and hinnies and hippogriffs had to come from somewhere, after all. And in some pairs, nothing ever comes out at all. Incidentally, I extend to you an invitation to see such a charming and peaceful union, in our family, with a quick visit to Appleoosa to see Braeburn and Little Strongheart. I understand you get on quite well with her side of the family. You’ll find things are quite pleasant out there these days. I’ve even got a standing offer in to be an Advocate some time or another. Just waiting for the letter.

But let that pass now… Things went along as they had been, as I said. We learned, we grew, and Blenny actually caught the eye of a lovely mare named Cinnamon Sauce. While it’s true that young love seldom… Let me clarify. In all ages, young folk get together for shallow reasons and split when those shallow reasons are exposed as shallow nothingness. When you’ve got a real connection, youth is no issue at all. Not that I’m saying anything, but… You have that solid connection.

Their love was built on genuine connection. Blenny was a somewhat sensitive soul, though molded by pappy into a masculine farmer type. He actually liked those old books on poetry and such. In fact, he enjoyed the company of that old teacher, because he picked up some good lines he could feed to the young filly.

Here’s a good tip for you: Don’t try using poetry on Applejack, unless it’s been through the radio backed by a guitar, a steel guitar, a banjo or a fiddle. Applejack isn’t the sort to respond to nocturnes and nachtmuzik. I may be vulnerable to such, but I can assure you it is not at all genetic. Sing her serenades of country and western music and things of that nature.

Her father was adept at using poems and sweet nothings. And her mother was very susceptible to the charms of such things. At least, I’m presuming that. I was always off doing my own things. But when I saw Blenny during those times he was always with Cinnamon, and she always looked completely entranced. I’ll give him that. He had skills. I admire my little brother for that. I admire all my relatives in some respect. Except for Valencia. But not for the reasons you might think. I don’t mind she never had foals; I mind she turned into, well… I’ll leave that aside. Just keep your eyes open around her.

What became of that? Well, you can probably tell. They actually managed to get hitched well before Cinnamon got herself pregnant with Big Macintosh. Pappy Adam’s genes were the cause of that one; he’s the only one of the grandchildren that managed to get those. Blenny was lucky for that. Macintosh carries pappy’s carriage with him, and will go on to pass it along. Lucky lil colt.

And for a time, I got to be the favorite uncle. Big Macintosh used to love parading around in my clothes. It was cute when he stumbled around in them when they were too big for him. He filled them out remarkably well remarkably quickly. And Applejack… Where did that little filly go to? She grew up very fast indeed. But while she was there, oh how she loved getting me to help her buck apples and haul them off. My little workhorse.

In any case, that’s all I guess I really need to say about my relatives and their offspring. You know all the rest of them, probably. Everypony out there likes pulling out the genealogy chart. It looks like a tablecloth, doesn’t it? They not only wanted the names nice and big, but it looks impressive spread out on the wall like a tapestry. I’ll bet you didn’t see my name there and probably asked why once. Momma would never let you stay around if you asked more than once. The thing is used more to determine inheritance and the distribution of property. Braeburn’s section probably looks very new. He got erased and written back in. I wish I had seen that. How much it galled momma to write his name back in. And Little Strongheart’s name with him. When the time comes, she’ll have somepony else write the names of their children.

You might not believe it, but I was not always the kind of good-acting grifting charmer I am now. I’ve implied it before, but it’s true. I was once a four-flusher. I mean that literally. I had four diamonds and then… Well, you probably didn’t know that you could make the ace of hearts look like the ace of diamonds if you arrange it right. Not my proudest moment, but I won. That used to matter a lot to me. That eventually came to trip me up. It was a small thing. But momma has a remarkable talent for turning molehills into mountains.

See, I was getting known in the county. In all the right ways, of course. I was dressing like a proper country dandy, with my oiled mane and my sharp duds. One look and it was clear I didn’t do a lick of work around that orchard. Strange how a family goes from hard work to gentrified inaction. Bits will do that to you. There were a few of the nicer mares getting their eye on me. Heir to the family fortune and property, sharp dresser, not too bad looking. A good catch by any standards. But none of them caught me. Somehow, I just figured none of them were for me. Now I realize I was right. But let’s move on to what I was doing that wasn’t quite on momma’s good list.

One of the problems was, I was winning. I don’t just mean that I was beating folk at cards. That would have been fine, in private, in dark rooms with the lower-end of the county. Dirty bits wash clean when somepony buys lace lace-holders and silver trays to hold silver trays. I was moving about in our polite society, sitting ponies down at a table and pulling out a deck. It was truly embarrassing how badly they lost. I could start out with bits enough to cover the first round of betting and raising, and leave with bags of bits jangling at my back and a smile on my face. Momma didn’t have that kind of smile. Pappy did, though, he liked to nudge and chuckle. Got him a few elbows to the ribs from momma.

It was never REALLY one act. She’ll talk about my one shameful act. But it was just that. The compounding guilt and shame of ponies whispering about me. I was often looked at as a cheater because I won so much. Real skill couldn’t possibly be the answer, of course, because I had shamed the finest ponies in the region, and taken their money. Winks and nods go only so far when you’ve made these egomaniacs look like the petty nothings they really are. It was a lot of fun.

If there was really one significant event, it was when I did publicly what momma did in secret. Don’t ever tell Applejack this. I can’t have her know this part. I stole a title deed to farmable land with a card game. But I did it in the open. I challenged an orchard owner to a game with the deed on the line. And I won. I won in the eyes of the crowd. I won in open spaces. I won right in momma’s face. And after I had that deed in my hoof, I strutted proudly over and presented her that title, in the gaze of the county. And she gave it right back, with all the scraping supplication her imitation-aristocrat body would allow.

Comfort Apple Bloom. I was very much an adult stallion when I got my Cutie Mark. I had no angst over my lack before. But the presence of it gave me pause. I got it in that moment when I saw momma give that deed back with a poison smile, offering her apologies to the county for my misdeeds. The misdeeds which she did in private. I had turned into her mirror more blatantly than before. But the mirror she couldn’t hide behind fancy ruffles and country gentility. I was raw and present, forever visible, and bringing forward whispers and hoof-pointing towards our family. When that deed hit its owner’s hooves, my Cutie Mark flashed onto my flank, in full view of the crowd. A bright and perfect red apple, as we liked to sell, cut open to reveal the sickly green putrescence behind the façade of wonderful perfection. Stamped there for all to see.

Relations fell fairly quickly after that. Momma could always get her way over pappy’s objections. I was family scion! Firstborn colt of an affected aristocratic family. It didn’t matter at all. I was becoming a public shame. I was becoming momma’s shame. She wanted me out. And she took everything away from me.
She took my inheritance; that became Blenheim’s. She took my home; I was told never to return. She took my family; I wasn’t allowed to make contact with them anymore, not even with the two that called me uncle and looked up to me. But beyond anything else, she stole my name. As it was the day I was born, I wasn’t Bramley. I was Bad Apple.

Well… That’s the story. I trotted out of Pericarp County with what I could bear on my back and never looked back. Not that I kept completely out of the loop. I watched apple prices spike slightly from carefully-managed scarcity and ruthlessly-impacted new markets and expanded usages. If you wanted to know why Appleoosa was so apple-heavy, it’s because apples are still being touted as the perfect colony food. Incidentally, I didn’t smile when the price of apples started to fall when the markets were flooded in a desperate attempt to squeeze more bits out of them. I was rather sad when I heard that momma needed to sell off the large property in Pericarp and move to Blenheim’s personal property in Ponyville. It was all because the first generation started making the second generation. Lots and lots of second generations. Except for Valencia. She got around the bits problem by marrying Hamlin l’Orange, a merchant and business stallion from Manehattan.

As well… Blenny was still my closest, most loyal family member. I was his best friend, momma or no. He was good about slipping me letters on the sly. He even told me about the birth of Applebloom, whom I still have never seen. He passed his familiarity and secrecy on to Applejack before his… Well, she probably told you about what became of my brother and his bride after the birth of little Applebloom. Working that hard to try and make momma a country aristocrat again. All because he was the heir to it all. I’m glad pappy’s hard work put him in the ground before he could see what became of his family.

There’s more to it. I was still an unpolished piece of clay stomping around on my criminal way. I got picked up a lot back then. Vagrancy, petty larceny, pick pouching, fraud. It takes practice to get better, and I wasn’t very good about that. A bit too arrogant. I needed to be deflated a little and shown my own limitations. But I’ll let that alone. You wanted the story the family had. And there you have it. I’ll keep some secrets for myself.

Be well, both you and Applejack. Now I know I have a safe haven for messages. Well, another one, at any rate. All the best from your future covert uncle,

-Brigandine Jasper Saltingslide, at least in this town.

The letter finished, Bad Apple slowly leaned back against a cushion and looked out the window. Night was falling and the stars were slowly coming out. He looked upon the stars with a smile and checked their positions. He was bound for a big river, and was well on the path. Heading north for unknown places. His favorite.

To Be Continued…

Up the river...

A few short miles outside of Pericarp County the communities clustered themselves around the river. There were any number of such large rivers that crisscrossed the land of Equestria, making it a great, green, well-watered land. That particular river was known as the Maresisippi river, one of the biggest and best known. The towns clustered along its banks were major transport hubs, goods from the north and south flowing up and down, and then distributed east and west from the towns.

Outside the furthest town on the edge of Pericarp county that was close to the river was the hub town of Clemenshorne, which had grown in stature and prominence by being the most common port for shipping apples along the river. Apple family money had been pouring into it for years, making them a very popular family in the area. But while they were happy to take Apple money, they didn’t pay much attention to what was happening in the county itself. And since few relatives of the Apples lived in there, the edicts of Eugenia Smith-Apple held very little meaning.

That was why the folk of the town were more than happy to invite in the brash young caramel stallion with the apple on his flank to do as he pleased. His black mane was feathered and tousled, looking chaotic yet stylish. He wore a white suit and string tie, looking a proper country gentlecolt. He even had a small black moustache, which he occasionally stroked lightly while he spoke.

He made his way around the down glad-hoofing and winking occasionally at the mares that would catch his eye. He looked like he had money and nothing caught the attention of a merchant town mare like a stallion with some bits in his bag. They were only too glad to offer to buy him lunch, as mares did for stallions, or to get little trinkets such as string ties and lace. His honeyed words flowed freely and his agile hooves touched, without actually making inappropriate contact. Any number of them were lining up to try and court him down the aisle.

The dapper Apple, who waved off questions regarding his more specific identity, eventually settled himself in the local saloon and salt station, holding forth at a table with a deck of cards. It was not an uncommon thing. There was always a stallion or two with a desire for a quick earning via games of chance. He had many takers, who all sat down to play.

Play proceeded without chips. Raw bits were the ante tossed into the pot, and were all that were needed to raise. The pot started very small; the young fellow had very little in his pouch. He risked it all on his first throw, smiling all the while. He was the only one smiling when all the cards were shown, and all the bits raked into the space before him.

With more bits to risk, the young stallion risked them with seeming impunity. He lost, as happened normally in the course of gambling, but he won far more often. He consumed the bits of his opponents in huge, gluttonous chunks. He forced big moves from them by appearing weak then trouncing them monstrously. His opponents drifted off in grumbling huffs one after another as they lost a majority of their bits, or even all of them, the last one tromping off after he turned out his pouch and found nothing left but lint. As a final little kicker, the stallion offered two bits for the pouch, which he used to carry around all his new money.

His next activity was to trot down to the office to purchase a ticket on the next passenger steamer bound down the river. He flashed his bits and his smile all around, bringing in a few other ticket buyers. The mares that had been following him around, and had been competing with each other for his evenly-spread attentions, all looked most disappointed by his decision. Some even slid him their names in scraps of paper, happy and light as they trotted away, because they never saw him letting the papers fall into the river and flow away.

The boat arrived at the dock in short order, loading from two ends. The slick stallion jangled his way up the gangplank, waving his black tail towards the mares who waved and sighed, none of them taking account of the bits they had spent in vain. He also seemed to be waving his flank at the stallions that stood and seethed, perhaps inviting them to kiss it.

The steamboat was divided into four layers, arranged inside the large enclosed area in the center of the deck. Below the level of the deck there was a layer of rooming for those that had paid for lodging on the ship. The rooms were cramped and closed, the air warm from the boiler below, and stuffy from the insufficient ventilation. The rooms were arranged along the keel of the ship, a long hall leading up and down past the rows of doors. At the far end of the hall was a stairway down to the lower area, which held the huge coal boiler and served as living quarters for the workers. It was also used as a sleeping area for the lower class of the travelers, who could not get a room or who were swept off the deck by watch ponies. At deck level was a finely appointed lounge and dining area, with crystal chandeliers and lovely paintings on the walls. The top layer was where the captain controlled the massive paddlewheels and where the navigator plotted their course along.

The snappy new arrival didn’t bother getting his room, as he never intended to set down his pack. He strolled down to the back of the passenger hall, and into the boiler room. He trotted through the wave of heat that hit him as he went down, sweat springing up immediately and bringing a sheen to his skin. “Hello, chappies. Anypony down here care to put a few bits down on a game?”

A few heads popped up, all earth ponies. Two of the boiler-tenders and one of the ponies huddled down in the shadows. All three were fairly indistinguishable from the covering of coal and threadbare clothing. All three wandered over to the aristocratic stallion, drawn by the sound of jangling bits in his pouch. One of them, an older stallion, eyed the younger one and tapped his hoof. “What are you doing down in the boiler with us? A bit strange for a proper gentlecolt to be down in the belly of a steamer.”

“Oh, come now. Why be so suspicious? I’m just a country-living gentlecolt who plays a little bit of whist. I’ve heard a lot about all your river-going folk, and how much you like to play cards. I thought maybe you’d show a first-timer an interesting time.”

The other ponies looked between each other and winked to one another before the older one nodded and smiled pleasantly to the country gentlecolt. “Now that’s a powerful good idea! Got to tell you, though, we don’t really play whist. We play poker down here. Do you know how to play poker?”

"Poker... Poker... Ah! The name seemed familiar. I do recall hearing something about it and I do believe I heard the rules along the line. Yes, I'm certain I could get the hang of it. I hope you'll go easy on me." The young adult looked on with a bright smile and a vulnerable posture, as he took a seat by a wooden crate with the right height to serve as a table.

"Well, stranger, we'll serve you well. Don't you fret. You'll get taken care of." The older gent winked to the other two, all three of them taking places around the crate.
The country dandy shuffled his deck a few times and hesitated as he was about to pass them out. “Wait… How many do we get again?”

The other ponies smirked to one another and laid bits on the crate. “Five, stranger. Five.”

The cards were distributed with only slight hesitation, all the cards taken up and looked at. The dealer pony dropped a bit from his jangling pouch onto the crate and looking at his cards. He adjusted the cards in his hooves, and scratched his head. Ok, now we… Add more money?”

“Yup. Drop how much you think your hand is worth.” The others all put down a single bit.

After one more consideration, the last member of the card game dropped two bits, with hesitation. He was surprised when the rest of them put down more bits. “Oh! Wait… What is that?”

“That’s how it works, stranger. You put down the same as the rest unless ya think you’ve got a good one. Then we all match it up. Think it’s worth another bit or are you ready to move on?” The spokespony for the group nodded lightly to his cronies after his speech.

Another look led to a shake of his head. Then he set down two of the cards and took up two more. “I remember this part. We get to try and get better cards.”

The others put in their own cards, receiving their own cards. “Alright. Now we throw in some more bits.” The others looked at their cards, one throwing his cards down, the rest putting down single coins.
The dealer gave his own bit and looked at the rest. “That’s all for me. So, here’s what I have.” He showed his cards. Nothing but a pair of sevens and low garbage.

"Ooh, too bad, stranger. I've got you beat." The older pony laid out a hand with three threes, the only other pony in the running showing off a pair of sixes. "All mine." The gent took in the pile of bits, winking to the other two, all three missing the stranger smiling.

The game went mostly in that fashion, the stranger asking a few questions about the value of card combinations, while he continued to bleed bits from the heavy pouch he had with him. But there were some slight indications all was not as it seemed. Occasional good moves and fair bluffs came from the apparantly inexperienced dandy, along with "suddenly" remembering the rules and calling one of the other ponies on his attept to claim a win on a had that had been beaten.

After a long while of chugging along the river, the stranger finally showed his true colors. He had softened up the belly-traveling tramps, making them believe he was a harmless whist-playing country aristocrat, looking for excitement and adventure and a little danger walking on the wild side. Then he proposed higher stakes, as his bag was growing light in any case, and he didn't want to drag out the inevitable. The other three agreed. How hard would it be to clean out a jolly dandy, really?

The minimum bets had been sharply increased, as had minimum raises, while all limits had been removed. Bits clinked on the impromptu gaming table, arranged in messy piles, passed from hoof to hoof. The three had grown adversarial. Now there were serious amounts, being bandied about in greater quantities. They barely gave a token thought about the pony that served as dealer. They noticed soon enough when he was eating up their wagers, taking away the good take they had built up as they greedily attempted to win the whole take from one another. The new bits put in their hooves and what few bits hat been jangling in their pouches before they started, all were claimed in round after round. They were just hoodwinked enough to believe it was all a fluke, a mere streak that would end grandly.

“Two pairs, aces and eights, jack of spades for the kicker.” The cards were flipped over smoothly, the toehr three ponies slapping their cards down and groaning as the pot was swept up and dropped into the large pouch the stranger had at his side. “Gentlecolts… It’s been fun.”

“Yea, fun… You sure got real good real fast, stranger.” The older pony stood up slowly, glaring at the brash young stallion in the low light. “It’s very curious.”

The pouch was tied up and attached to the young male’s side. He then stared just behind the older stallion, at the boiler. “Well, I’m a curious colt. But what I find really curious is how you managed to go this long without noticing you’re being watched.”

“What?” All three of the stallions looked behind them. The realized, somewhat quickly, of course they were being watched. There were others riding in the belly. “Hey!” But it was already too late. The other pony had turned tail and run out. He was already up the stairs. And any pony with that many bits and dressed like that had a decent room. The type the steamboat crew would be only too eager to assist.

He ran his way down the hall and up to the deck. It had grown late, and undoubtedly the lounge would be well-supplied with ponies, to trick and to relieve of belongings. He stopped long enough to catch his breath and arrange his invented back story in his head. The pack wasn’t exactly standard issue, but it added a little to his mystery. The one detail that jarred just slightly, making him all the more interesting and unusual.

Once the cool river air had worked its way over him, and removed the sweat gained from being near the boiler, the young male strode in to the large inner area, trotting through the utilitarian halls with his coin pouch jangling. He stepped through a door into a wholly different environment. The floor was an expanse of red carpet, perfectly cleaned and plush, not a pile out of place. The place was paneled in wood with recessed teak sections spaced evenly midway up the walls, those sections trimmed in gold, the non-teak portions painted bright white. The ceiling was slightly domed, a large and beautiful crystal chandelier hanging from it and casting glittering lights over the area. A bar was to the right of the entrance, a few ponies holding forth at it. To the left, a door leading to the dining area, and several tables. They were uninhabited save for one, which held a black-suited older stallion with a long white mane and white more-than-goatee and attached moustache. His coat was still a striking roan despite his obvious age; also despite his age he seemed spry and collected, eyes sparkling with intelligence. His mane was done back, held down by some kind of product, while his formal white shirt was held closed with black lace.

As the first order of business, the newly-arrived center of attention went to the bar. “Evening, barkeep. Let me have some salt and a scotch rocks.”

The bartender, a slightly-short cream stallion with a bushy mane wearing a set of dark round glasses with dark rims, nodded, pulling out a silver plate and pouring out a small quantity of salt. He then took out a lowball glass and scooped in some ice. As he poured in the scotch he commented, “Say, stranger, have you heard anything odd? I swear I can hear some drilling in the wall.”

“Haven’t heard anything out of the ordinary. But I haven’t been up here very long.” The young stallion laid some bits on the bar and took up the glass, saluting the strange little barkeep. He took a quick sip and then licked up a bit of salt. After a few more sips and licks, he really took notice of the older stallion. There was just something about him. Something familiar. And the stallion thought the same. A small movement of his hoof beckoned the young stallion over.

“Evening, youngster.” The older stallion looked aside at the apple mark on the young stallion’s flank and his grin pulled wider. “To whom do I owe the honor?”

The younger male had a seat at the table and set his back down beside him. “Evening, sir. Name’s Apple Graft. Just out of Clemenshorne via greater Mesocarp. Not much to do out there if you don’t buck apples or ship them out. I’m just a restless stallion. Thought I’d try my hoof at this.”

“Is that so? Well, welcome to the river, mister Apple… Sorry, mister Graft. I hope you find it pleasant. Most folks are very friendly and generous along the waterways.”

“I certainly know it. I’ve found the ponies here to be so generous, so very giving. They’re very kind to complete strangers. I enjoy that kind of open-hoofed nature.”

“All it takes is a little encouragement and folk along the rive rive up just about anything. Got a code of honor and all that. So… It’s a long trip to where we’re going, mister Graft. Would you care to pass the time in more of a gentlecoltly fashion?”

“That sounds quite civilized, good sir. And just how would we spend such a time? Were you thinking, perhaps, a game of Whist if we get two more?”

“No no. Let’s not bother the others. Why not have a good, stallionly game of poker? I have a deck if you have the time and inclination.”

“As it so happens, I enjoy that game greatly, and have just the temperament to give it a go. I should warn you, sir, that I have been told I play a mean hand or two.”

“Very well! This should be interesting, then.” The older stallion pulled out a deck of cards from in his jacket pocket, shuffling and cutting them with speed and grace. “I don’t suppose a proper young country gentlecolt like yourself would care to lay down a few bits on the games? Just out of pure good-natured fun?”

“Why, sir, I find that a most excellent idea! Not too much, of course, just a little bit to make it interesting.” Apple let his bag of bits hit the table, jangling them loudly.

“But of course…” The older stallion laid out a smaller pouch of bit and tossed a few into the center of the table. “Just to be friendly.”

Apple tossed out an equal number of his own bits and lightly tapped the table top. “Speaking of friendly, what’s your name, old sir?”

“Me? Well, just call me Chance. Everypony around here does.” Chance flipped the cards from the deck, dealing out for himself and Apple.

Apple took his cards and looked them over with an interested eye, throwing down an additional bit. “I like you, Chance. To the point. Good job on that.”

“Well, thank you…” A bit from Chance hit the table. “I’ve learned how it works out here. It’s not my original home, after all.”

Two cards slid across the table while Apple nodded. “We’ve all got to move away from home. Just a part of growing up, I guess.”

“Got to? Maybe, I guess…” Chance took one card for himself and laid another bit on the table. “Life works out like that. But how do you get those ponies that live generation on generation in one spot?”

“Ah, that’s just the exception that proves the rules. Ponies are always being told to strike out on their own and see the world, get out of the family homestead. It’s how we spread so far.” Apple threw down two bits and adjusted his cards. “Why we’re on the river rather than were we were born.”

Chance matched the action then laid out his cards. Two pair, sevens and jacks. “Of course. Of course. That‘s it.”

“I don’t mean to begrudge the homebodies. But sometimes there are pressing matters to tend to.” Apple laid out a pair of threes and a lot of nothing. “Good fortune, Chance. Looks like you’ve got a touch of the good luck about you.”

Chance swept up the cards and the bits, shuffling and cutting then handing the deck across to Apple. “Oh, just a fluke, I’m sure. I only play occasionally, friendly games with nice travelers.”

“It’s the same with me. I play in parlors and sitting rooms. I’m just a country gentlecolt.” The cards were shuffled again, several more times than were strictly necessary and cut at an odd place before being dealt out. “Nothing special. Ordinary, forgettable stallion.”

Chance laid out his bits before looking at his cards. “Indeed. Nothing at all memorable or suspicious about you. It’s a good state to be in. If you leave no impressions anywhere at all you can come and go as you please, easily slipping into any place you want.” He laid down one more bit, shifting his cards around.

“Yes, well, I’m not that invisible. I have left many an impression on some stallions with whom I have spoken, and deeply impressed many mares.” Apple anted and then called the initial bet after a quick look at his cards. He dropped two and picked up two. “I’m not a bad stallion, overall.”

“Really? I thought even Cannonites stopped polygyny in the Principality. I was sure only those griffins did that sort of thing. Oh! Do you mean you love and leave?” Chance dropped three cards and took three new cards. “That’s one way to do it. But do you leave enough of an impression to upset them?” He tossed a bit into the pot and looked sternly at his opponent.

“Not that it matters but I hardly stay long enough. Mostly they’re attracted to my charming demeanor and good looks. They feel inclined to offer little trinkets and tidbits and buy me meals. Who am I to complain?” More bits landed on the table, significantly more than Chance’s single bit.

Chance laid his cards down and slid them across the table. “Of course. How could you possibly resist?”

As it had in the belly of the boat, the younger stallion’s strategy worked in big moves, grand sweeps of gamesmanship and big bets meant to chew up his opponent by the gluttonous mouthful. The difference was, unlike his prior opponents, his competition did not take the bait.

Chance could almost sense bluffs or sweep attempts, folding before the replacement of cards if needed, and only betting more than normal when he clearly had the advantage. Nothing big, nothing flashy. The problem was, it worked. He was winning more games with smaller takes. He was bleeding out bits into his own pouch, clink by clink. The young stallion had killed off his salt and drink long ago, and not wanted to waste a bit on getting more, much as he could have used them.

“Young stallion… I feel it only fair to tell you, I have not been exactly honest with you.” Chance sat back, holding up the round as he spoke. “You may be able to tell I’m something of an old hoof at games like this. Thing I, I wasn’t always. I can’t say if I’m grateful or not by the forced change of surrounding or not. But I wanted you to know why you’re not doing so well.”

“I figured that out, old man. I figured that out.” Apple looked ragged, one hoof tapping the ground as he laid a few more bits on the table. “Congratulations. You put one over on an innocent younger country gentlecolt for your own amusement.”

“Now now… Do you really want to give me a line like that? I knew who you were the minute you stepped into the room, mister Apple. Graft indeed. You just tried your hoof against somepony that wasn’t going to let you get away with it. I knew your style, knew your intention, knew it all.”

The unveiled young stallion slammed his bit pouch down on the table. “Think you know it all? Take it. Take that chance. Show me what you know…”

Chance was very calm as he looked into the pouch, counted the bits, and matched the amount exactly. “All in?”

“All… In…” Cards turned over. Three sevens. “Beat it.”

“Glad to.” Chance flipped his cards one at a time. Six-high straight. “That was your choice, young man. You made the bad decision to break the cardinal rule of… Not just this, but of life itself. Never bet what you can’t afford to lose. Not all situations are as temporary as this one.” The pouch was flipped back onto the other side of the table, with the remainder left inside.

“I don’t need your pity or your charity, grifter. I’ll take my lumps.” The pouch was pushed back.

“Listen, a trade. If you have what I want, I trade back what’s left in your pouch.”

“What do you want?”

“A flask of icejack. Eugenia Apple’s homebrew icejack. It’ll probably taste delicious now that time has worn the bitterness out of a mouthful.”

There was silence, for a long while, until the pack set on the ground was opened, and a flash set down on the table with a shaky hoof. “Wh-which one were you?”

“It wouldn’t matter to tell you. Even if you remembered it wouldn’t change anything.” Chance slid the pouch across the table, with some bits underneath it, taking the flask back with him. “Never knew an Apple family child without at least one flask of this. And yet, you bought salt and alcohol at the bar. You’re not out. Why haven’t you drunk it?”

“I… Can’t. I don’t know what it tasted like to you, but if it tasted half as bad as it does in my mouth, I’m sorry you ever had it.”

“Which child are you? You’re old enough to be the first generation.”

“I’m nopony. I was tossed out. I was like momma. But she didn’t like it. I don’t understand…”

Chance took a quick swig from the flask, looking down at the silver object. It was marked with an apple, but the name had been obliterated, leaving only the letter ‘B.’ “Yea. You’re exactly like her. Used the same techniques that floored me years ago. The difference is, it’s not years ago. I learned better than to try to gobble up big chunks. There’s always better players, and not everypony will be caught unwary. Bleeding out bit by bit is not flashy, not impressive, not entertaining. But it works. The long game, the slow grind, the far-ahead gaze. These things work. A heavy trounce looks good and crushes spirits. But you risk more than you ought to. And like I said… You should never bet what you can’t afford to lose. I know that. Now.”

B shivered as though he had been punched, looking up to Chance while he retrieved his pouch and the few extra bits he had been given. “I didn’t exactly relish being exactly like her. But I thought it would make her love me.”

“Nopony likes a mirror in front of them, reflecting all their negativity. Whatever else you might be, you were that. I’m surprised nopony taught you a better lesson than that ambitious mare.”

“Somepony tried…” B closed his pouch and placed it at his hip. “Guess I wasn’t ready to ride the river yet. I’m still surprised to find somepony who recognized me.”

“I didn’t. I knew that apple on your flank and figured I’d test your mettle. Looks like you really DON’T fall too far from the tree. Dressed like your pappy and acting like your momma. Spreading the Apple family far and wide. Showing everypony what they always knew about them.”

“And what’s that?”

“Cold. Cruel. Heavy on the heart and light on the care.” Chance took another swig of the liquor and got up from the table, leaving B alone to his thoughts.

At the next town down the line along the Maressissippi, abutting the infamous Mountains of Madness, one passenger walked down the gangplank without much fanfare. He first made his way into a barber shop, to ask for a quick shave, and a tin of pomade. Just one certainly couldn’t hurt.

Face clean, mane slicked, the newly-styled Apple slunk into a tailor shop. The mare behind the counter was willing to take a trade on his fine suit, giving his a deep discount on a new set of clothes. Ruffle-chested white shirt, black vest, black coat. The shirt needed a tie to keep closed, but rather than spend money on one, he opted to use one of the pieces of black lace to close it.

The last stop, before seeking out a boarding house for a slightly-extended stay, was a quick stop at the local tavern, for a quick swallow and a bit of relaxation. But the moment he got in, all he could hear were murmurs. Whispers. Rumors. Everything going on through the towns around. Everything that could use a helping hoof. Everything that needed a good stallion. Or a bad Apple.

The End