Near the Tree

by MagLocal

Rating: everyone
Tags: Drama, Apple Bloom, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Cutie Mark Crusaders, Applejack (EqG), Equestria Girls, Big Macintosh, Slice of Life, Granny Smith
Length: 14029

Apple Bloom tries to connect with her Equestrian sort-of brother in the middle of a multiversal expo.

The parallel universes of Earth and Equus have met peacefully, so in a show of unity and cultural exchange, the Multiverse Expo is taking place in Canterlot City, where humans and Equestrians enjoy each other's accomplishments and company.

But in the midst of Apple Bloom's excitement over magic creatures and working with the family to sell good Apple family cooking to these fascinating visitors, she encounters a stallion who bears too much resemblance to her brother for it to be a coincidence.

So she steps forward to connect with family beyond the boundaries of her universe.

Brainstormed with and pre-read by Venerable Ro and Ninjadeadbeard, pre-read again by Casketbase77.

Will release all seven chapters, from two to three per day, preferably daily.

Published 2022-07-29 12:10:01 UTC
Last updated 2022-07-31 13:20:07 UTC

Cosmic Crisp

To meet her brother for the first time again—it hits so close to, yet so far from, home.

Granted, Apple Bloom and her family aren’t the estranged type; they’re knitted tighter than the Gordian knot. Big Mac’s been there since day one, from the rare and barely remembered early morning of strong and sturdy hands lifting her from the crib, through laughing at how his cheeks went all big and red when he stuffed it with too many apples at once, all the way to playing tag with him and Applejack across the whole orchard after a grueling day of pulling weeds, feeding chickens, care-taking horses, and picking precious, delicious apples.

But to meet Big Mac, the best big brother ever, like a stranger, is sitting down for lunch and finding out that they’re having breaks at the same time. It’s discovering that they’re eating at the same place, too, a pizzeria owned by a pony across the interdimensional divide. They even like the same flavor of pizza! Juicy tomatoes fresh from the local farm, fresh basil plucked with tender love and care, and sweet olive oil drizzled all over.

Though in a completely different form, this is surely him. A red jacket becomes an all-encompassing crimson coat; his brown collar, now a hefty yoke. That same scruffy hairstyle fits a magic equine well as his windswept mane, just as she’d ruffled his hair so many times in younger days with their brighter mornings.

All she has to do is sit down at his table and get started. The rest of the Club had their own meet-your-loved-ones moments in the expo; now is her moment.

But earlier, in the Apple family’s cranky old jalopy chugging its way to the expo, it was everyone else’s moment.

“Eeeeeee! We’re gonna see unicorns! Eeeeeee!”

Sweetie Belle’s melodiously blood-curdling screams cement the Canterlot Movie Club’s presence in the smoke-belcher.

“Come on, Sweets, there’s more than just ‘pretty little unicorns’!” Scotaloo’s fingers flap up and down over those last few words, over-imitating the fancy girl’s accent. “There’s pegasi flying around! Like, horses with wings? That can fly? And do aerobatics like fighter jets?! Come on, Canterlot Filmies, won’t that be the best thing ever?!”

“Can you lift yer’ weight, Scoots? Yer’ crushin’ me here.”

Scootaloo does adjust her weight, half-squatting above Apple Bloom’s knees in the cramped passenger bench. What’s worse, Sweetie and her froufrou purse take up an open window, breathing in all the fresh and now surely magical air as they draw closer to jampacked Middle Park.

“Quit yer yappin’ and just let me drive! The engine’ll bail if y’all keep gabbin’!” And Granny Smith twirls the wheel in circles, pushing and pulling the creaking manual transmission of this aging and smoke-sputtering metal machine like a pro racer.

“How in the world is this truck still going?” shouts Sweetie, her flapping cheeks capturing too much fresh air.

“Dad works as a mechanic sometimes,” Scootaloo cuts in, “and he says that it really is gonna break sooner or later. It’s seventy years old, even older than Daring’s truck from The Marked Thief of Marapore!”

“And yer’ sayin’ those scooters of yours we just made at my house ain’t gonna fall apart like a pair of twigs like that same truck?”

“Hey, you did all the woodwork, Apple Bloom! Besides, no offense to the magic ponies, but I don’t think they know what we humans can do with these bad boys!”

Apple Bloom snorts at that, whickering like one of the family horses. Sweet little Cookie did always look confused whenever the girl told her trusty steed that there were magical talking horses in a magical land across some magical portal at school. And now a chockful of pure magic is just a block away.

“Ayuh!”

All jerk to a stop; heads and knees take a dashboard beating.

“Alright, you whippersnappers!” Granny unbuckles her seat belt and slams the front door open. “We’re here! Get back to yer sisters! They’re worried sick after yer oversleepin’ at the ranch. When I see ‘em, I’ll tell ‘em how you experimen’ed on our livestock!”

“Oh, come on!” cries Sweetie Belle, hopping off the truck and onto firm pavement, gifting Apple Bloom more breathing room. “We just had them pull our new scooters and bushels around to test the footstraps, with wooden panels and everything! We didn’t fall once, we swear!”

An insistent Granny simply points at the ebony entrance gate to the venue: Middle Park, where colorful towers and billboards shouting the worlds’ fair’s name tower over vast green spaces, pockmarked in the sky by flying creatures—

Flying wings! Winged, flying creatures! It took a zip line and some tree sap to nab just a few seconds of that, and Scootaloo was screaming with all that her lungs could pack during that one time at camp, but these people, these living and breathing people, living creatures—pegasi, griffons, dragons, hippogriffs, changelings—with their feathers or leather wings, hovering over the venue without an airstrip or propellers or jet fuel—nothing but their own strength! There they are, talking and laughing and doing loops in the air, the freedom of the skies, of magic becoming real, to listen to it like sparkling water—

“Ah ah ah, Apple Bloom!”

Granny’s fast-draw hand catches Apple Bloom trying to sneak away, her little mission failing before it began.

“Aw, come on!”

“We’re here to carry apples to our business, not to sit down doing nothing but look at the pretty horsies all day! Now, chin up and let’s get the dollies rollin’!”

With Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle hurrying past the gates (after getting their school IDs checked by the guards), Apple Bloom keeps herself calm, collected. She goes to the back of the truck to open it up: apples in crates, crates spilling apples aplenty. She has to climb a small mountain just to reach the top, which raises the question of how Granny’s reckless driving managed to not only evade police attention but also preserve every box without any one toppling off the back.

“Not even a fifth of the whole harvest!” Granny proclaims proudly, her hands saddled on her hips. “Now let’s get ‘em to the stand!”

In a flash, it’s back to the job, heaving and hurling each crate onto the dolly. It isn’t exactly hard work, though the literal flying horses just a dozen steps away beckon her to look, to dream onward to the world Sunset’s talked about in her visits to the farm.

With an overwhelming column of apples in her trolley and a cheek-breaking grin plastered across her face, Apple Bloom is finally here: The Multiverse Expo, a weekend-long event in Middle Park where the roads and avenues of Canterlot City, intersecting in this urban oasis with pristine ponds and falling leaves colored in the fiery blaze of autumn, carry the denizens of both Earth and Equus in a historic display of two worlds journeying together through a strange yet conjoined reality.

Her eyes take her to the colorful critters swarming around her, swimming in curious delight as they stir up chatter with humans just like herself, their own smiles wide and cheery despite hanging around on muzzles, beaks, or snouts. She locks eyes with a pony passing by, his scruffy mane like the sea and with turtles as his cutie mark, so said the introductory videos Equestria’s hastily established Earth Tourism Board posted on TackTube.

“Woah! You… you look just like Apple Bloom!” the surfer pony shouts in wide-eyed shock; his friends look his way.

Butterflies wrap around her stomach at the assault of new eyes upon her. “Oh, uh… hey there!” She happily waves at the little stallion and his friends of many species. “Yer’ havin’ fun Mister… uh, what’s-yer-name?!”

“Sandbar, and yeah, we’re all having fun!” He wraps a hoof around a wing, a claw, and the sheer size of a blushing yak’s horn. “I can’t believe you humans can fly with those big planes and world webs!”

She stops, parking the apples by a lamplight decorated with bannered ads for some great and powerful magic show. “Oh yeah, we can fly!… sorta’!” Beholding Sandbar’s winged companions, her fingers twitch. “But what about you? That’s a… you’re griffons, right?”

“Hippogriff! Oh, my name’s Silverstream…the grumpy griff that’s actually a griffon is Gallus, the dragon’s Smolder, the changeling’s Ocellus, and the yak’s Yona! Nice to meet you, Apple Bloom!”

With a claw extended to her, Apple Bloom’s quick to the draw, shaking it gladly. “You’re the first Equestrians I’ve ever met in my life! I can’t believe it!”

“Apple Bloom, ya seedlin’! Where in the whole wide world are you?!”

“Oops!” Hand wrenched away from the claw, she makes it wave dejectedly, taking care of the dolly and pushing the tower of crates once more, can’t hear their goodbyes over the tin of the crowd and the whining of strained wheels. “Um… I gotta go! See ya’ round?!”

“Ah, there you are!” Applejack calls out to her from their Sweet Apple Acres stall.

Wearing stained aprons, Applejack and Big Mac hurry like clockwork, handling portable ovens and grills, checking up on fresh cider barrels and making sure that the taps won’t malfunction like last time with a pent-up Rarity and her spilled-on dress.

Big Mac hands his little sister a clean white apron and a hairnet, and Applejack pours in a fresh mix of cinnamon, salt, and lemon juice into a sauce bowl where they’d lather apple slices for baking and sweet, sweet tasting. If she just closed her eyes, she’d be back home by the smells alone.

“This is just like our CHS fundraiser for Granny’s new hip. AB, you know what to do, right?”

“We’ve got… uh—“ fingers raised for Applejack, ready to count the items on the menu just to be sure “—apple pie, candied apples, caramel apples, apple cider, apple cider donuts, apple turnovers, cinnamon apples, and apple dumplins’!”

“Woo-wee, now let’s get goin’! We’ve got an apple pie for Pinkie over there!”

And over there Pinkie stands, waving her hand like crazy and wearing Apple family sports merchandise, wherever she got that.

But behind her lies a line, an incredibly long and winding one of starving tummies to cook for and serve.

“Woah!”

She almost spills her tray, cups of apple cider tipping. Now she’s leaning over the table, face almost smacking the surface. She gulps, re-introduces herself to the couple seated at their spot just outside the stall.

“Oh, uh, sorry for that! Here’s yer pie an’ cider!”

“Why, thank you!”

The chubby little mare, with her twin ponytails and her cutie mark of pie, bites the tray with her mouth. It’s certainly not sanitary; she decides to ask about ponish door handles in Equestria later.

“Well, I do declare,” shouts the not-so-little horse once she takes her eyes up towards her waiter. “I just can’t believe that when things change so much, they end up staying the same.”

It takes a moment for Apple Bloom to recognize who the mare is speaking to. “Ma’am?”

“Yes, miss!” And she takes a lick of apple pie and a wash of apple juice down her throat. “Princess Twilight explained the whole parallel dimension thingamajig! Our town gets regular visits from the Apple family, and sometimes Apple Bloom comes along… and well, you’re just like her, voice and all!”

“Oh wow, I, uh—“ Apple Bloom spots the line moving back at the stall; they’d need her pair of hands right now “—I’d like to stay an’ chat, but we’re kinda’ swamped!”

“That’s alright! I’ll leave you to it! Oh, and say hi to Rarity, won’t you?” the mare asks as Apple Bloom turns back to the stall. “I heard she’ll be visiting this expo herself!”

Past the backdoor and back into the stall, there’s Applejack moving past with a hot tray in hand. Tries to dodge—

“Oh, ow!”

—hits her arms, the tray drops, its lone pie dangerously falling, but Big Mac makes the save before it strikes the floor, lucky with his mittens on.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean ta—!”

“It’s alright, sugarcube.” There’s a sisterly pat on the shoulder with her own mittens, homely with her hairnet in the middle of the busiest park in the world. “I think we’re all getting a little distracted; it’s the new faces ‘round here, I bet. We’ll get used to them though, right, Big Mac?”

There he goes with that ever familiar tiny smile as he serves steaming hot pie to the next customer. “Eeyup!”

An eager chuckle escapes Apple Bloom’s lips. “Yeah… yeah, we’ll all get used to it…” She trails off as she sees Pinkie, the mare that is, bouncing around on the other side of the park path, also proudly sporting some Apple family merchandise, wherever she got that.

Feet and hooves tap, close to noon, waiting in line, as human mutterings mingle with Equestrian screeches, squawks, and neighs.

There’ll be lunch break. Applejack said it’d be for half an hour. “No use bein’ here if we can’t enjoy the place a little, right?” But hard work is still hard work, though she’s now gotten into the groove, the family vibe, as Scootaloo once said when she busted out a bass guitar and played too-old songs from the sixties to serenade her parents with.

Without looking, she reaches back to grab Applejack’s tray of apples to boil into dumplings. Turn the vat on, reach to the left, but Big Mac opens it with his free hand as he punches more apples to candy with popsicle sticks. The cider barrel gets drained to the last drop, but Granny’s on the way to heave another lofty barrel of apple goodness despite her age thanks to her new hips. More cider’s ready, fresh and high-quality just like it’s been done for generations.

But a sign’s planted straight into the counter: On lunch break.

Customer groans resound, but it’s been a good morning so far: tables are still full, family’s hard work being eaten up and enjoyed by all species imaginable, most once thought mythical. It’s been a great day for Earth and Equus.

Banknotes in her hand all of a sudden, Apple Bloom glances down. “This is… thirty bucks? What?”

“Like I said, what’s workin’ at the fair without enjoyin’ yourself a little, huh?” Several pats on the back later, “Come on, sis, you've earned it.”

She gulps again. Apple Bloom looks at the rest: Granny Smith fixing up the plates and washing utensils while Big Mac counts the money in the cash register, writing transactions down on the ledger. Outside, the final people in line get the message and leave for other attractions like an auction for Equestrian paintings, run by a blueblood noble, perhaps to curry favor with some human officials.

“But what about you, Applejack?”

“I’ll hold down the fort. Just don’t pet the ponies too much, okay?” Applejack finishes with a laugh, her sister already going out the stall—

Apple Bloom’s already dazzled.

Griffons, hippogriffs, changelings, yaks, dragons, ponies galloping or flying or trotting everywhere. Magic shows with unicorns up front, dragons blowing glass to craft vases and other vessels of many hues, live cooking exhibitions to satisfy herbivores and carnivores alike with hay and bacon in separate compartments, contests to parade local traditional sports like buckball and ice archery, musical concerts emanating soothing notes from Equestrian choirs and classical Abyssinian guitars where invisible instruments seemed to come out of nowhere. Still, more came: paintings and contraptions of equine magic and human technology in mutual exchange, garnished with attempts to combine them, such as a computer powered with magic, a steampunk-esque generator of magic clouds, and a man-made battery of preserved magic, all to the tune of a unity of voices all across the catalog of species, spelled out in ooh’s and aah’s. Even Rarity’s in on it, trying to sell a couple hats she’s stitched to prospective humans of refined tastes, the fedora perched on her horn casting her as a ponish counterpart of Detective Spade—

“Rarity?!”

That gets the mare looking her way. “Oh, darling! Is that you, Apple Bloom?”

Away from a hopeful human customer checking out her wares, Rarity approaches, gesturing her to keep walking, Don’t just stand there! Blend in with the crowd, darling! If Rarity’s here, her friends must be nearby, too. Certainly Princess Twilight’s here for diplomacy and politics, but maybe Applejack or Big Mac’s here too, and if either are here—

“Apple Bloom, is that Rarity?!”

The squeaking voice betrays the little sister whose mouth is stuffed with cotton candy.

She turns to the wayward Club member catching up to her. “Wait, uh, Rarity! Sweetie Belle, I—!“

“Rarity?!”

Sweetie Belle shrieks, failing to pick up the mare with her bare hands for a hug, all while she still shrieks straight at the poor pony’s ears. She finally gives up, opting to bend down and embrace her standing.

Rarity reciprocates with a gasp then a nuzzle, luscious mane brushing soft against human skin. “O-oh, Sweetie Belle, I know you must be excited! I, too, am enthusiastic over meeting you, but can you at least calm down and stop shouting in my ears in public?”

After a quick spate of blushes and shaking off other people’s stares and wiping her own mouth from the sugar, “Oh, I’m sorry! I-it’s just… well, when Rarity—not you, my Rarity… see, we used to play dress-up and be unicorn princesses like that. And a unicorn’s my spirit animal, so to see you all around and—!“

“Up-up-up!” The brim of a hat levitates to Sweetie’s mouth to keep her quiet. “One thing at a time! And please walk with me. I still do have these chapeaus to sell to your fine species!”

“Oh, alright. But I can help!”

The two not-really-sisters walk away, out of Apple Bloom’s sight as hats get levitated to human passers-by, given quotes from none other than the Rarity herself.

“And I can help crochet here and there if you want!”

Through the bustling crowd, Apple Bloom trudges past a couple hairy yaks blocking the way, also checking out how keyboards and smartphones work from the local electronics store. While the words are lost on her, she can still see the pair, different-mothered sisters. If she closed her eyes and just listened, it’d be any normal day for Sweetie Belle: hanging out with Rarity at the mall, shopping for some jewelry or hat or some other knick-knack to adorn themselves with, with the occasional video game tossed into the mix.

Paused in the stream of visitors from everywhere, sitting by a fountain, Rarity floats a big fluffy hat onto her sister’s head. It fits her like a glove, and Sweetie laughs.

They immerse themselves in yet another hug.

Her stomach rumbles, and she checks her phone for the time. So many precious minutes spent not finding food. Back to the lane of food stalls before her: there’s the family where Applejack’s close to bargaining with a couple donkeys who aren’t exactly eager to wait the lunch break out, haggling bits in stubborn negotiations.

“Oof!”

She almost trips, certainly bumps; instinct rises to say Sorry, ma’am! but a turn of her head reveals Scootaloo running around on her trusty scooter.

“Oh hey, Apple Bloom!” Can’t possibly have missed her, but her hungry mind gets everything fuzzy. “Heh… I should be the one saying sorry!“

“That’s okay, Scoots! I’m fine, ‘least I think I am.” Checks her elbows and forearms just to see if there are any scrapes from the scooter clash.

“You’ll be alright… oh, sorry, gotta go!” Foot on the ground to swoop herself away—

“What for?”

A brochure’s slapped onto her hand, something about the Wonderbolts. Not the local high school soccer team Wondercolts; these ‘bolts are an elite group of flying stunt aces, pegasus aces. There’s the names, badges, little bios for each of the members. “Imagine the Sapphire Saints, but they fly without the jets! They can do all those cool tricks on their own! They’ve got knife-edge passes, loop-de-loops, barrel rolls, pitches, and crosses… that’s so sick! And look, look!“

A finger flings itself across the page, blazing past the Wonderbolt roster. Spitfire, center forward at soccer—no, now leading the whole crew of these expert fliers, wings as sharp as razor blades. Soarin, the never-winded central midfielder, is now Spitfire’s second-in-command, performing post-stall maneuvers in the air, falling gracefully before picking up speed mere inches before the ground.

And covering two pages at once is the team’s premier striker, Rainbow Dash, sleek in her uniform, with familiar rainbow hair translated into a spectral mane. Pictures capture her flying around, not doing bicycle kicks to catapult the ball past the goalkeeper but surging through the skies, completing turns as tight as a nickel, leaving behind a smoking trail in the colors of her namesake.

“I can’t believe I’ll get a meet and greet with Rainbow Dash, Top Colt style! Uh, that sounded better in my head, but who cares?! I get to have two Rainbow Dashes in my life!”

“Hey, kid.”

The new voice gets their heads turning: a Wonderbolt right there, uniform and goggles and everything. And Scootaloo’s too excited; her teeth tremble, surely recognizing the voice of her soccer player counterpart.

“You look a lot like a certain fanfilly from Ponyville. And you too, Apple Bloom.”

“F-Fleetfoot! You’re… wait, is Rainbow Dash here?”

“Backstage by the big open space with lion statues, Scoots!” She flashes a smile, her wing of arctic blue wiping her goggles clean. “I’ll tell Rainbow that you’re around. I’m sure you’re attending, right?”

Awe washes over Scootaloo, about to faint. “Yes, I am! Am I… am I gonna get backstage access? Will I get to see Rainbow Dash?”

“Oh, you betcha’!” Her wings flare up, wind speeding away from her being. “She’s been so focused on practice, she hasn’t even thought this world’s got their own Scootaloo! She’ll be stoked to see you, kid.”

All that kid does is cry in glorious Eee! as Fleetfoot leads the way, scooter carried away to what can only be a good show.

Carried away from an Apple Bloom whose stomach still rumbles.

Embarrassed, cheeks flushed, she quickly scans the rest of the fair from her vantage point in the middle of the walkway, already moving to not look like a weirdo standing around and doing nothing.

A couple choices jump out at her. A big juicy hotdog stand over there, boasting the simple condiments of ketchup and mustard; one or two of that with soda and she’d be good for the rest of the afternoon. There’s also burgers, hayburgers; not exactly her appetite, but there’s also some carrot dogs over there for a taste of equine cuisine. And a flying pizza. Up it flies, its fluffy dough spinning until it flattens itself.

It lands on the hooves of a pony with his eyes closed. All natural to him, doesn’t even need to look.

His foodie spectacle attracts, yet more alluring is the lack of a long line. Carnivores and omnivores have flocked to the human chains with their breaded promises of bacon, beef, and shrimp fused together with cheese and tomato to melt in foreign mouths and on their tongues, leaving the left-behind crumbs of attention to a lone stallion and his crew.

The smell of good pizza wafts her in, grabbing a tight fistful of money straight to the counter. “I’ll be havin’ some of yer’ garden pizza!”

He talks nice. Thick accent, certainly from Equestrian Roam, but then some tourists have teased her about her own accent, a telltale Amareican country gal. But that doesn’t matter: the pizza flips high in the sky like with any other pizza guy, but it’s a horse doing it. Dear Cookie back home couldn’t come close to this; beloved as she and the rest of the horses back home are, they certainly can’t boast about baking the best thing sliced bread.

Once it’s shoved into the brick oven, it’s time to wait, time to check the tables.

And there sits her almost brother.

Golden Spur

The oblivious beast of a stallion munches on his pizza. Cheese looks as gooey as it can be, with the slight mint of herb and the sharp tang of tomatoes definitely flooding in.

Apple Bloom shakes her head, clears her mind from salivating distractions as she finally receives her seven-and-half-dollar pizza along with the chef’s flowing thanks. “Get it together, Apple Bloom! Big Mac is Big Mac no matter where he’s from, right?”

With her feet stomping and some nearby clock tower ticking the seconds of break time away, she gets herself moving. Her hands grip her pizza box firm, fingernails half-clawing their way through the flimsy cardboard. Her focus is a laser, zoomed in on the big red stallion now eating, now living right in front of her.

“Hiya! I’m Apple Bloom!”

She plants her box down on the table with a plop!, and her hand extends out to shake. Confusion sets in, both in her mind and in Big Mac’s muzzle, cheese dripping out of his wide and bulky mouth. How will he shake back?

There’s an idea. She takes the hoof, with all its pizza crust dust and whatever else those hooves must’ve stuck to walking on the ground like that, grabs it with all her might—up and down it goes, though it’s weird to not have any fingers grab her own hand back. Speaking of hooves, surely Rarity might bawl her eyes out at the very thought of shaking pony hooves and how uncouth everyone is, using the same appendages that transport them through dirt paths and grass fields to grab food, catching germs.

“Eeyup.”

He sounds just the same as ever. Nothing’s changed.

“So, heh, you’re definitely Big Mac, right?”

A little shrug happens. Clumsy, but she shoves a slice of pizza in her mouth, distracts herself with the taste of good food: piquant cheese of milky goodness, tasty vegetables to round out the saltiness.

As for Big Mac, he’s as if someone managed to cosplay one of the family horses as her brother. Oakley is a good and obedient horse, able to gallop and steeplechase, even won Applejack some gold medals back in junior rodeo, but to talk to him like he’s Big Mac himself is just crazy talk.

Still, he opens his mouth. “Eeyu—”

“So what’s your family like on the other side, ya know?” Apple Bloom’s grinning, raring to jump from her seat. More family, more of her brother, open up to her from the skies above. “You’ve got a farm over there too, right?”

A little sip of water is done on the side. “Eeyup.”

“And you… farm apples, right? Of course, you do; yer’ Big Mac, after all; cutie mark says it all. Um, then you make apple pie, apple cider, the works?”

“Yup. Actually…”

A tiny smile on his muzzle as he grabs something from his bags. Saddlebags, she remembers someone—somepony, surely Sunset—calling them.

Out of the bag appears a jar of jam, rainbow jam. Looks like an art project on the surface, but the look on the bulk-horse’s face—he can’t lie, as he declares straight-faced, “It’s zap apple jam.”

The jar’s popped open; he slathers the rainbow recipe on some leftover pizza crust.

“This… is this how apples are there?” she spills out as he continues to spread magic jam all over the dough. “H-hey, let me try!”

The crust is swiped, and she shovels it into her mouth, much to Big Mac’s chuckling. Down it goes, and her eyes open wide—the flavors of the rainbow, of something definitely apple, yet more. A different definition of sweet, of tart, her stomach both full and empty, like Apple 2.0. Equestrian produce at its finest, most certainly, with a popping swirl like rock candy that’s too small to feel the rough edges of; apple soda, yet more like cream, delectable golden fruited butter blessing her tongue.

“This is the best apple jam I’ve tasted! It’s… I don’t know! The best! I don’t know how we can even—“

She coughs, clears her throat. Swallows down the humility. “Well, nothing can beat our apple jam… but this has gotta be on the same level! We’re equals! Like, the same, and… and, like, how’s the farm there? It’s gotta be just like ours too! We’ve got a couple acres, enough to eat up like half a block, and—“

“’Bout five hundred acres.”

Another gulp, and it’s not just from the delicious jam and crust. “Five… hundred acres?! Five hundred acres… full of apples?!”

“Not all. Some carrots, some corn…”

But her fingers tap against each other. A farm that big, huge industrial farms where harvesters can cover entire football fields in half a minute, the stuff to feed an entire county, a quarter of the whole state—but without big tractors, with no factories littered around, “just… Earth pony magic. Like ya bring magic in the soil to make yer apples grow better? For the whole farm?”

“Eeyup.”

“Like… uh, no fertilizer? Ya just… grow ‘em… manually?”

“Eeyup.”

“Wow, yer just like a magic version of my brother! I mean, we’ve got fertilizer and that’s pretty much it. We used to have a tractor, but we sold it when we just planted more apples trees. Granny said we needed to—”

Ring!

“Oh wait! Hold your horses!”

And she takes her phone out.

He stares at the strange rectangular thing.

Millions of colors dance around in her wordlessly talking black box. Letters and scrolls would come home crying to their mamas, even his own written words from well over ten years ago. Poor young AJ; she once made it over to Manehattan, galloped and took the train ride there when she was a filly, and she’d written nothing ‘till she came home.

“Like, what do ya do there, Big Mac?”

“We, uh, farm there.”

“With Earth pony magic, right?

“Eeyup.”

Out of the bag, fortunately, he produces some photos of the family posing in hard, grimy work, where hooves are caked in dirt, calloused from honest, straightforward living. Bringing these was something Princess Twilight recommended, talking pieces to stir up conversation, if the fact that two worlds collided weren’t enough of an icebreaker. Grinding stones, simple machines, hay bales and plows: the whole works, with the bushels of apples to prove it. A moment at work, prouder than most, recorded in history: plowing fields, every day and all day, sweat under his brow worth a dozen medals.

“Man, seems like yer’ a lot like my bumpkin cousins in Misstiruppi! They’ve got… like, lots more land ta farm, and they’re just, I dunno, more down ta Earth. Getting close to nature… not like a hippy, but it’s more soil-y. Just livin’ there, and there’s not much of a town nearby. Just houses, ranches, and horses, and that’s that.”

Over the table, Apple Bloom’s pizza stays untouched, save for that one slice eaten at the start. Not many minutes remained, drained away by Apple Bloom’s never-ending curiosity. And now she decides to eat her pizza again.

Minutes to go until it’s back to cargo-carrying for Big Mac, hefting boxes and crates for a sunset extravaganza in the park later. There’s Rara, Applejack’s singer friend, wearing nothing but a simple shirt, nothing overproduced. Concert’s happening later tonight, with lights and speakers and smoke and steam machines from big futuristic cargo carriers, those trucks, all for other artists who weren’t as down-to-earth as her. He’s happy to oblige and carry, to come back home later tonight to good dinner with the rest of his family—

A simple stallion from the sticks, that’s what he is. Same for his Apple Bloom, the beloved sister he’s showered with love and care, the one that saw him as the best brother anyone could ever have, even after messing up a precious Sisterhooves Social in such ridiculous fashion.

But there’s this Apple Bloom, speedily tapping and chatting at her phone, wearing sophisticated clothes just like the Manehattanites, just like little AJ. None of the overalls or the rugged hats, nothing like the illustrations and pictures of human farmers Princess Twilight shared during a town council meeting when she got caught up excitedly explaining Earthling society to all of Ponyville. Even as Apple Bloom keeps asking about home, where he lives, what’s it like there to live in a village—

“Big Mac?”

That snaps him out of his spot. Her goofy filly smile has left the building.

“I know yer not exactly the talkative type, but… this doesn’t seem right. You’re quiet. Too quiet.”

At least she saw the photos he brought along. Good souvenirs they are, something to keep in a scrapbook, a family book. Photos tell a thousand words and all.

But the names. The whizzing names, fads, hashtags, consoles—city slang, city folk. That was just the tip of the iceberg. Too sophisticated with these iron towers looming around everywhere. Didn’t live in one of those towers—said so herself; her home’s apparently a ranch, too. But poor Applejack did come home from Manehattan to tell tales of how she was out of her league.

Ding!

Her black box rings a shrill bell.

A quick look at the alarm, and her heart skips.

Apple Bloom puts the phone away, eyes still hovering over Big Mac. Disappointment leaves her out to dry, crashing and burning.

“I… I saw Sweetie Belle on the way here, Big Mac, and she was…” Rarity and dear Sweets, sisters together, from different worlds yet dancing along seconds later. Scootaloo’s there too, wherever she is, and if Rainbow’s here, already strutting her stuff in the aerial show with loops and colored skies—

“What’s wrong?” asks the brother, brows creasing. “She hurt?”

She shakes her head too violently. “No, she’s not hurt! But…”

The real Rarity and Sweetie Belle can be spotted in the distance, lavish hats peddled to passers-by of all kinds. Stacks of banknotes are taken in, change facilitated by Sweetie Belle. When no one’s looking, they bump a fist and a hoof, laughing gaily, prim and proper, just like old times.

Her ear picks it up, an emcee’s muffled microphone voice. Whooshing overhead, smoke left behind, eyes to the sky to see the Wonderbolts in full glory, stopping right in the middle of the air before falling down in style. Rainbow smoke stands out like a sore thumb. If she strains her ears more, she may hear familiarly incessant screaming from the far-off audience.

Somewhere else, somewhen else, brother and sister chased each other, playing hide-and-seek across the orchard over fields of grass and under the shade of an apple tree, round and round until she’s finally It. Just like old times.

Ding!

She looks down. A text from Applejack.

AB, break’s over. Finish up your food.

Another gulp to keep the screen hidden from Big Mac’s curious eyes, keep him away from the time. “Like… you know Rarity’s here, and you jus’ saw Rainbow Dash too, right? I… I saw Rarity with Sweetie Belle, and they were just… good! Big Mac, don’t you get it?”

A laugh to finally get his attention, even now as he checks a little clock tower in the park, a couple pegasi taking selfies with human-made phones, posing by the hours and minutes on its face. The camera flashes, their photos are taken; other-worldly laughter stabs her heart.

“I just thought we’d… click from the start, you know?”

R-r-ring!

One more quick draw to answer the phone.

“Apple Bloom, where’re you now?”

She grips the table, half-stands up. “I’m… I’m at the, uh, pizza pony’s place! It’s around the corner, but I’ll be there in a jiffy!”

Ends the call there, kills off any line of questioning.

“I’m sorry, Big Mac, but I gotta go. I still have work at the family stall, b-but if you wanna come and visit, ya can’t miss it. You’d see all of us there… and sorry for keepin’ ya here fer’ too long.”

She sprints off, leaving him in the dust. Don’t look, don’t see him—

A second too late, realizes the pizza she’s left behind with only one slice eaten. Money wasted, and her stomach still cries for something more than just a handful of cheese and bread.

A quick buy from some snack stall will do. There’s the hotdog stand. A quick bite, she’ll be good. Give her money to the unknowing carrot-colored vendor pony and get her food now.

Champion

“’Scuse me, out of the way!”

Barreling out of the packed audience of fellow humans and a few choice ponies is Scootaloo on her wheeling-dealing scooter, ignoring the calls for ticket-holders to have a second meet-and-greet with the Wonderbolts themselves—goodbye Rainbow Dash from the signing stall in only five seconds.

Swerving around lamp posts and brushing by several breezies she never sees, she’s the cause of a few yelps and some videos already shoveled into the social media pipeline. Her vision hones in on the looming fountain.

“Sweetie Belle!”

Away from the two Rarities, pony and human, Sweetie jumps up, already packing her phone into her handbag. “Yeah, I got your message! Sorry, sis’es, but Apple Bloom needs our help!”

“Well, I sure do hope she’ll be alright!” Rarity says—her actual sister, that is. “If you want, I could rent in a limo for the day, get all the apples in the back while you have a lovely massage!”

“No, that’s alright! We can handle it on our own! Great minds think alike, right?”

Pony Rarity can only haw at that. “Darling, I don’t think that’s how the expression is used.”

But they’re out of earshot, Sweetie already screeching with Scootaloo on her mad barreling past a young yak and her bowl of spilled ramen.

“So how exactly are we going to fix a truck?”

The scooter’s roller skates screech hard, right before the entrance gate and a moving line of not trucks but rustic wooden wagons carrying massive speakers and concert lights. The Earth ponies—bodies muscle-weathered, sweat as numerous as the stars—pull their wheeled cargo, giving the human interlopers a pensive look before trudging on. Their vehicles are imprinted with music notes and, rarely, the stenciled words Property of Rara accompanying a lone microphone and her signature grand piano.

“Yeah, good question, Sweets.”

“Wait, what?! Scootaloo, your dad’s a car mechanic—“

“Sometimes he’s a car mechanic, but he’s still a zoologist.”

“But we built all those scooters with your help!”

“Scooters don’t have engines.”

Sweetie almost raises her finger to object. “Fair point.”

The scooter remains idle, their path out blocked by yet more wagons, this next batch carrying skyscraper-worthy spotlights and smoke machines powerful enough to fog a home and kill its pests, entouraged by some punk artist’s mohawked security detail, his tattoos lifted straight from a Daring Do set piece.

“Wait a minute. Is that…?”

Sweetie’s eyes follow Scootaloo’s pointed finger, and just coming into view, from behind a couple tents, is a burly stallion hulking red, sporting a huge shiny apple clear as day for a cutie mark, pulling a huge back-up grand piano on wheels just for Coloratura. Though an alien, the scruffy mane and his sparkling green eyes are too familiar to dismiss.

“Big Mac?!”

Their own familiar in-sync voices slow him down, the piano almost bumping into his flanks. Fortunately, he’s the last one in the line; no one’s there to complain about getting a move on.

“Oh, uh… hi! You’re Big Mac, right?” And Scootaloo steps out of the scooter, pulling it by her side, strong enough to do it with Sweetie riding along. “I’m Scootaloo and this is Sweetie Belle, but you know that, don’t you? ‘Cause we look very familiar, huh?”

The giant’s eyes dart between the both of them. “Eeyup.”

Sweetie lets a little Eee! out of her system before blurting out, “That’s great! Is Applejack here? Even Apple Bloom?”

And Big Mac scratches his head; a gulp may’ve been missed by the Club. “Applejack’s with Rara for a bit. Apple Bloom’s at home, somethin’ about keepin’ the CMC from causin’ trouble in your world.”

Sweat beads form and fall down Sweetie’s chin. “Eh-heh… our reputation precedes us?”

Scootaloo feels for the phone in her pocket. “Yeah… we’re lookin’ for Apple Bloom! She’s in trouble!”

His brows rise; irises shrink nigh undetected. “She needs my help?”

“Yes! With cars… like, you know what a car is, right?”

“They’re not dumb, Scoots,” Sweetie side-whispers.

Scoots hand-waves her away, all focused on the heavy draft worker before her. “Look, they’re selling apples at the stall, but they ran out, so she needs to get back home ASAP! It’ll be cool for you to meet her, we promise!”

He hmm’s and scratches his beardless chin. The piano still hangs connected to his barrel.

“Don’t worry, we can get the piano going in no time!” Scootaloo says, and out of the scooter she hops, and she ties herself to the piano, yanking Big Mac’s yoke out, now dangling too loose around her neck.

“Scootaloo, what are yer’—?”

“No time to explain, Big Mac! Sweetie, go get him to Apple Bloom, fast!”

“Scoots, you’re crazy!”

“I also wanna meet Countess Coloratura!” are her last words as the wheels pull her away, never minding the piano rumbling with its own cacophonic tunes shivering upon concrete paths.

Still just seen on MyStable, Apple Bloom sighs.

Granny has been on a tirade about “kids these days” again, despite the guard trapped within her earshot being in his mid-twenties. Not that he’s entirely without blame: as much as he tries to calm the irate old lady down, he’s limited to a list of towing services in the area, only to be hit back with, “Sonny, in my day, we didn’t have tow trucks! My family had to push our school bus up the hill right there!”

Not much success there. Some tow trucks are already busy on the other side of the city with a kirin suddenly exploding at the thought of not being a car’s combustible fuel. Fortunately, no one seemed to be hurt and the worst any car’s gotten was said to be dents and traded paint, but that left them the only other option, pushing the car all the way back home with a few guards, Granny, and herself.

“We came here as fast as possible!”

The screeching of too-high boots follows those words fast, and here comes Sweetie Belle sliding to a stop, almost crashing into the truck’s hood, but a near-injured Sweetie doesn’t take her attention.

“Wh-what?!” It’s all Apple Bloom can exclaim at the big workhorse, with brotherly mane and all, dragged along by the mini-diva. “B-Big Mac… h-how? Wh-why?”

Big Mac scratches his mane, hoof parting scruffy strands. “I’d… ask yer’ friends the same thing.”

Apple Bloom turns to the helmeted Belle, shaking her off of her dizzy daze from the truck’s hood and the guards’ worried looks. “Sweetie Belle, what’s wrong with you?! Our truck’s broken, and the first thing ya’ thought of was findin’ my brother…sorta’ my brother and bringin’ him here?!”

“And ropes!”

In comes almost-crashing Scootaloo on her scooter, hurtling a handful of ropes out of her neck, a blushing cheek smudged by a crimson horseshoe-print. “I can’t believe it! Today’s my lucky day! Not only am I still gonna meet pony Rainbow Dash, I also got to meet Countess Coloratura! As a pony! And she gave me fist-ies… er, hoofsies!”

Everyone in attendance, from Apple Bloom through Sweetie Belle and Big Mac to even a couple of the security guards themselves, stare at the cute little abomination on the scooter, hobbled over by tied-up ropes and an oversized yoke.

“Oh… uh, yeah… Apple Bloom, meet Big Mac; Big Mac, meet Apple Bloom… and Apple Bloom needs apples from the farm fast, and you can pull it along… oh, and the tires aren’t blown out! Phew!” She holds on to the harness slung now on her shoulder, shaft bow and all, with a guard taking off the yoke from her neck. “Uh… how does this work, exactly? I think we can attach it to the bumper…”

Scoots and Sweetie run over to the truck, shooing Granny and the guard away to try to fit the harness in. Apple Bloom and Big Mac are left on the wayside, human and pony, to watch some CMC spectacle unfold.

“Well… didn’t expect to see ya’ again so fast,” Apple Bloom says with another scratch of the head, embarrassment overflowing from her rosy cheeks.

Big Mac can only scratch his chin. “Eeyup.”

“Heh… still a man of… er, a horse of few words, huh?”

Scootaloo and Sweetie tap on calculator apps for how many apples they’d transport in such a short amount of time, interrogating Granny for the number of bushels on hand as well as how many trees they would pick from.

“Hey you, horse!”

Big Mac stands at attention for the old lady in martial stride. “Yes, Granny?”

She winces at the voice, eying his apple cutie mark. “Why, ya’ really sound like Big Mac, huh? Ya’ got the build for it too. But are ya really jus’ gonna pull our truck along, son?”

Young hands and sturdy hooves tie ropes to his yoke, stringing him to the jalopy’s front bumper. Without a bead of sweat or a whining groan, he takes a step forward. To all observers, from security to insecure teens across the street, the tires smoothly roll without a hitch.

And Big Mac looks back at his other-worldly Granny. “Eeyup.”

Brown Snout

Today has been a good day for Cookie.

Last night, Apple Bloom brought her friends along to test out moving buckets on wheels. Horse-attached buckets on wheels, that is.

She and her horse friends were the guinea pigs, such human advancements stuck to her sides with nothing but rope, some nails, and flimsy hook-and-loop straps. The gal was a good person and her friends were only a tad unrulier than her, but all Cookie wanted was to rest in the stall, eat hay, then sleep, not conduct some experiment, whatever that human word means.

But today, she and her horse friends—ebony Oakley and toasty Cinnamon—can graze in peace, gallop around, and rest. The next rodeo won’t be for another month, and with Thanksgiving close at hoof, there’d be lots of apples to chew on come harvest time. Speaking of, Apple Bloom was very behaved and obedient with Granny earlier before leaving, picking apples with the greatest of care. Past the trouble-making surface, she really is a (misguided, clumsy) sweetheart.

But there’s galloping. The call of the wild thunders down the road.

She turns her head around: There, a horse! Horse down the road; a strange sight! But that’s no cart: it’s the old jalopy!

The truck is being pulled by a horse! She’s seen everything now; when that Sunset Shimmer took a ride with her, she said something about a magic land across some portal where horses reigned supreme—

“Make way, make way!”

That’s Apple Bloom shouting, commanding the wheel while some stallion drags the truck along!

And Apple Bloom’s off the driver seat to catch apples.

It’s been a roller-coaster of a ride, Big Mac having pulled them through a parade of traffic still searching for Expo parking lot spots, certainly nabbing a few tourists’ pictures here and there, and somehow still abiding by speed limits, if the lack of wailing sirens is of any note.

“Sweetie Belle, lead Big Mac to the apple trees! Scoots, come with me and get the scooters while I grab the bushels!”

Off she dashes into the barn-garage, grabbing baskets, straps and ropes dangling off of them. They’re stashes into a little wagon, pulled outside with Scootaloo and their new scooters; wouldn’t be too heavy for the truck to handle even after they’re filled to the brim.

Right outside stands Oakley and Cinnamon, taking a gander at Big Mac, the primitive whinnying scared against the cool and collected other. She bites her lip.

A third horse shoots Apple Bloom an asking glance. Spotting the straps and ropes in hand, Cookie recoils, stares at Big Mac, whickers a demand from the Apple girl an explanation for this new non-horse horse and whatever her new experiment is.

“She’s from the magic horse land, yes, ma’am! So…uh, Canterlot Movie Club and Big Mac… are we ready for the fastest apple harvest in the world?!”

“Uh, why can’t we just do it slow and old-fashioned… and safe?” Sweetie asks, sweat down her forehead at the sight of scooters roped tight to Big Mac’s barrel. “Isn’t that your family’s way?”

“Granny doesn’t seem slow and old-fashioned with how she was shoutin’ down the truck back there.” But she walks up to him, places a hand on his withers, just like with her beloved horsies, though more than recognition bubbles in his eyes. “Look, I know this is all out of the blue, and I’m sorry for that and all that bad business back at the pizza place. But at least… thank you for at least giving this one a shot.”

Big Mac lets out a little grunt. “My sister and her best friends… they can get real rowdy, just like you. I’m used to it.”

“Hey, we’re not rowdy!” Scootaloo protests. “We’re just, well, uh, we get covered in tree sap some of the time. In the forest. And sometimes not in the forest. And with the Xbronc One—ow! Apple Bloom! Was that really necessary?”

Having ignored her own pinch, Apple Bloom ties the straps around her shoes, hitched them to the yoke on his back. “Well, Big Mac, we know that this ain’t exactly super safe, but it’s fun, you know! And—“ butterflies flutter in her stomach, but she swallows them down “—maybe… this is how we’ll show that we can be together… Earth and Equestria… with family, right?”

“You’re… pretty sappy yourself, actually, Apple Bloom.”

“Don’t ruin the moment for me, Scoots.”

Even with enough straps and safety measures to keep herself and the other Filmies chained to her pseudo-brother, the ride becomes a psychotic whirlwind.

Screams rock the way, scooter dragging off, kicking up dirt as Big Mac rears up and gallops. The world shrinks into them, him, and infinite farm fields; grass blades fill her mouth, and Apple Bloom spits it out, only for disgusting dirt to fly against a horrified Sweetie’s helmet. Steady, steady, fast approaching the target: kick the tree.

Her feet, strapped and taped and roped onto the surface of the scooter itself, cling on. Her friends catch a breath, stuck to each other in this one claustrophobic set of wheels, hanging on to their bushels and to each other for dear life. In snot-busting adrenaline, arms squeeze on to each other when everything crashes to a stop.

Their dizzying eyes adjust, kept on the apples about to fall into their buckets. Big Mac, steady steed he is, readies himself into position, right where the bulk of the apples will fall.

He hits the kick, he bucks; he scores.

The scooter shakes and rattles, about to roll its passengers off, but their fingers are in death-grips against the bushel to fight bruises and scrapes. All hands raise their empty baskets high amid Sweetie’s scrambled screeching—

Ploop!

One apple down, swallowed up in an avalanche of falling fruit. Apple Bloom almost puts her hands up to protect herself, but the bushel is her shield against the sheer collective weight building up on her shaky arms.

“Wow, that’s… fast!” she yells when it stops, in between strained breaths. “We’d… we’d take a minute with a ladder and all, but… this is just seconds!”

A big smile arrives from Big Mac, of all people. Or ponies. “That’s the Apple family way.”

“Well, we’ve also got the Apple family way! We can do it as quick as a hedge—aaaahhh!”

Off again in speed uncontrollable, Apple Bloom hangs onto Sweetie Belle by the armpits, trying not to hoist her out of the scooter, shrieking as the earth splits into chasms beneath their wheels.

They brake at another tree, its bark to strike her in the face and scoop her off the vehicle; hold your bushels high. “B-Big Mac, h-how’ll you make the apples… not spill?!”

But in the corner of her eye, just a little shimmer: a faint warmth, a stealthy blush, like closing your eyes after staring at the sun, trying to zoom in on the little swarm of dazzling spots in your vision.

Sweetie’s screams stab her ears as she heaves her bushel across her vision, Scootaloo steering her own bucket with as much precision and with as many reflexes as she can—able to hit all the apples, nothing missed. A complete storm, just like the time when Applejack took her out for a loop-de-looping water ride in Equestria Land long after the whole trapped-in-a-phone-but-not-really fiasco—

And there’s Big Mac, captain of the cruise, composed as he leaps above the field. Nothing brutish about him: just galloping to stop at each tree. As strong as a horse, force rippling across the air, but to see it, to feel what must be magic, from her brother…

Apple Bloom stretches her arms, aching, up high. Get the bushel up, catch falling apples, nothing will go wrong. A single apple tips over on the rim but falls back down just like a cartoon—all before her feet float inches above the ground, strapped, body bending but never falling, never breaking backs or muscles as they’re on the move, bushels to raise after a halt. She gets used to the scooter trembling with them as trees are kicked, as apples fall, as scooters are parked at just the right spots for full coverage. There are no commands to shout now; Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo follow Apple Bloom’s lead in sync, seizing the whole batch. Then Big Mac parks himself just right once more: stretch bushels into the air once again with wind lapping up their hair—

Snap!

Untethered from the sky, all passengers wreck face-first into the ground.

Wind knocked out amid the groans of Scoots and Sweets. Scratching her knees, her joints, only to feel hard plastic. Safety pads still with her, helmet still by her side; a thankful sigh. Away from her reach, apples spill over. Poor apple, dented on the grass, all dirtied up, trying to reach out but rolling just out of her fingertips, her fellow Filmies clutching escaping, hopeless fruits.

“Apple Bloom! Are ya’ alright?!”

Shadows overcome; up above, the sight of his face, his dirtied hoof extended.

She takes hold, the firm frog of his hoof as strong as metal. “Y-yeah… I-I think I’m alright!”

She stands, rubbing her arm. Just some dirt and sticky grass. Poor grass. Poor apples, done rolling around. Only now, she notices broken wheels, feetpads gone, rope torn apart.

“Well, so much for being fast,” Sweetie says, with a cough and some loose threads and fibers. A little stick juts out of her curled hair. “But at least we get to do it the old-fashioned Apple family way, right?”

Scootaloo shakes her head, shedding off any scrapes like nothing. “No way! Don’t you know that Apple Bloom’s customers are in certain peril?!”

“You’re overselling it, Scoots.”

Apple Bloom spits out a tiny twig from between her teeth. “I mean, yeah. But it’s not like Big Mac’s gonna pull us around, right?”

“We can hitch him to my scooter!”

And Big Mac takes a glance at the rather lanky if metal scooter resting by the dead jalopy’s side.

“Nah,” Sweetie pipes up. “All three of us on your scooter? We don’t want to risk getting another wreck. Again.”

“So what, then?”

Apple Bloom looks past her friends, seeking for answers on her family’s own apple field. Much ground has been covered, but a formidable army of unpicked trees still lay before them, unbeaten.

Past Big Mac, her other two horses stare from the far end of the field; Oakley and Cinnamon staring, the ebony-brown duo. Cookie’s there too, staring dumbly, curiously. She raises her head, making eye contact with Apple Bloom.

“Big Mac, I have an idea!”

Mac

“Apple Bloom, are ya’ really sure this’ll work?” asks a concerned Big Mac.

“Why, yes!” she yells, asserting herself to be on top of the world as she finally mounts the brawned stallion on a spare, good-as-new saddle. It required the help of the girl’s friends serving as an impromptu staircase, though. “I mean, I rode our trusty horses before! Cookie can tell y’all about it… uh, ‘least I can!”

Moving ahead of a miffed Cookie, Sweetie Belle looks at the rest, knocking at her own helmet and seeing herself on the scooter, inspecting its worn-out wheels. “Sure, but at least a pony won’t get their hooves suddenly unscrewed.”

“Hey, you didn’t complain when I was doing 720s with this thing at Action Sports Junior!”

“That was in a controlled environment!”

“Can we, uh—” and Apple Bloom pats the yoke before her to get their attention “—get a move on?”

With the CMC checking their straps one more time along with their helmets, hooked tight to the scooter, Apple Bloom turns to Big Mac, his face just ahead. The path forward is clear: beyond the grass lay the remaining apple trees to be conquered, with the bushels at the ready for them to hold.

“Ya know, ya could’ve just set the bushels so I could buck the trees, that’d be all.”

“But we’re not doin’ that,” she says in half a plea. “At least we can do this one together, though, right?”

And Big Mac can only shake his head. “Yer’ stubborn, jus’ like my lil’ sister.”

But she can feel the warmth of his smile as it flickers back to focus, concentration, back to apple-bucking mode.

“We’re all set!” Scootaloo shouts.

Gripping the back of a galloping Big Mac, she squeals, holding on to nothing but his trusty yoke.

She holds onto the bushel, and right underneath the leaves and branches, with one strong kick—she holds on, never falling off, a sense of balance—and Big Mac looks up, seeing her smile as all the apples fall into her bushel, with not one astray.

She looks back. Scootaloo and Sweets follow suit, piled together on the one scooter, circling around their equine leader with their apple-catching bushels. With each stop, each buck, it’s just one foot-push away, and the apples fall at just the right spot, fresh fruit falling in rolling waves where none miss the wide-barreled buckets.

Still, with each tree, yet more apples to get, bushels getting heavier and always putting it down, Big Mac leaning down so Apple Bloom can never leave—and his face looks up to her, now to the next tree. No need for a harness nor saddle nor spur—especially a spur! Can’t hurt her brother like that, just weaving around, moving where she wanted to go, guiding her hands where they need to—

“Come on, Apple Bloom! Time to buck those trees!”

In another world, Big Mac still gallops, still bucks each tree, but Apple Bloom follows close behind on her four hooves, Applejack dealing with her own line of trees as well. Swimming fast in the million-acre farm, apple trees galore, bucking and kicking them dry, strong as a grown-up horse, felling every single apple in sight before autumn takes over to take their leaves. There’d be enough for a full-blown meal for each and every Apple pony from across the kingdom.

At the end of it all, an apple pie is baked for everyone with tender love and care, steaming hot, and there’s chowing down and laughter. It’s not just the family, though, for all her friends are there too, and her friends’ friends too. She hugs Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle, pegasus and unicorn, at the door, while a fast-flying rainbow-head and an older unicorn of fancier appearances accompany them.

Cider is served for everyone, and with hooves raised high, it’s a great toast to many more years of magical friendship and harmony.

Four more. Just four to go.

She holds true, bushel in her hand, guided now, in lockstep with her almost-brother.

He stops, no longer skidding now. The brakes are smooth; now he’s right under the tree. Hold on tight to his yoke as he rears. Poor Cookie tried that once, and the poor human nearly fell, but here, holding up, eyes on the apples ahead with bushels outstretched—

“That’s it, Apple Bloom! Just three more!”

And Sweetie’s voice encourages her, leads her on as Scootaloo almost shoots out a lead. Big Mac races her down, though, beaten to second-last. A quick turn, and there, another bushel of apples to hold onto, apples beating down her head, her back, yet shielded by nothing but basket wood—

“Come on, Apple Bloom! It’s time to pick those trees!”

Just five years old, the world still fresh, and she’s already up against the dirt and its allure. The home, the soil, the growth that thrives everywhere. Yet here it grows fruit, and it shall be her fruit, their fruit.

Picked up by Ma and Pa, she first snags the low-hanging fruit, low enough, cooed along by Ma for a job well done, while Pa then climbs up ladders. Applejack and Big Mac were old enough to climb their own ladders, to ascend their own trees.

But over there, beside the tallest tree of them all, she sees one apple—red against the cool green, like the end of an antenna.

“Oh, do you wanna get that?” comes the sweet croon of Ma.

Before the little child knew it, the ladder was taken her way, before being plopped onto a basket that’s now tight for her—kept in a safety belt, but still wrapped around Ma’s shoulder, as she started climbing, conquering the ladder. Higher, with the air catching, the cool wind blowing now, as Ma started picking the apples, parted from the branch with a dinky snap!—and her own little hand reaches out, about to clutch an apple before it’s snatched away. No, it is not yet the highest apple.

The steps stop, the climb ends.

Her eyes behold, at the top of the world, the entire city, her home and all reality in her innocent mind, with its great metal towers rising into the stars in space, the sun and the clouds much closer than they’ve ever been, and the whole farm is all in her eyes. She is queen of apples, for a few precious seconds.

Right in front of her, at the top of the tree, the juiciest apple she’s ever seen.

“Come on, just two more!”

His canter breezes over tender grass, like in the rodeo shows with dear Cookie. But through ropings and blue ribbons, even through growing up with her since Big Mac ever bought the little horsie for the family as a surprise—treated with apples, tender love and care, in and out of a dozen country fairs—she could never talk back.

But now Big Mac was her brother and steed. A gift he is, in the form of a loving and caring creature, from Ma and Pa to her.

She raises her hands on instinct, bushels raised as her vision is wrested from the tree. With powered up hind legs, there’s the buck—hold on, time it well, squeeze the yoke with one hand— and she avoids falling, apples hailing down from the sky.

The last advance plies through kicked-up soil, adrenaline rushing—her will and Big Mac’s, straight as an arrow, to the final tree as she raises her bushels high. In slo-mo, like cavalry who’ll fight to never have their freedom taken, she closes her eyes as the afternoon sunlight brightens her non-vision.

“Soup’s on, everybody!”

Just as she dreamed it: Thanksgiving Night, the house all aglow with warm lights and candles. While turkey is served like usual, there’s a lot less meat here. In its place, some crumbling carrot cakes along with just fresh carrots, cornbread that’s never too mild, stew with peppers and potatoes galore, and of course a great litany of apples, apples—from pies to cakes and jam and cobbler and tarts, all to be washed down in fresh apple cider.

But beyond the smells, water flows from her mouth like a kitchen sink and the familiar faces of family come to the light. Granny sits down with her applesauced apron, and Applejack and Big Mac dig in with ravenous appetites, hands dirty, forks and knives attacking ceramic.

On the other side, the same yet different: an aged and arched mare content to watch her grandchildren enjoy a whole new world; a cowgirl in the form of a hat-wearing pony, ponytailed, taking a scrumptious bite of juicy pie; herself, finding her own horse version cute with the bow on top—surely someone great to talk to, and maybe they also have a film club there, if the parallels go that deep

And there’s Big Mac, gulping down the last bit of cider, his mane and everyone else’s flapping in too-fast wind, gravity sideways and everything falls out the front door, telling her to—

“Stop!”

The world freezes, and the wind slaps her face. Bushel no longer in her hands, Apple Bloom’s eyes fly open. “Wait, what?”

“We’ve already gotten half the truck loaded,” Scootaloo finishes, having taken the basket away, and Sweetie Belle jerks a thumb beside her.

The old jalopy is jammed up with one more delivery of apples on its back, a posthumous affair for the beat-up vehicle with its broken hood spewing out smoke. At Big Mac’s nod, it’s a signal for Apple Bloom. Get down; job here’s done.

Only now does she notice the growing throng of news reporters and news vans scattered loosely, already reporting about the stallion that’s not really on the loose, just making a scene, a tad too helpful, and the sandpaper noise of the crowd settles in. The bushels are running over and the truck is full. Scootaloo pulls up her scooter into the passenger seat, and Sweetie happily takes in questions from one or two of the reporters by the window.

Without thinking, the Apple girl shields herself from prospective journalists (lots of juicy impressions already, talking to the sister of some magic user before first contact). She gets to the car, but not without helping Big Mac attach himself to the front bumper of the jalopy one more time. Camera flashes have the sense to not shower a couple teenagers with too much attention, but she still ignores, is still flustered, even when Big Mac gallops quickly away, fast enough to outrun a news van obeying the speed limit, the attacking of hooves against asphalt overwhelming the other CMC cheering in victory, congratulating her for a job well done.

But in her mind, a hand finally clutches the hoof forever.

Discovery

“Yeah, Twilight, I already heard the news minutes ago. Can’t believe the mad girls actually did it.”

“Really, Applejack?” she says, scrolling down her phone by the stall counter, ignoring the Closed sign as tiny videos in her feed show off the horse-run truck blasting through traffic. Legally, she might’ve added.

Applejack sighs and checks the still-empty buckets of no-apples. At least some apple cider hangs back in the age-old barrel. “Big Mac… their Big Mac just suddenly gettin’ round and…”

Her own Big Mac looks up, distracted from rechecking the balances.

“Here!”

That gets Applejack standing up from her humble stool.

The counter bursts with an apple avalanche rolling from their baskets, too many to count for now, more than enough for the trays to handle. Ballpark estimate says three dozen apple pies at minimum.

“What’re ya doin’?!”

“Supply run!” Apple Bloom declares with a shiny grin, her pink bow sprucing up an adorably proud grin.

“And in record time too!” Sweetie Belle adds, stopping the running timer on her phone.

“I didn’t you know you kept speed records!” Scootaloo goes on, taking out a scrap of paper where she wrote down said records down to the millisecond. And her eyes spot some spare aprons and hairnets. “Hey, since Apple Bloom’s gonna be hanging out a bit more, maybe we can help? With a special discount on your apple pies?”

Applejack double-takes. “Wait, hangin’ out with who?”

Before she can ask more, a hulking stallion comes into view: Big Mac, wiping the sweat off his forehead, panting for some air.

“I’m tellin’ ya, the scrappers should be givin’ me more bang for my buck for that run!” Granny announces as she makes her entrance, with a guard warding her away from causing any trouble. Applejack can only watch as her grandmother half-argues, half-gloats with him and some of the Expo’s staff, a couple of which are ponies themselves. “Those young’ns squeezed life out of the old guzzler when it was already dead!”

But while Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle hurry into the stall and don the aprons, waiting for instructions, Applejack looks at the farthest table they have. A four-seater, it’s accompanied by none other than Apple Bloom and that same Big Mac. No food, no drink save for bottled water.

“Is that…?”

She looks beside her, sees her big brother with his mouth open, unable to say the rest of his question as he stares at himself.

Applejack smiles a little. “Loss for words, huh?”

“Well, I guess… thanks for the help, big brother,” Apple Bloom begins. Her fingers tap and twaddle, but she keeps them under the table as a clumsy rush of tourists form yet another line by the stall, wallets out and baked scents already rolling.

“Eeyup.”

For a few seconds, there’s silence. Awkward silence, just looking at each other. Waiting for the other to say something first. Get it over with, already.

But the whole fair catches their attention first. More Wonderbolts rock the skies in round two of their show, and a couple other Earth ponies either wagon-pull more equipment for the upcoming concert or are the concert themselves as they field questions from enthusiastic fans and TV stations. Equestrian merchants hawk souvenirs from the other side at luxurious prices: crystal flowers and Everfree medicines, which are all humanely tested. Not to be outdone, roving food carts wheel fresh scents of hay and plucked leaves nestled in crunched veggie sandwiches, assisted by slurped-up herb-infused wheat noodles. A griffon’s there too, selling rabbit meat and venison, a butcher-cook in the Griffonstone style.

The line quickly reforms. Cheerilee is there once again, and some Crystal Preppers waltz into it, fancy uniforms and all. The faces of familiar aliens also hang around, getting spots in the line for a callback to home in the form of cozy apple dishes, cooked and baked with tender love and care.

“I’m… I’m sorry for going off on ya like that, Big Mac. I was… just too excited about meetin’ ya. I saw Sweetie Belle off with your world’s Rarity, and then Scootaloo with your Rainbow Dash… I thought it’d be the same here too. But I went off the rails this time. I was out of line…”

Big Mac looks on, eyes still on the growing line for apples. Applejack and the other CMC busy themselves preparing pies and pouring down cider, decked out in extra aprons and hairnets. Just like family.

“I’m sorry too, Apple Bloom.”

Her face sharp-turns, lights up. “Wait, what? You’re also sorry? What did ya do?”

Big Mac lets his huge head hang and his scruffy mane fall. Takes his time, gnawing on his jaw. “You were… rowdy. Just like the Crusaders back home… or whatever yer’ called. I… like that.”

A gasp catches her throat. “You did?”

A short-lived stare shoots into the distance. “Eeyup. I brushed you off as jus’ city folk. Should’ve seen your farm first… made you run off instead.”

Apple Bloom chuckles, cupping his big hoof on the table with both her hands. No fingers grasp hers, but she swears she can feel his grip, more than enough for a shake.“I guess we both should’ve asked, huh? We should’ve just… opened up from the start...”

And Big Mac chuckles back, warm like a hearth, hearty just like family.

“Say, what about having a family dinner with both of our families?” Apple Bloom suggests, and possibilities blossom into a million parties: bobbing their heads in water for more apples together, wearing silly cowgirl/cowstallion costumes together, even cook some apple pie for each other and the whole clan. “I don’t mind either place for the venue, but—”

“Why not both?!”

The shout of the CMC declare their entrance, with a tray’s serving of several apple pies along with some apple juice for everyone, Sweetie and Scoots taking off their hairnets and sitting down on spare plastic chairs.

“Come on, Scoots, think of the logistics!” Sweetie says, stuffing herself with a slice of apple pie she just cooked with her “uncouth” hands. “Just going back and forth! And what if the portal breaks, and—oh hi, Apple Bloom!”

And Apple Bloom can only stifle a bout of laughter. “Gettin’ ahead of ourselves here, huh? But yeah, if we can pull both off, that’d more than make up for it!”

“Make up… for what?” Scoots says, checking Apple Bloom’s eyes drifting towards her stallion step-brother.

“That’s… a story for another time! But yeah, Big Mac? I’m glad I got to know ya’ more.”

And Big Mac himself takes a slice of apple pie right to his hoof. How he does it without fingers, Apple Bloom will never understand. Though he doesn’t say a word, a little grunt of approval is more than enough.

“Whaddaya say, Big Mac?” And a cheerful Apple Bloom holds her paper cup of cider sky-high. “Ready to meet the whole family, like, next week?”

“Already?!” yell out Scoots and Sweets.

But Apple Bloom and Big Mac share a little snicker, as they get in on some homemade apple pie and toast their cider together, clinking their cups and letting loose a bellyful of laughter and a serving of hugs.

Hangdown

Apples are sliced, stabbed, dipped, candied, just like in the fairs.

A slice of pie to provide for Cranky Doodle tapping his foot in front of the line, taking a smile and giving thanks right after reminding her of exams a couple weeks from now. Some apple cider is served for Miss Cheerilee, who’s enraptured just to see foals running about in the plaza.

Big Mac’s here to help, carrying a massive, muscle-creaking barrel of cider to refill. Apple Bloom hears that same voice, the same Eeyup per customer, the same bass voice that quashed applesauce or cleaned house or saved her from choking on water in a deep pond or sang lullabies to her right before sleep.

Sugar spills on her hand, and is wiped away fast. Here’s some donuts for some orange sweet tooth of a dragon. “So don’t they all look just like her family?” She can’t hear the rest of the dragon’s words as she leaves, only scattered moments. Something about more donuts, more coffee, movies to watch, home’s a volcano.

“Hey, that’s caramel on my mane!” It’s one of the Crystal Shadowbolts, a pony one, with a flowing robe that shouts upper crust.

Apple Bloom is promptly pushed to the side, Granny moving in to take her place, says her nice apologies, though family pride ripples like a storm-enraged river. Wouldn’t want to insult and demean the elderly woman that is her own granny, surely?

But Applejack now has all her attention.

Arms away from her sister, Applejack whispers in concern, eyes scanning for signs of the unusual. “You’ve been in the dumps lately. What’s goin’ on, sugarcube?”

A gulp. “It’s… I-I met Big Mac. The pony one at the pizzeria.”

“Wait, wait… whaddya’ mean he’s Big Mac? Ya mean the one from Equestria?”

A nod.

Granny’s still talking, now arguing with the not-Crystal student with countryisms and how things are with honest Apple family business. Big Mac, meanwhile, heavy-lifts the operation, preparing pies for the oven and pouring cider into little plastic cups, fortunate that most visitors’ lunches have passed.

“He’s, well… he is Big Mac.” Her stare goes out to the same colts and fillies and kids playing around, chasing balloons in an unintended display of unity. Even Fluttershy is present, stroking one of their manes with her delicate fingers, much to the dismay of a colt thinking it’s the opposite of cool. “B-but…”

“But what, Apple Bloom? Did he hurt you?”

“No, he didn’t hurt me! He’d never do that!”

“Then what, sugarcube? This meetin’ your family from the other side’s complicated enough as is—I mean, look at ya!—but what’s really got ya sadder than a beaver outta’ the forest?”

Her hands splay open, nervous, the phantom grip of his hoof hanging around. “I just didn’t know it’d end up… that bad, sis.” If only she can shake it one more time; only then, maybe the magic touch of family would’ve made everything better. “I… maybe I was just too fast. He was just sittin’ there, and I just went to his table and introduced myself… stupid…”

With both hands on her hips, Applejack shakes her head. “Apple Bloom, that Big Mac may be just the same as our big brother, but ya can’t just walk up to a stranger and be tighter than a bear hug in a minute.”

“B-but what about Sweetie Belle and Scoots?! They were doing jus’ fine with Rarity and Rainbow—“

“Did you see Scootaloo hang out with Rainbow Dash?”

A bell rings from deeper in the mini-kitchen. Applejack’s hands weave past her sister, spilling a vat of piping hot fritters onto a paper plate just in time for Big Mac to pass onto a human-pony pair of Pinkies craving for everything fried and greasy.

She fixes her eyes back on Apple Bloom.

“I… no, I didn’t see her, yes, not Rainbow; they said she’s gonna backstage, but I haven’t seen them together yet… but what about Sweetie—?”

“How often did ya see them out an’ about?”

She opens her mouth to object. The two were having quality time when she did see them, but—“Just… jus’ twice.”

Applejack can only throw her head forward. “Look, I know yer excited ‘bout this whole other-world parallel universe thingy. And ya know what? I am, too. I’d be mighty stoked to meet pony me out there and see what we’ve got in common. Heh, maybe we can lasso and do rodeos together. But I also know we’d be different.”

“Of course, we’d be different! I’m a human, he’s a pony—“

“Ya know it’s much more than that, AB. I haven’t read much ‘bout them—that’s Twilight’s thing—but we’ve got different stuff. They’ve got all the magic, we’ve got all this tech, and from what I’ve heard, Ponyville’s some rural place that ain’t nothing like this city. All the big lights, the big buildings, the big everything… don’t ya think those’ll scare more than a few of ‘em away?

“But I thought we’d just click right off the bat! I saw Sweetie Belle nuzzle Rarity like it’s nothing! They’re just like sisters, just like that!”

A breathy sigh sings out in reply, held on for so long. “We’re not all that lucky, Apple Bloom. You’ve already said you didn’t see Scootaloo talk to Rainbow, and you only saw Sweets with Rarity for a couple minutes. I don’t wish it on ‘em, but maybe they bickered around while you weren’t lookin’. If that didn’t happen, jus’ have the two of ‘em live under the same roof for a week; ‘fore ya know it, they’ll start squabblin’ like nothin’, jus’ like with our Rarity.”

Her family hands now return to her little sister’s shoulders, Applejack bent down to get eye-to-eye, up close.

“I know it’s a dream come true. Talking unicorns, flying horses, magic straight up from a fairy tale… but this ain’t a fantasy. This is the real world. Again, ya don’t just walk up ta people like that and click—“

“Ya’ straight up offered friendship to a demon. Twice.”

“Okay, other than big magical friendship problems, we don’t just click all of a sudden.” Applejack begins to stand up, pulling Apple Bloom up by the hand; it’s a relief to be back up, though there’s a line waiting outside, ready to be served once again. “‘Sides, I think we’re makin’ a mountain out of a molehill. If Big Mac’s here, the other Apples are here too, so we can go give ‘em a proper Apple family welcome some better time, okay? Atta’ there, sis. Now, let’s—“

“We’re out of apples!”

Thump!

And Granny’s planted a Closed sign on the counter, the death knell for waiting hungry stomachs.

Thanks to instinct, Apple Bloom instantly looks below the counter. Empty trays, no apples. The line, now populated with only humans again, can only shake their heads and groan once more.

“Alright, ya’ heard me, missies! We’ve run out of apples!”

“Already?!” the two sisters yell belatedly, Big Mac content to just lean back.

“That’s right!” Granny wags a finger at a couple random pegasi high in the sky as if they were rotten pigeons. “I knew this Expo’d have a lotta’ guests, but I didn’t know there’d be a riot for our apples! Half the customers were horses anyway, but… bah! We need to get back home and harvest more apples lickety-split! Apple Bloom, yer comin’ with me!”

“Wait, whuh?!”

Running down stone paths, storming out of the gate, hopping back into the truck, Granny not missing a beat despite her weighty frame, plunging the key into ignition: turning on, turning on, engine starting, engine trying to start, dying to start.

“Come on, you old rusty hag! Don’t give up on me now!”

Apple Bloom puts herself further back into the passenger seat, letting Granny’s verbal abuse of the steering wheel take center stage. Gone are Scoots and Sweetie cramping her all around; all the space to breathe free, alone. Other than Granny, the only faces she sees are security guards’, showing little concern for a jalopy sputtering in its twilight years.

“C’mon, you willowing sapper! Ya stinky badgerin’—“

Kaph!

The indicators die down.

Key keeps turning, turning. Turning on, turning on, never starting. The odor hits, the stench of something black, something dark, oil mixed with smoke rising from beneath the hood.

“Oh boy.”

The two leap out of their seats, down to the ground, out to open the hood to have smoke assault their eyes and lungs. They flap it away, and Granny can only quip, “Engine’s dead, no doubt about it.”

“Could we jumpstart the battery like in the movies?”

“That’d only work for a minute, and this car ain’t got no fancy modern battery!”

One of the guards takes a step forward, surely about to ask if the two poor ladies needed help. Apple Bloom takes a hand into her pocket while he questions Granny, a convenient distractionto get her phone out. Good coverage on, take a look at the texts, her MyStable group chat with the CMC.

Front and center, Scootaloo posing with Rainbow Dash—the pony one, wings and aerobat uniform and cocky smile and all (even wearing shades). With posters signed and the girl herself sporting loud fake rainbow hair. Met my idol! Again! I’m so excited, I’m gonna die!

She scrolls up, backreads the conversation, only to witness a couple photos of Sweetie Belle smiling for the camera with Rarity—two of them, actually. Turns out both Rarities are in attendance as well, human and pony getting along with each other just as fine, pony Rarity of course fawning over how human Rarity may be even superior because humans always wear clothes.

Where you at, AB?

It’s a new message popping up, from Scootaloo. There’s another sigh.

Was headed home to restock on apples. But then the truck died.

Seen, no reply.