Tuesday, August 18th, 909 AB (the next day)
Breakfast

“Another Alicorn About?” Lemon reads aloud from the paper, the smirk audible in her voice. “Preposterous! Pegasus Pays Plenty to Present as Popular Prince!”

“You’re joking, right?” he pleads, pausing to push his empty bowl away. “Stupid, forced alliteration aside, I can’t believe there’s already an article about the dude.”

“Anything Serpentus is big news, colt,” Amethyst remarks. “Betchya somepony saw him flyin ‘round and thought it was you right away.”

Title leans closer, snuggling against Lemon’s left to continue reading, “Crowned Piece, owner of Crowned Entertainment Incorporated, says he finds Baltimare’s favorite son so fascinating that he had to know what it was like to metaphorically fly in the young prince’s wake. ‘I simply had to see if I could catch a glimpse of what his highness experiences every day when he goes outside,’ the stallion said.

‘It’s been a real eye-opening experience! Ponies rush up to say hi when they see me, even if they realize I’m not the real deal. I’ve made a lot of new friends and have to say that I don’t regret it at all!’” She sits back upright and takes a draw from her coffee, commenting, “It sounds like he couldn’t be happier, Cure. You should be proud to have such a vocal stallion out there hyping your business.”

“Does he, though?” Amethyst asks. “You didn’t say he mentioned Cure at all.”

“It’s further down,” Lemon answers. “Mr. Piece explained that he has only had one treatment thus far, but is eager to continue his transformation next week. As for the pony responsible? He had this to say: ‘Go see Cure Wave over in Golden Hills. A young earth pony, if you believe it! Has his own business above a candy shop. It wasn’t cheap, but look at me!’ It also mentions the blurb about you from that article last year.”

“Neat. That was nice of him,” the colt comments, “and the timing rocks. I’m taking a copy of that article with us to Filly just in case. Maybe the Inquirer can put something like ‘As Featured in the Baltimare Sun!’ in the ad. I don’t think they’ll care too much about the Golden Hills Gazette’s piece, but another big paper’s? That right there is worth quotin.”

“Have ya considered ya might make enough without goin ta Filly at all, son? Seems like yer gonna see some business from that.”

Cure wobbles a hoof saying, “Eh, maybe? I dunno, pa. I’d rather make it a sure thing, especially if we,” he tilts his head to Amethyst, “are also gonna be lookin at buyin some properties. Also, I want to be able to head up to Manehattan at some point to see that advisor that Marchioness Yorkshire sent me info on. I don’t want to show up with only a few bits to my name. Can’t have a prince of the realm bein poor, after all.”

“What’s the goal here, champ?” Cure gives his sire a questioning look, silently asking for clarification. “Yer workin yer tail off, and I know it ain’t fer nothin. We ain’t exactly strugglin these days. What are ya chasin after?”

“Same as always, pa. Power, freedom, so forth and so on. I have some ideas, but I don’t know if they’re good ones.” Deed returns the favor, cocking a brow prompting his son to give some examples. “Well, like the whole studding thing, for example. If I go that route I think it would be neat to have a really nice private school focused on the sciences. Something mostly for my foals with slots for other exceptional foals as well.”

“That’s a wonderful idea, sweetie!” his dam exclaims. “You could have one just like her majesty’s!”

“It sounds neat,” Title agrees, “but it’s a little odd for a sire to be very involved in foals they had via contract, you know.”

“It is,” he agrees, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t at least, in a way, provide for them a little. I may not be able to require that ponies let me know how my foals are doing, but you do remember what I said about one of the reasons Celestia has a school several months ago, right?”

“Ahh, I get it,” she says, realization dawning. “A way to keep an eye on the foals. Makes sense.”

He uses his spoon like a pointer, waving at the pink mare and giving her a firm nod. “Exactly. I’ll be able to keep an eye on their development and make sure they’re being taken care of. I figure I’ll eventually need some purely philanthropic pursuits, too. The school will let me ‘give back’ to other foals and make sure mine have every advantage I can afford them. Within reason.”

“You do realize you won’t have any actual parental rights, right?” Amethyst points out. “The girls’ sire can’t just show up and demand ta see ‘em without us sayin it’s alright.”

“Of course. There’s many other issues too, I’m sure. It’s just an example of why I might need cartloads of cash at some point. It may qualify for some crown money, granted, but I’m betting if I wanted to make it a more private institution I would need to cover the majority of the bill.”

“I think you’re forgettin somethin, son.” Cure gives his sire a questioning look as he explains, “All’a that’s gonna be ‘Prince Serpentus,’ not you.”

“There’s no way in the world my identity will stay hidden that long, pa.”

“No, son, what I mean is you won’t need ta use yer own bits fer that. Prince Serpentus will pay for all’a his stuff. Yer makin all’a this under one identity when ya could be doin it under both.”

Cure’s brows furrow in thought as he considers the idea. Slowly shaking his head, he argues, “But the princess said I… wait…”

“She said ya gotta keep ‘em separated, in a way. Ya can’t be usin tha crown ta make yerself rich. Just that ya gotta make sure ta keep ‘em separate-like.”

Title lights up at the idea, nodding along. “Ohhhh! Good thinkin, babe!” She turns to Cure and, seeing his confusion, explains, “The bits from studding is a good example. You’ll earn those as Prince Serpentus. They can all go into your ‘Prince’ account. I’m sure there’s other things you can make that would draw too much attention as yourself. Use your prince identity, set the money aside for whatever charities you want to set up, and keep your ‘Cure Wave’ money separate.”

“But then I’ll have to pay taxes on it,” he whines.

“So? It’s money you wouldn’t be able to earn otherwise. At least not until it’s revealed that you’re you, and at that point you won’t need to keep everything separate. And besides, I’m sure the princess can extend your tax-free status to Serpentus as long as you’re only using the money for charities and stuff the crown would normally cover anyhow.”

“Okay, I guess, but what kinda stuff do you have in mind? I obviously don’t want to start doing cosmetic crap at the hospital.”

“No, no. I mean stuff like… Well, take your origin cell plants, okay?”

“Uhh… okay?”

“That goop they make. How long does it stay good?”

“I once read that stem cells can be stored for years if frozen. At room temperature? Dunno. I told ‘em a day back when I gave them the plants but I bet the solution would work for at least a few days without much degradation.”

“Could you change that? Make them last longer? Maybe sell little packets of it that ponies could keep at home for small cuts and stuff?”

The colt’s eyes go wide in realization. He sets his spoon down, then slowly presses his hoof against his brow. “I am such an idiot!” He throws his hooves into the air and leans back, shouting, “Neosporin! A freakin multimillion dollar product and I can blow it outta the water! Gah! Could’a been makin that crap for months!”

“I… don’t know what Neosporin is, but I can guess. Is that something you can make? Small packs that ponies could keep in their house?”

“Yes! Easily. You ever heard how fungal spores can stay good for hundreds of years?”

“Umm… no?” she admits, glancing at the rest of the parents. She gets a few shrugs, relieved when she’s not the only one that is unaware. “I’ll take your word for it, though.”

“They can. Some of them, at least. I can just encase the stem cells in a shell that will dissolve on contact with water. I can just make a ceramic syringe, minus the needle, with a screw-on cap… that’s brilliant, ma!”

The mare scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Duh. Somepony has to be the brains around here.” She bravely ignores the many doubtful looks from the rest of the parents.

“I’ll have to talk to the boss lady this Sunday. I don’t think it’s urgent enough to bother her tonight, but it may be a really good way for me to earn some bits under my prince identity. I’ll hafta think about other products that are healing-adjacent, but insignificant enough ponies won’t go to the clinic to get it looked at.”

“Acne, scar cream, treatments for graying or thinning hair, bruises, and sore muscles just to name a few,” Lemon lists off. “Granted some of those are straying into cosmetic territory, but they’re still things you can sell to ponies that won’t travel all the way to Baltimare for.”

“Hmm. True. I’ll ponder on it at work today, ma. We should probably get going, though. With that article we may end up being a little busier than normal today.”

Much to everypony’s relief, there was no stampede of ponies rushing to the shop when they arrived. A few more than normal trickled in to make appointments throughout the day, but it didn’t overwhelm his mom or her workers. Cure figures there will probably be a glut of ponies wanting appointments over the next few days, but with only his name and city listed it will take most ponies a moment to find him.

The colt’s eagerness to leave makes the day drag more than normal. With only one customer left, Cure figures his mom should be by soon so they can head out. He takes a moment to check on the house through his plant, finding his dam, Amethyst, and the rest of the foals just getting home from the park.

The connection over such a distance is slow; even though Transmuting a line of copper underground helped immensely, there’s no way he could puppet a body over such distances and be convincing. Sadly, his cylinder won’t be ready for at least another week, so no immediate fix is available.

Early experiments with a pair of copper rings have been promising, but the waste coefficient on the cheaper metal makes his plan cost prohibitive. There’s also the fact that the copper he was testing on was produced with Transmutation, a process that makes any imbued enchantments far less potent.

The little he read on the subject with Celestia indicates that the lingering trace of magic in the Transmuted material is responsible. That’s fine as far as he’s concerned; the paired rings he created were only used as a proof of concept. Once the pure, virgin gold cylinder arrives he’ll be able to make his Version I, and then… then he’ll have some flexibility.

The clops of two sets of hooves ascending the stairs has him focusing back on his parlor. Two pegasi round the top of the stairs, both immediately locking on to the colt waiting for them. The first is a young, light yellow mare and, right on her tail is a slightly older, chestnut colored stallion.

“Howdy!” Cure energetically chirps in greeting. He offers a hoof for a bump and continues, “Welcome to BodyWorks Enterprises! My name’s Cure Wave and I’ll be helping you bring out the more perfect you today! My schedule only showed one more for my afternoon, but if you’re both here to see me that’s fine too! The more the merrier, I always say!”

The mare closes the distance and taps his hoof, but the stallion just stares on unimpressed, his body language all but screaming that he wants to leave. “Yeah, with the prices you got listed I bet you would say that,” he quietly huffs.

It’s not uncommon for customers to gripe about his prices. They’re in line with or higher than most of the legitimate cosmetic alteration businesses in the Baltimare area, but he’s absolutely confident he delivers a better end result than anypony else could.

“Cloud Candy,” the mare introduces, grimacing slightly where her stallion can’t see as she gives his name. “This is my coltfriend, Bevel Joint.”

“Pleasure ta meetchya! I’m a firm believer in getting what you pay for, Mister Joint. I’ve had a few other ponies say something along those lines, but not a single one of them was complaining when they saw the results of my work. So,” he pauses, looking back and forth between them, “were you both here to be seen, or…?” he trails off, leaving the question hanging.

The pair answer at the same time, her with a hoof on her chest and him pointing his right wing.
“Just me.”
“Just her.”

“Great!” he exclaims, forcing enthusiasm with a clap of his hooves. “Come on around the divider here and we’ll talk about what I can do for ya!” Fake, exaggerated smile plastered on, Cure turns and leads them into his small office.

It’s still much the same as it was when he first started seeing customers; a divider, a small desk, a file cabinet he doesn’t even use anymore, a stand with a few Cleaning, Copy, Illusion, and Light crystals, a couple cushions for the occasional pony accompanying a customer, and a small couch off to the side in case somepony will be there a while. The only significant addition he’s made was just done in the last week; a soft, moss-like surface now covers the entirety of the floor, easily mistaken for a plush carpet.

“So the appointment notes said you were interested in some muzzle work and a few touch-ups to your coat and skin,” he mentions as the pair get settled. “What exactly were we hoping to address today?”

“You gotta fix her back up,” her stallion gruffly insists. “It’s like I’m rubbing my belly on a cheese grater every time -”

“Joint!” she snaps, glaring at the stallion.

“- we cuddle. What?!” he defensively barks.

She gives Cure an apologetic look and explains, “I crashed into a hawthorn patch when I was a filly.” More softly she adds, “They cut me up really bad, especially on my back. Left a lot of scars.”

“Figured you could fix her muzzle while you were at it,” her coltfriend interjects. “Slim it down some so she looks like a mare, maybe.”

Cure has to bite his tongue to keep from lashing out. The look of genuine, bone deep hurt on the mare’s face causes his blood to boil. It takes a great deal of effort to keep his wings pinned, ears perked instead of pinned back, and his tail from thrashing while he quickly considers his options.

Unfortunately, he knows there is little he can do to actually help the mare. His first instinct is to bash the asshole’s brains in, but Celestia would probably be a bit miffed to find out Cure murdered a pony for being a jerk, even if he’s fairly certain at least one creature in history pushed her buttons enough to get turned into a lump of char.

Ed watched enough episodes of Cops to know that taking unilateral action probably wouldn’t work. Not only would he have to explain himself, Cloud could potentially leap to her coltfriend’s defense.

The thought of provoking him verbally is tempting, but then he could just take his frustration out on her later, especially if she doesn’t stick up for him. Also, there is little that a foal of Cure’s age could say that would end up with an adult stallion taking a swing at him, and his business doesn’t need complaints being lodged against him, especially valid ones. Maybe if the dude’s daughter was around for him to beat up, but sans combative filly, the colt is bereft of good options.

After a moment of stewing he realizes he is likely overreacting. For all he knows the couple had an argument earlier in the day and the stallion’s in an unusually shitty mood.

With his limited options, he figures about the only thing he can do that’s practical is to ensure that by the time the couple leaves, the mare has never been happier with her appearance.

Facing the mare directly so she knows he’s specifically addressing her, Cure assures her, “I’m sure by the time we’re done today you’ll look exactly how you’d like, miss.” He begins reaching for an Illusion crystal and continues, “Now, how about we take a look at some options, then we’ll talk pricing, getchya all taken care of, and let you both enjoy the rest of this beautiful afternoon.”

After a quick lunch, and a few minutes scouting to ensure the coast is clear, the entire family - minus Deed and Lemon - gathers out back to witness the pair’s departure. Cure had considered attempting to make a sleek, aerodynamic bobsled-like vehicle for his mother, but had given in to his parents’ suggestion and instead went with a more traditional, if shrunken-down, cab. It only has two wheels and a small raised bench, though he added a transparent wood canopy so his mom can see out without a bunch of wind in her face.

It doesn’t escape to the colt that, unlike a real transportation cab, his mini-carriage lacks the enchantments designed to keep a pony inside, mitigate the wind, and to activate Slow Fall in the case of a sudden, significant decrease in altitude.

Though he can’t imagine what could possibly cause a catastrophic failure significant enough to endanger the mare, Cure insisted that she keep a Slow Fall and Teleport crystal on her. With Title comfortably seated on her bench and the colt securely attached to the carriage, he waves an oversized wing in farewell to his dam, Amethyst, and his siblings. Looking back over his withers, he calls back to his mom, “You all set back there, ma?”

“Good to go, babe.”

“Nice and comfy?”

“Yep. Let’s hit it.”

“Alright, here we go!” Wide wings raised and leg muscles taut, Cure leans forward and begins flapping madly while visibly straining to pull the cab forward. Sweat beads down his brow and drips from his barrel, darkening the fur below his pits. He heaves with all his might, his hooves digging furrows in the soft earth, and he effortfully grunts, straining to budge the mare and cab, all to no avail. After several seconds of pulling and tugging the cab hasn’t even moved a single millimeter, all while his family watches on in stunned silence.

“Real funny, you little brat! Now stop farting around and go or I’m getting out of this damn thing!” she shouts, fed up with his antics.

The colt nearly falls over cackling, soon joined by the other spectators when realization dawns on them.

“Sorry ma, I accidentally flipped the mental switch to ‘heavy’ instead of ‘light,’” he insists between laughs. He spends another few moments chuckling and cleans himself and the lawn up with his magic before getting serious. “Okay, here we go for real. Later, everypony!” he shouts, waving his wing goodbye.

Lightening the mare and the carriage, Cure begins at a trot, quickly speeding to a canter. His large wings pump for real, lifting him easily, but not the carriage. It becomes quickly apparent that even with her weight reduced, the colt, mare, and carriage together are too much to gracefully lift and remain horizontal. He can get them off the ground, but with all of the weight in the back she’ll be dangling below, not soaring behind him. Cure slows back to a trot and calls back, “I need to reconfigure the carriage some, ma.”

“Need me to get out?”

“No. The problem is that all of the lift is in front and the majority of the weight is in the back,” he explains, pointing at his chest with his hoof, then the carriage as a whole. “I’m not making a weight joke, I just need to add some wings on the cab so it generates lift too. The enchantments that pegasi carriages have must do something to shift the lift of their wings back somewhere closer to the center of the mass.

“Hold on while I adjust it some.” He repeats the update back to the family through the Message spell as he tows her back to their own yard. Once in his own domain, he calls up a vine to connect to the underside of the cab. Mass flows up, thickening the side walls as Title watches in mild interest. Two large glider wings sprout from the cab’s frame and extend out, significantly increasing the surface area and providing additional lift.

“We’re going to need to go invisible,” he tells everypony. “The profile is going to be too unique; we’ll have pegasi and griffs from the entire city flying by to get a look at the winged chariot, not to mention at least a few guards, I’m sure.”

“Probably right, colt,” Amethyst agrees.

“Send us a message when you get into the air,” his dam insists.

“Will do. Here we go again. Third’s a charm and all that,” he finishes in a grumble. Cloaking the entirety of himself and his mom in Invisibility, Cure takes off in a quick canter, grabbing as much air around himself, the cab, and its wings as he can and pushing the lightening aura to its maximum. With nearly double the surface area and more evenly distributed lift capacity, the pair lift off the ground and quickly gain altitude.

“How ya doin, ma?” he calls over his withers.

“Not the best,” she uneasily responds.

He glances back automatically, then mentally facehooves. “Do I need to land? Would you rather be asleep? I can give you something if you’re feeling nauseous.”

“No… no, I’ll be alright. Just give me a few.”

“I would suggest closing your eyes, but…”

“First thing I tried,” she admits. “Can’t say it helped much.”

“No, I bet not with invisible eyelids. Closing your eyes probably wouldn’t help much anyhow. Focus on the horizon. That’s supposed to work better.”

“I’m doing okay,” she weakly insists.

“Makes ya wonder how the spell lets the light in your eyes and also lets it pass through them, huh?”

“It kind of does,” she agrees. “Like, academically it’s interesting, at least. As long as it works,” she trails off. Cure can practically hear the shrug in her voice.

“Yeah. I’m going to start looping north to head east. Want a tour of Baltimare or should I make straight for Parkdale and the coast?”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing the city. I’m assuming takeoff is the worst part, right?”

“In this case, yes. Normally landing would be, but Slow Fall makes it a cinch compared to when you’re in aircraft that don’t have bullshit pony magic.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Definitely. Even with all the advanced tech, I can recall a few landings that were asshole-puckering terrifying. Especially in bad crosswinds. Especially on short runways. Some of those islands he went to on vacations were pretty small, and out on the ocean winds can be strong, so yeah, do the math there. The first few times really sucked.”

Cure levels off only about a kilometer up and begins pitching to their right, slowly bringing the pair of them around towards the east and looping north around and above the cloud district.

<< We’re all good, dam. Probably move out of Sending range in a few minutes. Love you, see you in a bit! >>

<< Love you too, sweetie. Be careful, and stop teasing your mother so much. >>

<< I will. Later! >>

“I sent dam a message. I’ll take us around the southern half of the city, then loop up north, ma. Let me know if you want me to get closer to anything.”

“Alright, babe. Just stay at this height. I can see everything fine from here.”

Cure slowly pitches further south, crossing over the railroad tracks and heads towards the southern half of Baltimare, slowing his pace so his mom can really get a good look at everything. With his enhanced hearing he can hear the mare’s quiet exclamations of joy and wonder through the cab’s exterior as she looks down at the residential areas to the west of the city. He sedately loops to the east, passing south of City Hall and the hospital, over the downtown business district, then veers further south to avoid flying too close to the docks.

“You have got to bring the girls up here sometime, honey. This is amazing!”

“It really is,” he easily agrees, turning north to fly up the coast.

As he’s lazily flying along, he catches movement in a park below. The familiar setup of a hoofball field is easy to see at their low altitude. Dozens of foals of all ages run and play, having a fun time enjoying their summer as their parents laze about, idly watching while chatting the day away. It appears unorganized; likely just a bunch of foals out having fun, but still makes him feel a slight twinge of envy.

Ponies, griffons, zebras, and families of all kinds of creatures are out, enjoying the beautiful day under Celestia’s sun. He knows he could too. All he has to do is stop. Stop pursuing wealth and power, stop working as much as he does. He could just be a foal, and nothing more. But he can’t. He can’t stop now, and he knows it.

He’s committed to the hospital, to being a prince, to stepping in to help those that nopony else can. He’ll never be able to quit, either. Not without consequences, at least. The disappointment of an entire nation is simply too much to bear, never mind the loss of who-knows-how-many unborn foals he could have saved.

Grim thoughts plaguing his mind, he peels his eyes away from the foals and focuses on his destination, facing north to a new city; a city he may have briefly visited had he been less prepared, less paranoid, back in May. The spontaneity of their trip means that nopony will be ready, waiting for him, but that does little to ease the anxious frustration at visiting somewhere that would have potentially been the gateway to a life of enslavement had he not been ready. Had he not been waiting.

There’s little as far as interesting scenery for the pair once they pass by the fancy, oceanfront properties lining the coast in Parkdale. There’s hills, tons of trees, a few streams here and there, but as pretty as it all looks Cure just can’t muster the energy to feign interest. His mom thoroughly enjoys the view, but despite objectively acknowledging that it is pretty, he couldn’t care less.

They spot an occasional home close to the coast, though several look abandoned and overgrown. It’s somewhat of a surprise that they even exist given what communal creatures ponies are. Given the rocky shoreline he can’t fathom what the appeal would be. He briefly wonders if the occupants are long gone, having passed alone in their home with nopony the wiser before dismissing the thought. Surely patrolling guard units would have at least stopped to check on the place every so often. Probably.

Once they get closer to Fillydelphia the work being done to connect the two cities is visible from the coast. Cure isn’t sure why it’s taking so long; he recalls teams from the westward rail expansion in America being able to complete literal miles of railroad tracks every day. Manpower, or creaturepower, he supposes, is probably the limiting factor here. The thousands upon thousands of workers needed to achieve that pace simply isn’t available. Instead, only a few dozen ponies, bulls, minotaurs, and a hooffull of griffons can be seen as they quickly pass by.

He idly wonders how quickly he, himself, could do the work. He has no idea exactly what all goes into laying tracks. Presumably a significant amount of preparatory work needs done on the surface itself, then the laying of the ties, then the arrangement of the tracks themselves. With his talent making absolutely precise measurements simple, he can’t fathom any reason why he couldn’t complete at least a mile or two every day and have the cities connected within a month. Perhaps two so that the real engineers can follow behind and fix all of his mistakes.

It would take a rather extremely unsubtle approach, but he figures that if he had the tracks themselves available, he could gather enough plant material to fashion a railcar and slowly drive it all the way down from Fillydelphia, which is a large steel producer, all by his lonesome. Fix the ground with Shape Earth and Shape Stone, remove any encroaching vegetation, consume trees in the way, fashion them into the necessary ties, and fuse tracks and ties together through Transmutation.

Unfortunately, that sounds boring, so he’ll not be suggesting that to Celestia, double so due to how much it would reveal of his true abilities. Likely ones she, herself, has not even considered.

Despite the area between the cities being heavily forested, there is a highway running between them completely separate from the in-progress rail line. Much like the smaller ground paths between Golden Hills and Baltimare proper, it amounts to little more than a cleared dirt road, perhaps wide enough for two, or in some places, three carriages to pass by each other. He even spots a few buildings on the road that serve as inns, carriage service stations, and restaurants for anypony making the trek. Likely homes for the ponies that live there, too, he figures.

Memories of greasy, nasty, diners that human truckers frequent flash through the colt’s mind. The small Waffle House-esque places always had the most ridiculously delicious, and equally unhealthy, food for half as much as franchise restaurants. The possibility of that being the case crosses his mind, but if he ever gets the opportunity to find out it’ll have to be when he’s not on a tight timeframe.

The two do a brief reconnaissance loop around the city with Cure pointing out where they need to go to his mom. With such a large population of unicorns it’s not difficult to spot several magical supply shops, some of which are directly between his two objectives.

The city itself is on the coast, unlike its Earth-equivalent. Bisected by the Delhiware River that starts in the mountains and eventually feeds into the ocean, it has two visually distinct parts; the downtown district on the peninsula sandwiched between the river and the ocean, and the residential areas stretching from the northwest across the river, then to the west of the city proper.

A smaller, upscale neighborhood is further north and uphill from the majority of the city. Large brick mansions with elaborate gardens and huge lawns clearly demarcate the divide from upper middle class to the through-and-through rich residents.

On the west side of the Delhiware the existing rail lines serve as a border between the mountainous areas in the northwest and the more equine and ungulate-populated areas to the southwest and north. They originate from Detrot and pass by Foaledo several hundred kilometers to the west, then pass through the West Chaser Fillydelphia suburb, cross the river, enter the city proper, then curve northwest to the west of the upscale neighborhood before eventually heading up to Manehattan.

A feature of the city that only a few other metros have is public transportation. With a largely unicorn populace, many of the residents commute via intercity trams each day. It’s a major source of employment for the earth pony residents; a temperature-controlled trolley with seating for dozens of unicorns can be pulled easily on unpowered tracks by teams of two to six earth ponies, depending on the grade of the route.

The majority of the dragon residents live in the northwest where the architecture differs enormously from the typical pony cottages, standardized wooden homes, or concrete and stone office buildings into something straight out of the Flintstones. Almost every part of Dragon Town’s existence leaves the colt baffled. He vaguely recalls Twilight at one point complaining about a lack of information about dragons being available, but at least a thousand of them live right here on the east coast of Equestria under the aegis of the Alicorn of the Sun.

It’s one of the very few places on the planet where the Dragon Lord has no authority over members of his own species. A detection array serves to notify the garrisoned guards if and when the Bloodstone Scepter is activated, giving them a few minutes time to activate the shielding array located around Dragon Town and a portion of downtown to negate its effect.

That should never happen without prior notice, though; Dragon Lord Torch signed a treaty with Equestria over a thousand years ago with a provision requiring him to notify the nation’s leader at least a day in advance of the scepter’s planned use. With proper notice given, the guard contingent responsible for powering the shield has more than adequate time to ensure their charges are protected.

Another glaring issue Cure can’t help but note is that there’s no lava anywhere nearby. Dragons are not cold blooded, and their scales provide every bit as much protection from cold as they do from heat, so they don’t need lava baths to get by. Still, he is aware that they do enjoy the activity immensely, even if they can’t stay fully submerged for long. The problem isn’t the heat; dragons’ innate magic means they can shrug off temperatures well in excess of a couple thousand degrees, but they still have to breathe.

Like every other warm blooded, active, non-aquatic creature he’s ever heard of, they will have to come up for air every so often. Some of the larger ones can supposedly stay under for an hour or more, but that’s more of a function of size, power, and surface area allowing them to minimize energy use for longer periods of inactivity. A larger dragon will have larger energy reserves and smaller surface area, relatively speaking.

The streets and buildings are wider and larger in Dragon Town, but it would be impossible for the older, larger citizens to actually enter any businesses. The most massive residents of the city typically live far on the outskirts, sleeping away much of their days and, on the rare occasion they need something from the city, dispatch a younger relative to go fetch it.

With the city mapped out and scouted, it only takes a moment for Cure to find an isolated spot in Macaroni Park to the south. He gratuitously abuses Slow Fall, disconnecting himself completely from the carriage, flying down below it, then catches it with his horn, gently setting it on the ground without the slightest bump.

As soon as it touches down his horn retracts and he double-checks to ensure nopony caught sight of him. Somewhat wary of being in a new city without his defenses up, he withdraws his staff and rests it on his back, surreptitiously connecting to it just behind his withers.

The hatch pops open and his mom hops out. She stretches like an oversized cat, first with her rump waving in the air and forelegs way out in front, then shifts her hindquarters almost down to the ground as she arches her barrel in an upward facing dog pose, grunting and moaning all the while.

Cure watches on in amusement as the mare tests every joint on her body. “You good now?”

“Mhmm, you bet. What are we doing with the carriage?”

“I’ll hide the wings, remove the canopy and pull it like a normal cab,” he says, hooking himself back into the harness. He motions back to the cab with a tilt of his head and asks, “Want to walk or ride?”

“I’ll walk for a bit,” she answers as the two get underway heading north towards the city’s downtown area.

Cure trots along beside her, pondering on their trip thus far. “You know… this whole thing seems like a pain in the ass. Why didn’t we just rent a real cab to fly us up here? We could have had ‘em take us right where we needed and skipped all the covert action crap.”

“I dunno, babe. We talked about it last night before bed, but your sire said to let you do it your way. Said if it didn’t work we could do that or take the ferry. I said just let you go by yourself, but your dam wouldn’t hear of it.”

He draws in a deep breath and blows out a sigh. “Yeah, I don’t think she’d be down for that. Y’all do realize I’m like… one of the most dangerous creatures on the planet, right?”

“Anypony can be caught off guard, honey. Not that that’s a big worry here, but still.”

“Right. I guess.”

“You do know where we’re headed, right? I was just kinda looking around and wasn’t paying attention,” she sheepishly admits.

“Sure do, momma. That,” he points away up the avenue they’re on to a tall, domed structure, “is City Hall. The Writing House Market offices are a couple blocks southwest of there, so we have some ground to cover. The Inquirer is, coincidentally, on Market Street about six blocks straight east of there. There’s several stores we could stop at between them, so that won’t be a problem.”

Course set, the two move at a brisk canter by the colt’s standards due to his shorter legs. The oddity of a young colt pulling a carriage draws a few looks from ponies they pass on the street, but with his pace matching the other carriages moving about the city nopony raises any fuss. The main roads in the city are cobblestone, but a larger unicorn population means that they’re magically smooth and well maintained enough that the carriage wheels don’t even make the distinct “clak-clak” noise riding over them.

Fillydelphia, like Baltimare, is much more modern looking than Canterlot. Few buildings are more than five stories tall, but the thick, cement facades, tall, heavy columns, and elaborate battlements of the rooftops give the city a somewhat intimidating feel that he is unaccustomed to.

It’s the first time in the young alicorn’s life that he feels like he’s in a real city; a very human city, no less. Cloudsdale is far larger and much more populated, but he never got to wander around the floating metropolis. Canterlot, for all its majestic beauty, feels more like the set of some kind of fantasy movie with its dated architecture, stone construction, immaculate cleanliness, and tightly controlled aesthetics. Baltimare is close, but the scale of it ruins the immersion; a population in the mid sixty thousand range just doesn’t quite click as a “city” in his mind, and he can fly the entire length from north to south in only a couple minutes.

There’s no exhaust smell from vehicles, nor is there as much noise due to the lack of car horns or engines, but the familiar typical trash and all-around funk that most large cities have is present. Even though they’re not in Dragon Town there’s several of its citizens walking about. It strikes the colt as somewhat bizarre seeing dragons walking down the street like they are, but nopony is paying them any mind, so he does his best to not gawk like everypony does when he walks around as Serpentus.

The wider streets are a boon for the pair, allowing the colt to really take in the sights of the bustling downtown area. There’s not an overabundance of hoof traffic in the mid afternoon, but in a city nearly three times as populated as Baltimare there’s never a time when nopony is out. Business ponies walk with purpose, cabbies are constantly zipping by, and street vendors of every kind call out soliciting creatures to buy their wares.

It doesn’t escape the colt’s notice when his mom’s snout zeroes in on restaurants with signs advertising various flavors of cheesecake. “We can get ya a snack before we go, ma.”

“Aww!” she pouts. She stamps a hoof on the stone street and whines, “But I want one now!”

“Maybe if you behave yourself. I wouldn’t mind trying one of those, too,” he says, motioning with his snout to a very busy pretzel vendor. A dozen ponies stand in a line stretching south, parallel to the street, waiting to buy one of the warm, soft treats. A grunt of agreement is her only reply as the pair pick up the pace heading north.

Intersections in busy cities are normally very chaotic for anypony towing a carriage. Traffic lights don’t exist, and road signage is fairly minimal. Coming from a side street into a main thoroughfare can be a long waiting game during peak hours unless somepony is willing to shove their way in and cut somepony else off.

The pair witness a few arguments between cabbies as they make their way north approaching the heart of the city. As they get closer to Walnut Street Cure gradually works his way towards the middle of the street to turn west and is relieved, and slightly confused, when he finds legitimate police ponies directing traffic. Even more bizarre, the uniforms they’re wearing could have been copied straight out of a movie set in the 1900s on Earth.

Four unicorns - and every single one seems to be a unicorn - sit on a raised platform and levitate large signs overhead to keep traffic flowing unimpeded. On some unseen schedule, the “Proceed” card for the north and south lanes is swapped with a “Clear Intersection” one, soon followed by “Halt,” allowing traffic going east and west to flow instead.

“I didn’t know they had cops here.”

“Only larger cities do, babe. Manehattan, Chicoltgo, here, and I think a few places on the west coast. Smaller cities like Baltimare don’t have the taxes to support a separate police force.”

A loud whistle blows, signaling a sign change. The carriage in front of Cure makes its turn, allowing him to see that he effectively has a green turn arrow with southbound traffic waiting behind a Halt sign. He rushes to follow behind, catching the policemare’s eye as he hurries by.

“Aye, aye! Get movin!” she calls in an oddly Irish accent. “That’s a good sonny, keep it movin!”

Once through the intersection he cocks a brow up at his mom. She shrugs, commenting, “Dunno. She must be Brayish or something.”

“From Brayerland?” he scoffs, chuckling.

“Well, duh,” she matter-of-factly responds.

The colt can only sigh and shake his head in disbelief. “This world,” he grumbles.

The pair continue down Walnut until they spot the large square that hosts the weekend market on their left. The area is a flat, lightly wooded space the size of an entire city block with stone paths running the perimeter and converging on the central plaza like spokes of a wheel. They all merge into a large, flat, open space in the middle where a number of tables are set up for customers of the food vendors on the weekend.

The offices that manage it are located just ahead of them on their right, opposite the plaza. It’s a rather indistinct building; three stories tall with a plain, flat, cement façade. A sign in front indicates the Writing House Property Management, along with a variety of other companies’ offices, are inside. A set of steps lead up to a pair of rotating doors with a larger, dragon-friendly swinging door between them.

Cure pulls the carriage into one of the diagonally angled parking spots outside the building, then solidifies the axles, undercarriage, and wheels into one solid piece to prevent it being stolen. He isn’t sure if theft is a big concern, and there are nicer carriages also parked, but it only takes a second to reverse.

Once inside it only takes a moment to find the right offices. The pair are met by a receptionist and asked to wait in the small lobby. As soon as Cure sits down his mom flops on his back, wrapping her forelegs possessively around his chest. He looks up, both to snuggle against her neck and to give her a questioning look for the somewhat unusual-in-public behavior.

“Let me talk,” she firmly insists.

He pauses a moment to ponder the demand. “Oh… kay? May I ask why?”

“Because. You are a focus of craziness. You can not do anything without the situation getting out of hoof. I want you to follow along like a good little colt - like a normal little colt - and let your mom be the adult. Okay?”

Cure opens his mouth to argue, hesitating as he tries to think of any time he and his mom have gone out that didn’t end up in some kind of oddball situation. There’s plenty, granted, but for every one it feels like there’s at least a couple she could point to that did go sideways.

“Fine,” he grumps, laying to rest his chin on his crossed pasterns.

He’s rewarded with a nuzzle and a kiss on his brow. “Good. I’ll have us out of here in no time, then we can get ourselves a little treat, hit your shop, and go pop in at the Inquirer before we head home.”

“We should take back something. A couple of those big cheesecakes sounds good.”

“Oooh… that does sound good!” she agrees, eyes widening in fat mare glee. “What kind of flavor should we get?”

“Plain. I can make any syrups or whatever with my plant. Raspberry sounds freakin delicious. Shame Oreo isn’t an option, me and Cyn-” his breath catches and he goes stock still.

“Babe? You okay?” Title gives him an extra little squeeze and nuzzles at his ear. “It’s okay, sweetie. Come on. They’re gonna call us soon.”

“Sorry,” he sighs. “There was a restaurant they used to go to when they were dating. It kinda got too expensive later on, but they had like fifty different kinds of cheesecakes. They would go there and share one ‘cause they were so dense and huge they’d both be sick of they got their own. I could probably pound a whole cake now without even cheating and be fine.”

“Cure.”

“What?”

She lifts his chin with her right hoof and tilts her head to stare directly into his eyes. “You have to take me there. It must happen.”

“HAH! You bet, momma. Gimme a century or so and we’ll ask Magic to find a way to make it happen. There’s plenty of stories of her doing either that or the opposite, so…” he drifts off with a shrug. “Oh! Or I can ask the boss if she’s made any progress with that mirror. It’s been a while since I followed up with her on that. Depending on the whole time mechanic, who knows? Maybe that place exists over there.”

“Mmm… that’s definitely worth checkin in to.”

“Yeah, never mind the technological advancements and potential trade options. Mom wants Oreo cheesecake, so we gotta make it happen.”

“Damn right!” she agrees with a cheery hoofpump.

The door beside the receptionist window opens and a dark purple dragoness pokes her head out. Her horns and belly both have a darker beige, nearly brown color and, instead of frills, she has actual hair in a lighter pink shade. Her wing membranes are the same pink color, contrasting against the darker purple of the skin surrounding the supporting skeletal structures. She looks at the pair and, in a deep, rumbly, voice with a mild hiss, calls out, “Misssuss Ssearch?”

Hoof raised like a student being called on, his mom calls out, “Yo!” then climbs off her son and hops down to the floor.

Rather than take them back to an office, the dragoness steps out into the lobby on three legs carrying a clipboard. Though she is a head taller than his mom, she has a lithe frame with no substantial muscle visible on her. Mom and son, the latter still on the couch, pause as she makes her way over.

Without introducing herself, she rotates the clipboard around to show a map of the market plaza broken down into a grid and labeled. The entire market save a few spots to the southeast is all marked off, indicating only a few available locations. “I undersstand you wisshed to ssecure a sstall? Azs you can ssee we’re already nearly full for thiss weekend.”

“Ah. No, sorry. Bit of confusion there. We’re here in advance. September 19th is the date we need.”

“See if we can get a bigger spot, ma. Maybe a four-square that’s all together.”

“Sure thing, honey.”

“Ooohh! Sseptember 19th!” she exaggeratedly exclaims. With the clipboard in her right claws she extends her wing and carefully flips through the pages until she arrives at the one for the correct date. “Here we go! That’ss much better!”

“Sweet! My son will want a spot with lots of room, or a few together if needed.”

“There are larger plotss, but each vendor can only rent one. Thesse are more exxpenssive, however. Are you ccertain?”

“Yes, ma’am!” he eagerly chirps. “The bigger, the better. I’m headed to the paper to get ads running as soon as we’re done here, so I’m expecting lotsa traffic. I’ll need room for waiting customers, a secure area for the dough, and a spot to see all the ponies and dragons that’ll be comin by.”

A look of curiosity crosses her face as she looks between the two. “What, exactly, will you be sselling? Are you an artisst?”

Cure lights up at the question, throwing both hooves at the dragoness as if he’s presenting her to a crowd. “You bet I am! What I sell is perfection, of course! Magnificence! The unbridled beauty of a creature such as yourself that looks their very best!

“I don’t like to toot my own horn-” his mom scoffs faintly which he chooses to ignore, “-but those lovely gemstones you call eyes are gazing upon the foremost and finest cosmetic alteration specialist on this side of Canterlot. Maybe even both sides! Why, just visualize the most unfathomably stunning you you can, write out some ideas, and come see me in a few weeks and I’ll tell ya what, you’ll be singin my praises for the rest ‘a yer life, I bet!”

The eruption of exuberance gives the dragoness pause as she absorbs the word vomit exploding from the colt. Not completely buying it, she looks to his mom for confirmation. “He really is phenomenal. It’s his special talent. Show her the paper, honey,” she instructs, nudging Cure with her fetlock.

The colt reaches into his mane and pulls out the article from the morning, passing it to the dragoness. She briefly glances over her withers when the door opens and the receptionist steps out, interested in what the colt is offering as well. The young unicorn had been listening in on the whole conversation.

The pair read the article from the Baltimare Sun in silence for a moment, then pass it back while uttering quiet sounds of interest.

It’s the mare that speaks up first, asking, “How much?”

Cure whips out a list of his services and his fees and passes it over. In addition to his typical services, he’s included a number of dragon-themed options such as frill, wing, and claw alterations, scale resurfacing, tail-end customization, horn adjusting, and others.

“Here’s a list of the services I offer. Now I know it looks bad that I’m charging dragons a lot more and I promise there’s a very good reason for it.” He focuses his attention on the dragoness and explains, “I’m sure you’re very much aware how magic-resistant y’all are, right?”

“Of coursse.”

With a teasing lilt he indicates the staff on his withers and continues, “I’m not a unicorn, as you may have both gathered. I don’t have the magic capacity of an adult such as yourself,” he explains, flicking his eyes to the mare. “It takes about ten times as much magic for me to make alterations to a dragon, so I absolutely have to charge more as a result.

“That’s not even taking into account the physical size difference. I figure a single dragon over about five meters tall will completely tap me out for at least half an hour, while I could see five to ten other creatures in that same time. It’s not fair, I’ll admit, but… what can I do?” he asks, shrugging helplessly.

“That… makess ssensse, I ssupposse,” she begrudgingly admits, passing the article and his price list back to him. The mare must have lost interest when she read the prices; she didn’t even wait for him to finish talking before making her way back through the door to her window and resumed her bored look. “I have ssome family that may be interessted. Azs for your sstall sselection,” she pauses, flipping to a blank form and passing the clipboard to Title, “pleasse fill thiss out, then we’ll collect your payment, and you’ll be all sset!”

It only takes a moment for his mom to do just that. A hundred and fifty bits later, Cure has a copy of the form and a receipt showing his designated lot reservation is confirmed and the two turn to leave.

“You didn’t sit there and be quiet like I asked,” his mom grumbles as soon as they leave the office.

“You asked me for input first. Besides, nothing went wrong,” he responds with an indifferent shrug.

“Honey,” she calls in a chiding tone. His ears reflexively pin back as he steps closer, pressing his cheek against her shoulder and staring up with his big, brown eyes. “That won’t work. Nothing went wrong this time, but if I ask you to let me take care of something, please do.”

“Sorry, ma,” he apologizes, voice full of contrition. “I’ll be good at the paper, promise.”

She reaches down to nuzzle between his ears. “That’s all I ask, sweetheart. Now, I know you’re wanting to go to the crystal shop, so let’s-” she pauses as the two step through the revolving doors. Her eyes immediately land on a pair of policemares standing on the sidewalk in front of their cart. A dull yellow unicorn is scribbling in an open pad while her partner, also a unicorn, but with a deep gray coat, walks around inspecting the vehicle.

“What the fuck?!” he quietly exclaims.

“Don’t you do a single thing,” she sternly insists as they start to approach the pair. “I’m not going to get arrested ‘cause of you mouthing off.”

“Goddamn right you won’t,” he growls under his breath.

“Seriously. Don’t!” she warns. “Something wrong, officers?” she calls out once she gets closer.

“Unlicensed cab,” the one scribbling away dismissively answers.

“Unlicensed?” she questions, head tilting in confusion. “You need a license?!”

A few passing ponies chuckle mockingly as they trot by. Cure distinctly hears one make a comment about an “earth pony rube” that immediately gets his hackles up. His mom’s hoof pressing on his withers keeps him in place even if he does whip his head around to give the stallion a menacing glare.

“Every cab needs a license,” is the officer’s bored response. She continues scribbling away without even looking at the pair.

Cure spares a moment to look at the carriages that are going about the city. None of them have license plates as he’s come to expect, but they each have an eight character mix of numbers and letters inscribed on the sides and back along the bottom trim. He’d assumed they were serial numbers before, but now he feels dumb for not making the connection.

“It’s my son’s cart, not a cab providing services.”

“Cab’s a cab, ma’am.”

“This isn’t a cab. It’s a cart. He literally made it himself and I’m the only pony that’s ever been in it.”

Both mares pause and turn to regard the two. Their eyes go down to the colt, then up to the mare before they share a look. The yellow one waves a hoof between them, asking, “You’re sayin you make your son pull you around in this?”

“I wouldn’t say I make him,” she begins to argue.

“What would you say, exactly?” the other one finally speaks up.

“Pardon?”

“You don’t make him,” she echoes back, “but you have a cart you’re sayin he doesn’t do nothin with but pull you in. Is that right?”

“I… guess?”

She looks to Cure and asks, “How old are you, son?”

“Old enough to pull my mom in a cart,” he replies in a huff.

“That ain’t a number, colt.”

“That’s very observant of you, officer. Or maybe with those deductive skills I should say detective?”

“He’s nine,” Title quickly answers, seeking to deescalate the situation.

“So let me get this straight,” Gray begins. “You, a healthy, fit looking earth pony mare, have a cart that your son, who is nine and has a smart mouth, pulls you around in that serves no other purpose than to haul your rear around. That ‘bout right, ma’am?”

“Well… I guess? But we just got it for this trip. It’s not like we’ve used it a lot.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’re you from?”

“Baltimare.”

Cure almost reflexively facehooves at the answer. Both unicorns’ mouths gape open at his mom’s response.

Yellow nearly growls asking, “You’re from Baltimare? And your son pulled you from there in this cart?!”

She hesitates, looking in panic between Cure underneath her hoof and the two officers that look ready to pounce. “Uhh…”

Finally out of patience, Cure speaks up. “Enough.”

“What was that, colt?” Yellow gruffly asks.

“I said enough. I don’t have time for this crap.”

“Son, you just sit there and be quiet. We’ll take-”

“No,” he interrupts, teleporting a scroll from seemingly nowhere to between the four ponies. The move draws a few curious looks from passers-by, but everycreature assumes the two unicorns are responsible. He uses his staff to levitate it to the stunned, and suddenly wary officers.

Gray hesitantly takes it in her aura and unrolls it.

By order of His Royal Highness, Prince Serpentus of Equestria:

The Fillydelphia Police Officers with badges number 714 and 4848 are to ask no more questions. They are to go about their day and forget they ever interacted with a young, blue, disguised alicorn and his mother. They are to forget they ever saw his cart or had a conversation (which did not happen) in front of the Writing House Market Administrative Offices on Tuesday, August 18th at 3:15 in the afternoon.

If, for some reason, they cannot forget said encounter (which did not happen), any questions should be directed to only His Grace, Marquis Merryland, or the Royal Guard Captain in Fillydelphia and absolutely nopony else, including any commanding officers in the police force.

Signed,
His Royal Highness, Prince Serpentus

Her coat pales slightly as she looks at the stamped, signed order with the prince’s cutie mark. It pales further when she looks at the nearly identical mark on his flank that shifts to the prince’s for an instant and his eyes briefly change to gold.

She shows the note to her extremely curious partner whose eyes widen as she reads it. “Oh shit,” she mumbles.

“Oh shit indeed,” he gravely agrees. “I’ll be taking that back,” he says, motioning at the note that suddenly flashes out of existence. “Good day, officers. Remember: Silence is golden. Mom? I think it’s time for us to go.”

Meekly nodding, Title hops to and starts making her way to the passenger cab. “Sure thing, babe.”

Neither unicorn moves, only turning to watch as the colt steps into the harness. He meets their eyes and wills the straps of the harness to wrap around his chest and withers with no visible signs of magic use. Both their eyes widen further when a set of random numbers and letters suddenly appear on the back and sides of the cart. Neither moves a muscle as he unfreezes the wheels, backs out of the spot, makes a U-turn, and merges into traffic.

<< Apologies for interrupting your day, Marquis Merryland, >> he Sends. << I am in your town on business today. I had an encounter with two officers near the Writing House Market that forced me to reveal my identity. Badges 714 and 4848. Please dispatch somepony to advise them of the importance of discretion at your earliest convenience. >>

The pair travel in the relative silence of the busy street for a few minutes as they move past the main avenue, pause as the traffic signals are swapped out, and make their way to the store Cure spotted from the air. It isn’t until they’re parked in front of the shop that his mom finally speaks up, asking, “What did you put on that note, Cure?”

“There was no note, ma. That whole encounter never happened. They saw nothing, heard nothing, and will remember nothing. I’ve already notified the marquis and asked him to send somepony to talk to the two to reaffirm that nothing happened.”

“Don’t you think that’s overkill, honey?”

“There’s no kill like overkill. C’mon, let’s get these crystals, go to the paper, get that cheesecake, and get the fudge out of here before something else goes wrong. We also gotta drop mom’s letter in a box somewhere. I bet they’ll have one near the newspaper.”

“Probably,” she agrees, following the colt into the store. She nearly steps on him when he pauses suddenly, looking to his left a dozen meters down the sidewalk. She follows his eyes to a food cart operated by a dragon. Just like the pony carts selling treats, this one has a couple other dragons in line. It seems a little late in the day for lunch, but she supposes somedragons may just work a later shift than is normal.

It’s no surprise there’s not any ponies waiting; the stall has a picture of cooked chicken drumsticks overtop flames. The scent biting at her snout tells Title that they’re far, far too spicy for most ponies to enjoy, even if they do like meat. The sound of lips loudly smacking has her looking down at him again, barely holding back a chuckle. “Get a move on, babe. You can get some when we leave.”

“Fine,” he huffs, continuing in the store.

She blinks in confusion when, between the door opening and him stepping in, a typical unicorn horn is suddenly jutting from his brow and his coat and mane suddenly match her pink and purple. “What the…?”

“I had a problem in Canterlot,” he begins quietly explaining. “The attendant was rude ‘cause I was disguised as a pegasus, so… yeah, not doing that again.” Rather than shop around the store, he makes his way directly to the counter and waits in line. The mare in front of him finishes her purchase, turns, glances at the earth pony mare and earth-unicorn looking foal, sniffs in disdain, and walks out the door.

“Cunt,” he quietly growls, watching her go. He steps up to the register and rears up, smiling his most polite smile at the older sea green mare behind the counter. “Good afternoon, ma’am! I am in need of a whole bunch of mid-low crystals for a project. Do you, by any chance, offer a discount for somepony buying in bulk?”

She initially reacts to the colt exactly the same, first focusing on his apparent dam, then panning her gaze down to him. Unlike the customer, her expression is one of pity, a look that irks the colt almost as much as the customer’s contempt. “How many? Mid-low are a hundred and thirty each.”

The lower price nearly makes the colt’s heart sing. Tail dancing and eyes sparkling, he enthusiastically begs, “If you can knock it down to one-twenty I’d take fifty off your hooves right now! That’s six thousand bits, cash, right here, right now,” he says, tapping the counter top while floating six one-thousand bit coins out of his mane. “Whatta ya say, ma’am? Can you cut an excited, adorable colt a little break?!”

“I won’t make nothin off of them at one-twenty,” she defers, his countenance instantly deflating. “A hundred‘n twenty-five, take it or leave it.”

“Deal!” he cheers, withdrawing the extra two hundred and fifty bits.

The mare scoops the coins off the counter, running each over a glowing stone just like the one he’d seen in Canterlot. Once she confirms they’re all legit she ducks down under the counter and begins gathering the colt’s purchase. “Want ‘em all in a single bag?”

“Yep! Thanks, ma’am! Also, where can I get one of those counterfeit detectors?”

She floats one up to set it on the counter. “Four hundred bits.”

“I’ll take it!” he instantly agrees, levitating the cash out and taking the stone.

Title leans closer, whispering in his ear, “What in the hay do you need fifty crystals for?”

“A project to help obscure my identity.”

“How are fifty crystals going to do that?” she quietly questions.

“If you promise to keep it a secret I’ll tell ya on the way home.” She gives him an unsure look, so he adds, “It won’t be a secret for long. I just want to abuse it for fun before I have to tell everypony else.”

“Fine,” she forcefully agrees, “but if it’s funny then I get to be in on it!”

“You got it, ma,” he assures her. “I’m sure if we put our heads together we’ll come up with somethin good.”

Title has to hold back a chuckle watching the colt. The whole time the mare is ducked behind the counter gathering up the crystals his little booty is wiggling as he shifts back and forth. The pink coat and purple mane on a colt look kind of strange, but it’s not a bad look. She once again considers having her husband put a colt in her if her estrus hits this fall. Mares don’t usually go into heat again right after having a foal, but she’s confident Cure can make it happen easily enough.

It takes a minute for the clerk to gather the colt’s purchase, count out the crystals, ensure they’re all in flawless condition, and put them in a cloth bag. She levitates them over the counter where he takes them in his magic, watching on in confusion when they disappear into his mane. Title knows it amuses the colt to no end how much bullshit he can get away with, but it still shocks her to this day that even the princess herself merely looked on curiously when he used his compressed bag right there in her throne room.

With a jaunty wave, the colt pushes off of the counter and starts making his way to the exit, mind on one thing and one thing only: spicy dragon chicken drumsticks from the stall outside. His colors revert and his horn disappears in an instant once they cross the threshold to the store. With his mom following more sedately, he nearly skips in glee over to the stall and gets in line behind a dark blue dragoness and her equally dark, but green scaled son.

Cure estimates the whelp is about his own age, and has a similar, but less stocky build. His wings haven’t come in yet, and his horns are little more than bumps protruding out the side of his head. As soon as Cure steps in line he turns around to face him, snapping out, “This isn’t pony food, stupid colt. Get lost!” in a surprisingly high-pitched, childlike voice.

“It’s a free country, bro. I can eat what I want.”

“It’s meat, you idiot.”

Cure presses his hooves against his cheeks and shouts, “No! Freaking! Way! I totally couldn’t tell from the pictures of drumsticks literally right on the side of it!”

The young dragon’s eyes narrow and he puffs himself up. “Got a real smart mouth, donchya, colt?”

“Sure do, whelp,” Cure replies, tone and posture matching.

“Both of you behave,” Title and the dragoness growl at once, each one lightly smacking the back of their respective son’s heads. Both youths shoot annoyed glares at their moms before resuming their hostile stare-off.

“It’s spicy,” the young drake points out. Tone condescending, he adds, “Too spicy for a little pony.”

“Who’s little? I’m as big as you are, buddy.”

“But you’re a weak pony,” he replies, spitting the word out like a curse.

Cure shrugs and argues, “Maybe you’re a weak dragon. It doesn’t smell that spicy ta me.”

Unacknowledged by the pair, a number of passing ponies and dragons have taken note of their argument. Only a few stop to watch, likely waiting for something physical to break out, but several slow their trot to see what happens.

“Am not!” the whelp growls, taking a half step closer to Cure.

The young alicorn follows suit, chest almost touching the dragon’s. “Bet you are!”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah!”

The whelp pokes Cure challengingly in the chest with a knuckle. “Then you won’t have any problem eating the spiciest flavor, will you?”

Cure swats the paw to the side and indignantly replies, “Darn right I won’t. Bet you’ll cry like a baby, though,” he mockingly retorts.

Several of the ponies watching cringe at the challenge. The stall owner starts looking a little worried at the direction the argument is going. He leans over the stall and gives Title a warning that she waves away unconcerned.

“Dragons don’t cry!”

Title looks between the colt and whelp and quietly sighs, asking, “Why do you have to always make a spectacle out of everything?”

“Males,” the dragoness huffs, not even looking back. The customer in front of her finally moves out of the way and she steps forward to place her order.

“Better get the mild sauce,” Cure teases. “Maybe get some nice, cold milk to wash it down. We don’t want your tummy getting upset,” he adds in a patronizing tone.

“You shut up!” the whelp growls. He turns to his dam, demanding, “Give me the hottest they have!”

“Make it two orders. My treat,” Cure insists, holding a few bits out in offering.

The whelp snatches them right out of Cure’s hoof, turns, and slams them on the cart’s counter, growling, “Two orders with Triple Inferno sauce!”

The proprietor gives Title a worried look. She huffs and complains, “You are being such a foal,” but still nods and waves to the stall owner to go ahead.

“I’m enjoyin myself!” he defensively insists. “Besides, getting the hot stuff wasn’t my idea.”

“You could have said no,” she idly points out.

“I could have,” he agrees, “but now I’m curious.” Over a dozen ponies and dragons are now watching the pair, waiting to see how it plays out.

“Order up,” the vendor calls, sliding six huge, meaty drumsticks wrapped in three bundles of wax paper to the dragoness. He looks at Title and cocks a brow, silently asking if she wants anything, then nodding when she shakes her head no.

The three take their food and move out of the way of the line that’s suddenly a fair amount longer. Cure isn’t sure how many dragons got in line just to watch the spectacle, but nearly everycreature’s eyes are on the pair. They move off to the side next to one of the store’s windows and sit on their rumps to eat.

“Well?” the whelp challenges. Smirking, he waves to the meat and offers, “Go ahead. Give it a try.”

Cure unwraps one of the drumsticks and takes a sniff. His sinuses explode open like a shattering dam at the nearly toxic levels of capsaicin in the sauce. He clamps down control immediately to keep his snout from gushing on the sidewalk. With an uncaring shrug, he opens wide and takes a big bite, ripping off a large chunk of meat. He cocks his head to the side while chewing, slowly nodding in approval. “Not bad. I mean, it’s spicy, granted, but not really what I would call spicy, ya know?”

The whelp, dragoness, vendor, and nearly every spectator looks on bewildered at the casual reaction.

“It’s probably too hot for most ponies, I’ll grant,” he adds, pausing to turn to the side. He creates his chemical fire mixture in his mouth, belching the concoction into the air in a bright green burst of flames. “But yeah, not bad overall, I guess. Gotta be honest; some ranch would be pretty good on ‘em. Hey do me a favor real quick.”

“Huh?”

“Pull my foreleg,” he says, reaching out with an empty hoof.

The dragon hesitates a second, looking between the colt’s smirking muzzle and the hoof dangling in the air. Hesitantly, he reaches out, grasps Cure’s foreleg, and gives it a light tug.

The alicorn’s tail pops up into the air followed by a backdoor blast of green fire. His eyes widen in shock and he lets out a whooping holler. “Dem’s some spicy beans, lemme tell ya! Wooo doggie!”

The reaction from the crowd is split by species. The dragons look on in approval, cheering, laughing, and giving the colt a respectful nod as he dances in place. The few unicorns that had stopped to watch look like they’re seeing a creature they’ve never known existed before, with several of them hurrying to put some distance between themselves and the disgusting dragon-earth-pony-thing shooting fire in the air from both ends.

Cackling madly at the prank, the whelp nearly drops his drumsticks, only salvaging the fumble at the last second. Unwilling to be shown up by the pony foal, he unwraps one of his drumsticks completely, tossing the entire piece, bone and all, into his maw at once. A thunderous crunch sounds out as the whelp bites down on the drumstick, shattering the bone into shards. He smirks proudly at the colt and swallows the entire bite in one gulp.

Cure narrows his eyes at the implied challenge and follows suit, confusing the whelp and his dam even more at the sounds of the drumstick crunching between his teeth.

The whelp’s cheeks start changing color, gaining a healthy red glow as the heat registers. He does his noble best to not show discomfort, but the welling of tears in his eyes, the shallow breaths, and the sniffling back of running snot gives him away. Dragons lack sweat glands, but Cure can still smell the young drake’s growing unease. He quickly finishes chewing, swallowing loudly despite his worsening irritation.

Upping the stakes, Cure swallows his bite, then throws the other drumstick, sauce-drenched paper and all, up in the air, catching it in his maw on the way down before crunching down.

Title sighs and shakes her head at the display. Seeing the whelp’s discomfort, she looks to his dam and asks, “Is your son going to be okay?”

“He’ll be shooting fire from both ends later too, but he’ll be fine. Eventually,” the dragoness coldy replies. “Call it a learning experience,” she chuckles. She stares at the unbothered colt for a moment and finally asks, “What is your son? He doesn’t look like a kirin at all.”

“He’s a freak. He can eat anything,” she answers, watching with concern as the red glow begins creeping down the young drake’s neck and chest, darkening his lighter green throat and belly. “Does he need some water?”

“I’m fine!” the whelp snaps. He can only hold his composure for a moment before he starts hunching over in agony, glowing more and more red as the food hits his stomach. “Just… just give me a second.”

“You’re going to be sick all evening now,” the dragoness sighs.

“Gonna be a long night, bro,” the colt teases, voice devoid of sympathy. “You may end up wantin an icepack for yer butthole later, brah.”

“How are you okay?!” the drake demands of Cure. “Ponies can’t eat food that hot! Especially meat!”

The colt lazily shrugs, vaguely explaining, “I just cheat really well. Like my ma said, my talent lets me eat anything. I could fix you up in a second, if you want, but only if your dam says it’s okay.”

“I’m fine!” the drake repeats, though this time with less enthusiasm. He does a poor job holding back a moan of discomfort, something his dam picks up on immediately.

“Fix him how?” the dragoness asks.

“I can take away the heat in the sauce we ate. That’s why it didn’t bother me. The flames were just a party trick.”

“You cheated!” the drake declares.

Unrepentantly, Cure nods in agreement. “Duh? I just said that. You would too if you could.”

A whine escapes the young dragon as he hunches over himself, holding his belly with his paws, his other drumstick long forgotten. The look he gives the colt says he wants to argue, but at the same time is unwilling to dispute the point.

“Do you mind?” the dragoness asks, looking between Title and Cure in question.

His mom shakes her head no and waves to the whelp. “Do it. And quit being a pest to everycreature we meet.”

The colt huffs and makes a show of reaching for his staff. He pulls it off his withers and spins it around his hoof a few times, then strikes the butt of it hard on the ground holding it upright. It glows like a unicorn’s horn, drawing looks from curious spectators, all of which is completely unnecessary. He activates his talent, reaches over, and lightly taps the whelp on the crown of his head, Transmuting all the capsaicin into water and calming the young dragon’s stomach.

“All set, bud. My name’s Cure Wave. I don’t think you gave me yours,” Cure says, holding a hoof out in introduction.

“Cragle,” the drake replies, somewhat wary of the odd colt. “You’re really weird for a pony,” he points out, bumping the offered hoof with his knuckles. “What kind of pony eats meat and blasts fire?!”

Cure scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Only the awesomest ponies in the world, duh.”

“Yeah… yeah, I guess that would make a pony alright. As far as ponies go, at least. I thought only unicorns used magic,” he notes, examining the staff held in the crook of the colt’s fetlock. “What is that made of? It looks valuable.” He only stares a few seconds, seemingly fixating on it as if it’s made from solid gold.

A vague memory of the episode where Spike grows immense due to greed twigs the colt’s memories, so he promptly gives it a twirl and tucks it straight into his mane, out of the sight of the whelp. The young drake blinks a couple times as if coming out of a trance, then looks at Cure’s mane in confusion.

Seeking to escape from the situation before it gets out of hoof, Cure gives the pair of dragons a farewell wave as he starts making his way to the cart. “Well, it’s been fun and all, but we gotta get moving. I’ll be back in town on September 19th. If ya got any rich family members send ‘em to my stall at the Writing House Market. If you think the fire thing was cool then you won’t believe what I can really do.”

“This is… not what I expected,” Cure honestly confesses upon entering the offices of the Inquirer. Pandemonium is a word that comes to mind. Chaos, whether it be controlled or not is unclear, but given that the newspaper has been in business for hundreds of years, there must be some pattern to the madness.

Though the front desk is rather typical, the motion and volume of the workspace behind the desk causes both foal’s and parent’s ears to pin back as soon as they walk in the building. The entirety of what Cure assumes is the office staff are all working out of a single, enormous room. Long desks are spaced out every few meters, stretching from the thin, wood and glass barrier behind the receptionists all the way to the back of the room where, from the looks of the fancier suits and dresses, the executives are separated in their own private offices.

Teams of creatures of all types are gathered in bunches, seemingly shouting at each other over countless articles strewn about. A small section of desks to the right of the main office area is where all of the typists are, the vast majority of them being dragons, griffons, minotaur. Knowing how difficult working a typewriter is for most ponies, it makes sense to the colt that they’re primarily employing beings with distinct digits in that area, but that’s the only sense he can make of the scene in front of him.

Because insanity is not limited to two dimensions, pegasi, bats, griffons, and smaller dragons are zipping to and fro from table to table, transferring paperwork between the teams and a separate group of workers all huddled around a single, enormous desk, every member of which is pointing at one spot or another and yelling an argument for why something belongs wherever they’ve put it.

The noise is, in Cure’s opinion, the most offensive aspect of the disorganization. Nearly every member of each team seems to be energetically arguing a point with the entire room, resulting in a hundred shouting matches all happening at once. The thin divider between the work area and the front lobby is wholly inadequate, and the absence of sound muffling enchantments in a predominantly unicorn city strikes the colt as a crime against equinity.

“What in the hay is going on in here?” Title asks aloud, her eyes panning over the busy newsroom uncomprehendingly.

The receptionist closest to the pair, an extremely bored looking white and dark brown eagless with reading glasses on, sets her magazine down and peers over the rims of her glasses at the two. “It’s Tuesday,” she offers with a shrug. “Can I help you?”

Title slowly nods, struggling to look away from the scene behind the divider. “We want to place an ad in the paper.”

“Marketing,” is the one word response from the hen. She leans back and cranes her neck to face up and back at the divider and shouts, “DIAMOND! GET UP HERE!” startling both Title and Cure with the volume and shrillness of her screech, even though she is facing away from the pair. She returns to her magazine a moment later, neither looking to ensure she was heard or deigning to further acknowledge the pair.

A pegasus mare with a deep orange coat and a royal blue mane zips to the top of the divider, head and shoulders overtop while her forelegs hold her to the side like a Garfield plush on a car window. “WHAT?!” she screeches back at the griffon, causing Cure to instinctively take a step closer to his mom. The eagless doesn't bother responding, waving her magazine vaguely in the pair's direction.

The mare, presumably Diamond, spares a second to look at the two bewildered ponies. A look of realization crosses her face. She flaps her wings and pulls herself the rest of the way up, springing off the top of the divider with her back hooves to glide over, landing gracefully to Title’s right. “You here to place an ad?” she asks, turning to face the pair.

At Title’s nod she says, “Great! This way!” and turns, waving a wing and trotting away without ensuring the pair followed behind her.

The pair share a look, shrug in tandem, then start following behind the mare. She leads them to the side of the reception desk and pushes open a swinging door, making her way into an enclosed office on the right side of the building, never looking back until she plops down a cushion behind her short, completely paper-covered desk.

The walls around her office are only slightly taller than an earth pony and offer absolutely no shelter from the storm of noise going on outside. Title still closes the door as she steps through, praying against the odds that a Sound Bubble would activate.

Diamond doesn’t pay the noise any mind at all, opening her mouth to start talking and pausing only a moment when the colt’s staff lights up.

Pure, blissful silence fills the room. Both Title and Cure exhale a sigh of relief and relax their posture as the deluge comes to an abrupt halt.

“Useful,” Diamond comments, bobbing her head in an approving nod. “Red Diamond. So, what can I do ya for?”

“A pleasure,” Title responds. “Title Search and my son, Cure Wave. We’re from Baltimare. He’s renting a stall at the Writing House Market on September 19th. We want to place an ad for his services.”

The mare inclines her head in thought, muttering “Cure Wave… Cure Wave… that rings a bell.”

“Maybe you -” she starts.

“No! Don’t tell me!” the newspony interrupts, waving her hooves for her to stop. “You that colt that got caught vandalizin the mayor’s house? Good on ya, son!” She raps on her desk with a hoof as she adds, “That idiot’s spending on all’a these goins-ons is gettin out of hoof! Wastin my tax dollars on these damn gem festivals each month when he oughta be worryin ‘bout all the break-ins south ‘a town.”

“Umm… no?” he hesitantly replies.

“No? Oh, wait! You’re from Baltimare?”

“Yeah. We just took a cab up here this morning. I never vandalized nothin.”

“Ah. Apologies.”

Title speaks up, asking, “Did you read the Baltimare Sun today, by any chance?”

“The Baltimare Sun? What’s that… OH!” she shouts, shooting to her hindlegs and propping herself up on her desk, orange wings spread wide. “You’re that cosmetic colt, aintchya? The one what did up that prince wannabe. My sister’s fillyfriend got her wings done by ya. Yellow mare with a blue coat? Lightning bolts arcin out the primaries?” she explains, motioning to her spread left wing with a hoof as she does.

“Oh yeah!” he says, eyes lighting up in recognition. “I remember her. Boltwing’s the name she gave me.”

She thrusts a hoof over her desk at the colt, bobbing her head in agreement. “THAT’S HER! Featherbrain’s got skill, even if she’s damn full’a herself. Boltwing,” she scoffs. “So…” she begins, calmly sitting back down, “comin up here ta Filly for a day, eh? Gonna be seein customers in the park?”

“Ponies, griffons, zebras, minotaur, dragons, you name it.”

“You ever worked on a dragon before, colt? Magic don’t work on ‘em real good, I hear.”

“I have. A young dragoness a few months back. I should be fine. Special talent, ya know?”

“Alright… alright… so, whatchya got in mind? Big bits need a big ad. We talkin full page? Sunday? Color? Got some samples ready?”

“Yes, yes, yes, and yes,” his mom answers for him. She gives him a go-ahead wave, prompting him to reach in his mane and pull out a full page ad he’d prepared.

She leans over to take the ad, chuckling at the way he pulled the paper out. “Neat trick, colt. You’re just full’a’em, ainchya?”

“Full‘a somethin,” Title mutters, smirking when he shoots her a weak glare.

“Introducing the New You!” the mare quietly chuckles, reading the heading aloud. “Nice line.” She continues to look over the ad, bobbing her head and making small, quiet utterances of approval as she goes.

The main feature is a full-page picture of a made up blue pegasus mare with a red mane from a top-down perspective; her wings spread out flat and her tail straight down towards the bottom of the page. The left half of her is a simple “before” shot. The wrinkles on her face, sagging skin on her cheeks, and fading, graying colors show her age, as does her slightly drooping, plain wing.

The right half is revitalized with brightened, bolder colors and smoothed out skin, looking as if she’s in her mid twenties. Her wing is reshaped to that of an alicorn, is disproportionately larger, held rigid, and has a banded golden pattern lining her feathers. Each modification is highlighted with a small description to the side along with a price. A disclaimer at the bottom emphasizes that the deaging is purely cosmetic and does not extend natural lifespans, but does improve health and mobility significantly.

Along the right side are smaller sections for each race he’s scanned, including a note regarding the difficulty and increased price for draconic customers.

“Nice… nice… very, very nice. Well, stars, I don’t see much needin changed here. Now comes the part nopony likes.”

“How much?” Title guesses.

She points a hoof and nods in confirmation. “Bingo. Full page, color ads in the Sunday paper aren’t cheap. Of course, goin by these prices, I doubt that’s a problem. We have viewership of over fifty thousand households in the greater Filly area, so you’re lookin at a whole cartload’a exposure. Better ‘n anypony else in town,” she brags. “All it’ll cost ya is fifteen grand a week.”

“Fuck that!” escapes the colt’s mouth unbidden. The mare’s eyes snap to Cure, shock written on her face at his exclamation.

“Cure!” his mom scoldingly hisses, jabbing his side with her hoof.

Chuckling quietly at first, Diamond starts shaking in mirth before she finally bursts out laughing aloud, slapping her desk with her hoof. “HAHA! FUCK THAT! I LOVE IT!”

The mare continues cracking up for a moment while Title and Cure trade uneasy looks, unsure how to respond to her explosive laughter. Finally, she wipes her eyes with her pastern and gets herself under control. “Ohh… I needed that. Thanks, son. Seriously, though, I’m thinkin we do a three-by-thiry ad for ya instead.”

“Three by thirty?” his mom questions.

“Right. Three columns wide,” she motions across with her hoof in the air, then up and down as she says, “and thirty centimeters tall. It’s like a quarter of a page, give or take. Much more reasonable. Three grand a week, twelve grand total. We’ll have to adjust yer fonts, maybe bump one of your other races. Not a lot of griffons up here. That’s all included, though, no problem.”

Cure looks up to his mom. She turns and gives him a shrug and a single nod.

“Alright,” he agrees, reaching into his mane and pulling out a check. “The check goes to the Fillydelphia Inquirer?”

“Yup! Won’t be sad if ya made it to me, but the boss might be pissed.”

He fills it the rest of the way in with his talent while she looks on impressed. “... all kinds of tricks,” she repeats. “Your ad’ll show up startin this comin Sunday. Bein color and all, expect it to be in the first section. That’s where they put all the big spenders.”

“Sounds good, ma’am.”

“Ma’am,” she scoffs. “Makin me feel old here. Go on,” she waves at the door, “get outta here. Oh and, by the way,” she reaches her hoof out and, with a broad smile, says, “Pleasure doin business with ya.”

<< Tower, this is Ghost Rider, requesting a fly-by. >>

<< Oh! You’re back! Did everything go okay, honey? >>

<< Jeez, dam! Get with the program! The correct answer is “Negative, Ghost Rider, the pattern is full.” >>

A moment of silence passes as the two get closer to the house.

The feeling of a sigh is sent to the colt. << Fine. The pattern is full, sweetheart. Whatever that means. >>

“My disappointment knows no bounds,” he dejectedly laments out loud.

<< Never mind. Are the couches in the living room pushed to the side? >>

<< They’re stacked in the corner. There’s plenty of room as long as you face the kitchen. >>

<< Incoming in ten. >>

“Get ready, ma. We’re teleporting in five seconds.”

“I’m ready!”

“Two. One!” he shouts, activating the spell. While Teleportation can maintain momentum with the right spell structure, the most common version of the spell has the target arrive at a complete stand-still for safety purposes.

In a flash of light, Cure, Title, and the small cart pop into existence in the back living room, then fall barely a single centimeter to land on the ground. Cure blinks his eyes, clearing his vision to find a pair of green forelegs are already wrapping around him, even with the harness in the way. Vines and Amethyst had been busy in the kitchen, pausing only for a moment as the pair appeared. Deed, Lemon, and the rest of the foals are already seated around the table awaiting their return.

“Just in time, champ!” his sire calls in greeting. “Yer dam ‘n ma ‘bout got dinner ready for us. How’d it go?”

Already started disassembling the cart and reabsorbing the matter into his plant, Cure opens the canopy and looks back to see his mom still getting her bearings after the Teleport. He leans more heavily into his dam’s embrace, carefully nuzzling into her chest without poking her. “Not bad, pa. I’ll fill ya in over dinner. Mom has some treats for everypony, though, so dessert’s on me tonight.” He softly adds, “Love you, dam,” and gives her a quick peck on her chin.

“Love you too, honey. Go clean up.”

Even though Cleaning works just as well, Cure heads to the bathroom to scrub his hooves and wipe down his face. He hears his mom excitedly cheering, “We’ve got cheesecake!” as he pulls the door shut. Slightly dehydrated from all the exertion, he turns on the sink, modifies his tongue into a straw, and sucks down liter after liter of water. He finishes cleaning up and rejoins his family at the table a moment later, giving his siblings a quick bit of love on the way.

“So, champ,” his sire begins, mirth evident in his voice, “rumor has it flyin with yer ma weren’t as easy as ya expected. We still on fer the family trip?”

“Absolutely, pa. I’ll just be taking a slightly different approach. It was no problem once I added some wings to the cab.”

“He’s right,” Title interjects. “The wings made all the difference. The view was amazing, by the way. The whole invisibility thing,” she tilts her head side to side, “eh, I coulda done without that. Looking straight down made my gut churn.”

Cure can’t help but notice the involuntary shivers from Amethyst and his dam. “That’s motion sickness, which I could have helped with,” he says, shooting a pout at his mom. “The best way to deal with it is to focus on the horizon. If you look the same direction you’re moving, that usually does the trick.”

Amethyst shakes her head in refusal. “I’ll pass. Would rather ya knock me out, colt.”

“Eh, we got time to sort out the details.”

“Fair ‘nuff.” She looks across the table to Title and asks, “He behave himself? Or, better yet,” she smirks and turns to Cure, “did she?”

“Hey!” the pink mare protests.

“Mostly,” he answers. “She did almost get arrested for foal abuse, but I smoothed things over.”

“Foal abuse?!” Vines echoes.

Deed shrugs and nods in understanding. “Colt has it comin sometimes,” he dismissively argues.

“That’s NOT funny!” his dam growls, shooting the stallion a heated glare.

“Two cops thought I’d made ‘em pull me all the way from Baltimare,” she begins.

“Which isn’t technically incorrect,” Lemon helpfully supplies.

“Quiet you,” Title chides. “So Cure does the whole ‘Prince Serpentus commands thee’ bit-”

He quietly huffs, “Unfair exaggeration.”

“- and scares ‘em off. Even Sends the marquis a command to have somepony come ‘talk’ to the two officers.”

Cure cringes, arguing, “I’m not sure I’d call it a command per se.”

“Right,” his mom sarcastically agrees. “His Royal Highness, Prince Serpentus, politely requested that the freaking Marquis of Merryland have somepony go scare the fudge out of two beat cops after he nearly made them soil themselves once already.”

“And how exactly would you have proposed we get out of that mess?” he defensively asks. “We could have gone to the police station, which would probably have ended the same but with paperwork, more witnesses, and way more time wasted, I could have done something to the cops there on a busy, public road, or I could play the prince card.”

“Yer lucky they believed ya,” Amethyst argues.

“More like they’re lucky,” he argues. “How many earth pony colts my age can cast Teleport with a staff and have the bravado to try that as a bluff?”

“You teleported?”

“I teleported a note to them that said to forget the whole thing,” he answers, nodding. “And flashed my real cutie mark. And made my eyes go gold.”

“Huh. Reckon that’d do it then.”

“Smart thinkin, sport,” his sire agrees. “Was tha best of a bad situation. I’m guessin ya got a good spot reserved?”

“Should be perfect,” Title answers. “It’s all the way to the north where you can see it from the street. Was pretty cheap, especially compared to the ad.”

“Highway robbery,” the colt huffs.

Deed chuckles at his whining. “Advertisin ain’t cheap, colt. A big paper like tha Inquirer? I’m guessin a couple grand ‘a week, round about.”

“Way more,” Title admits.

“Three grand a week for a quarter page!” Cure exclaims, hooves thrown in the air. “A whole one woulda cost five times as much!”

The sounds of chewing and silverware on plates comes to an abrupt halt. “Fifteen grand?!” Lemon asks, barely able to catch her breath.

“Fifteen grand,” Title affirms with a nod. “Per week. Sixty total. So yeah, he went with a quarter page ad for twelve grand total instead. Better hope this whole thing pans out.”

“Should have just airbombed the friggin city with flyers. I can’t imagine the ticket I woulda got hit with would have cost half as much.”

“I don’t think her majesty would have appreciated that,” his dam argues. “Or the marquis, for that matter.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, “probably not. Sometimes this whole prince thing is a total drag. It won’t matter though,” he dismisses with a flick of his wing, “I’ll make that back in under an hour, probably. Hopefully. Gonna be mighty ticked if this is a big ‘ol waste’a time.”

“I bet you’ll get plenty of customers, babe,” his mom says reassuringly. “I’m wondering how many dragons’ll show up. If they’re hundreds of years old they oughta have some serious money to spend.”

“They do,” Lemon confirms. “Almost every scrap of metal coming out of the city is from a dragon-owned company. They supply a good chunk of the entire nation’s steel. You should consider accepting gold as a form of payment,” she suggests. “Dragons use ingots as much as bits, so you can bet at least a few will try to pay with those.”

“Those were a pain ta deal with,” Amethyst grumbles. “Bits are way more convenient, especially in larger amounts.”

“Ugh, remember old Snagclaw?” Lemon grumps. “Grouchy old dragoness that owned an apartment complex we stayed in before we got married. ‘Two drakas a month!’” she imitates in the most gravely voice she can manage.

“She weren’t that bad. Kept any troublemakers away, that’s fer sure.”

Lemon concedes the point with a begrudging nod.

“Can you just take gold to the bank and convert it?” Cure asks.

“For a small fee,” Lemon answers. “A couple percent or so. Just gotta be sure it’s stamped and certified.”

“So, wait… you can go to the bank and buy gold, too?”

“Sure. Drakas were about a hundred and five bits each back then. They’re a little bigger than hundred bit coins and rectangular instead of round.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“There’s bigger ingots that are a tenth of a kilogram. They don’t usually use kilogram bars since they’re a little inconvenient, but they do exist. If you’re ever buying from a dragon they’ll probably appreciate it, but that can be a pain for big transactions.”

“Good ta know, though. Thanks, ma!”

“No problem, honey.”

“Shame my sire doesn’t ever teach me anything useful.”

“Hey now, that ain’t fair! I taught ya plenty!” He points across the table with a fork, waving it in accusation at his son. “Ya wouldn’t have all’a them fillies chasin ya if it weren’t fer yer pa settin such a great example.”

A pall of silence settles over the table as a quintet of very doubtful looks are cast upon the stallion.

“... disloyal. That’s what ya are. All’a ya,” he quietly grumbles, spearing a radish with more force than necessary.

“I wonder what the girls are all up to, anyhow,” Cure muses. << Hey Sunrise, you all doing anything tonight? >>

<< Was going to meet Coast and Rising after dinner. Want to head over? >>

<< You bet! Could use some chill time with some pretty ladies. Be there in a few. >>

“I’m guessing they’re free from that dumb smile,” Title remarks.

“Yep! Mind if I go, dam?”

“Go ahead, sweetie. Have fun with your little fillyfriends,” she teases.

“Don’t mind if I do!” he cheers. “Save me a slice of cheesecake if you can keep it from ma without anypony getting hurt.”

His dam glances warily between the pink mare and her son. “No promises.”

Author's Note

Okay, so busy chapter. I considered splitting this up and adding a few things in Filly, but this was supposed to be a quick jaunt to three places; very in and out. Well we can't have that, can we?

Cure very quickly realizes that doing everything himself may be more of a pain than its worth. There was, after all, nothing stopping him from paying a cabbie to drive him and his mom up there and back. Fillydelphia is less than fifty kilometers away, after all, so that's well in range of a typical pegasus. Maybe he'll learn from that and stop doing every single thing all on his own from now on. Maybe not. *shrug*

The majority of the chapter moved pretty quickly, which I'm not overly fond of. I've only just now gotten the house to myself, though, and that'll be coming to an abrupt halt at the end of February due to some serious work needing done. Absolute Money Pit, I swear.

Next week's chapter should be on time. The week after? Not sure. I'll keep everyone updated, as I have in the past.

Thanks for reading, rating, and especially commenting. Enjoy!