Friday, August 21st, 909 AB (3 days later)
Breakfast

“Gotta be a dozen articles just this week, colt!” his sire cheers as he folds the paper and passes it over. “Were once a time I’d be either right worried or darn proud of ya showin up once. Reckon yer dam’s gonna need a whole room just fer yer clippins ‘fore long.”

Cure doesn’t bother pausing his eating, instead floating the paper from his sire’s hoof and reading aloud. “Order in the Court! Prince Serpentus Bends Schedule to Meet His Needs. What the hay?!”

“Seems a bit more critical of ya than most articles,” Title comments. “What else does it say?”

“According to a confidential source, his highness did not approve of the time indicated on the subpoena for the upcoming Lady Willow Bush pretrial hearing. The clerk that served it was told politely, but sternly by his highness that the nine o’clock start time would interfere too much with his work day.”

He sets the paper aside and huffs in annoyance. “Convenient how it doesn’t say anything about the twenty or so ponies and their families that have traveled hundreds of kilometers to see me. Guess they would have just rescheduled because that stupid bint couldn’t keep her hooves to herself. Oh, wait!” he snarls, “You can’t reschedule ‘cause I’m booked ‘till damn near Nightmare Night! Friggin assholes!”

“Language!” his dam scolds, immediately softening her harsh look. “Even if I do agree, you shouldn’t use words like that with the twins around,” she insists motioning to the two between her and Deed. “I will be very unhappy if the first words out of their mouths is some kind of curse.”

He winces and gives the mare an apologetic look. “Sorry, dam. I’ll watch what I say around ‘em.”

“The article does mention your schedule,” Title notes, having grabbed the paper when he set it aside. “Prince Serpentus typically sees up to ten ponies an hour, spending as little as five minutes with each patient due to the outrageous demand for his services. ‘His highness is absolutely phenomenal,’ Baltimore General’s Chief Physician, Dr. Mending Care, replied in response to a request for comment.

“‘His dedication to the health and well-being of Equestria’s citizens is beyond reproach. It was a mistake on the part of whoever scheduled his testimony to come between him and his patients. We’re fortunate to have him as much as we do, so intruding on his availability like that makes absolutely no sense to me.’”

Amethyst nods in approval, silently lifting her coffee in a toast to the doctor. “Sounds like you got yerself a staunch ally in the doc, colt.”

“No doubt, ma. Anything else worth my time in there?”

“It’s a little mixed,” Title truthfully replies. “There’s some quotes from a few ponies that asked to remain anonymous questioning the wisdom of giving a foal so much authority. There’s several more singing your praises, but they’re not anonymous, of course. Seems to me somepony is trying to stir the pot a bit.”

“Ehh, objectively I don’t completely disagree with that argument,” he says. “I’m more surprised than anything, truthfully. I figured with the whole alicorn thing nopony would have the guts to say anything bad at all. For any typical foal my age I would probably be saying the same thing.” He tilts his head to the side and adds, “The protesters in Canterlot, though? That seemed a tad over the top.”

“You be sure to be on your best behavior today,” his dam firmly instructs. “Never forget the trust her majesty showed when she gave you that crown. You don’t want to disappoint her.”

“I know, I know. For the record, though, I think she would have crowned anypony that ascended. She’s said more than once that Harmony decided I was ready.”

“She may’a crowned, ‘em, champ, but that don’t mean she’d given ‘em real authority like she did you.”

Cure nods, conceding the point.

“Do you want one of us to come to court with you, honey?”

“I can,” Amethyst volunteers. “I don’t have nothin important today.”

“It’s up to you. It’s not exactly a ten minute flight for you like it is for me.”

“Somepony may notice you there,” Lemon suggests. “You’ll have to let him disguise you to be safe.”

“I appreciate it, ma, but really, I’ll be fine. I’m sure the prosecutor or judge will step in if her attorney gets out of line and, at the end of the day, there’s just not really a whole lot I can see going wrong.”

“Until now,” Title teases.

Cure rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I get it.” He waves his hoof airily and snarks, “Flag thrown and all that. Really, though, what could possibly happen that would be a legitimate problem? I outrank the judge. By a wide margin, even. The days of being afraid of nobles are gone. I’ve won. Short of the entire courtroom being a cult waiting to ambush me I think I can deal with whatever comes up.”

A moment passes. The parents all trade uneasy looks. He huffs and rolls his eyes again. “I very much doubt the court will be full of cultists lying in ambush.”

“Welllllll,” his sire starts, drawing the word out with faux pensiveness.

In a single fluid motion, Cure hops up on his hind legs, wings thrown wide to reveal two dozen softly glowing crystals lining their undersides. A cloud of fireflies launch from his mane an instant before a shield snaps into place around him. His coat gives way to golden scales, and his golden shoes fall off his forehooves to reveal wicked looking claws. All five parents duck and shout in alarm as he sinisterly chuckles. “There’s no way they’ve prepared for me as much as I’ve prepared for them.”

His sire chances a peek over the table, grumping as he sits up. “Dagnabit, colt! Don’t do that!”

Title shoots him a glare as she tries to get Savvy back under control. The little filly is bouncing in her seat, watching in glee as the fireflies swirl and spiral around her. The mare looks up at the flashing patterns and asks, “How the hay are you doing that?”

“They’re within range of my horn,” he says, gesturing up to the softly glowing protrusion. His features return to normal and the shield pops back out of existence. A single firefly lands on his sister’s snout, causing the girl to go crosseyed. She laughs and cheers as it does a little dance, shakes its lit up booty, then flies back to the colt and disappears into his mane with all the rest of the bugs.

His dam shoots to her hooves and points a furious hoof at her son, shouting, “Don’t do that again!”

“They were just fireflies, dam!”

She snaps back, growling, “I don’t care! No swarms of any bugs inside the house!”

Lemon and Title can’t help but snicker quietly at the chastised colt.

“Fiiine! No booze, no bugs, and no super weed. Yer no fun at all!” he pouts, forelegs folded across his barrel.

“You should sell some of that at your market stall,” Lemon suggests. Vines shoots her a betrayed look, prompting her to clarify, “Not booze or recreational drugs. I mean some kinda natural herb or vitamin for estrus coming up. It should be hitting right after that weekend, after all.”

“I could definitely make a ‘male vitality’ pill,” he says while miming air quotes, “but I’m not sure if that’s a good idea. I don’t wanna get sued when they’re too effective or if somepony has a heart attack.”

“Too effective?” Title echos, chuckling at the idea.

“Yeah… I haven’t come across the term for it y’all use, but priapism is when the lil guy just won’t go back ta sleep, ya know?”

“PES,” Deed instantly answers. “Persistent you-know-what state.”

“That can happen?!” she asks, shooting her husband a curious look. “Even after… you know?”

The other three mares do the same, causing Deed to squirm under their suddenly curious stares. “‘Course it can. Ain’t ya ever heard tha story ‘a The Proud Stallion?” Shrugs and no head shakes prompt him to continue. “Was an earth pony what thought he was a mare’s stallion. Sought out some zebra witch doctor fer a lil extra pep in his step, if ya know what I mean. She gave ‘em a brew, told ‘em only take a sip, so what’s he do?”

“Drinks half the bottle?” Cure guesses.

Deed scoffs. “Ain’t nopony that dumb, colt.” Cure very strongly disagrees but holds his tongue. “Nah, he tried taking two, and when that worked even better he took a third. Poor feller was smackin ‘emself in tha belly for a solid day ‘n a half ‘fore his mares went and fetched a doctor. Mussed somethin up enough there weren’t no potion ta fix him up again.”

“Huh. I’m assuming this is one of ‘ye olde tales’ and not a real, verified thing?”

Deed shrugs and nods, “Might be some ‘ol farm tale, colt. Stallions rumormonger much as mares do sometimes. Still, message were clear enough. Gotta watch with them potions, especially from a zebra.”

“Woah, woah, woah!” he calls in a raised voice. “That’s what everypony took from that?! That it was the zebra’s fault? He took more than he was told to, then didn’t go to the hospital after like… a couple hours, but it was the zebra’s fault?!”

“Reckon she shoulda warned ‘em what could’a happened,” Deed says, bobbing his head. “Suppose you could make somethin like that, just sell ‘em single use only. Some stallions’ll put up a few bits just ta try ‘em out, I bet.”

“I don’t think you should, honey,” Vines says. “That would be something maybe for Prince Serpentus to sell instead. When you’re older, and after they’ve been tested for safety,” she firmly insists.

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s a little too close to ‘Alicorn of Life’ territory, and probably not a good idea without a page-long warning. Also,” he points to his sire with a wingtip, “the real lesson from that story is to take your friggin medicine as prescribed. Blaming the doctor is bunk, and that doesn’t even get into the plethora of other issues with that story.”

“Suppose that’s kinda true,” Deed grants. “Ponies aren’t always tha most acceptin ‘a other creatures.”

“Clearly. I am going to sell my oil plants, but I don’t know how much of a customer base to expect, given the whole friggin town seemed to be unicorns. The only cloud district I saw was like… a block or two. Barely what we have here in Golden Hills,” he says, motioning vaguely to the northwest.

“No. They don’t have a big community there for some reason,” Lemon agrees. She heaves a sigh and slurps down the last of her coffee before setting her mug on the table. “I think we need to get going,” she says, looking to Cure and her employed spouses.

“Reckon so,” Deed agrees. “Now colt, if they do give ya a hard time don’t go lashin out at ‘em. If’n they’re tryin ta ruffle ya up that may be just what they want.”

“Don’t worry, pa. I’m not some kind of powder keg just waiting to blow,” he assures everypony. “If somepony gets under my coat that bad there’s plenty of other ways for me to get my revenge.”

“That… that’s not exactly reassurin, son,” his sire warily responds.

“No plotting revenge on anypony, Cure,” Vines sternly insists.

“Of course not, dam!” he all-too-eagerly agrees. “I would never do any harm to any of my little ponies! Wink.”

“You said wink out loud,” she points out.

He slowly waves his hoof from right to left between himself and his dam. “You didn’t hear anything at all,” then smiles broadly. “Wink.”

The mare exhales a tired sigh. “Just… behave.”

“I always do!”

Cure had barely finished with his patient and sent them on their way when he hears a stallion approach his nurse, voice full of anxiety. “We’re next? Can we go in now?”

“Give his highness just a moment, sir,” the mare replies. “He’s a young colt. It’s a miracle he can see ponies as quickly as he can.”

Spc. Twist’s head pokes around the corner to his open door and peeks in. “Need a cookie or anything, sir? I’d think transplants’d be a doozie, and they just brought up some snacks.”

“Mmm… tempting, but save me one for after my next patient. It’s a foal, right?” The unicorn doesn’t need to turn back to check, merely bobbing his head in a nod with a sullen look. “Don’t worry, Twist. When I’m done with him he’ll be right as rain. Go ahead and send ‘em on in whenever the nurse is done with them, alright?”

“Yes, sir! Just say the word if you need to sugar up, okay?”

“You bet dude. Thanks!”

With another quick nod he ducks out of the way and tells the nurse that his highness is ready. The file said the next patient is only four years old, the same as Cherry and Lotus, and Cure can’t help but think it’s a shame he’s not a couple years younger or he may not remember any of this. The sire, a deep blue pegasus, starts to walk in the room, pausing at the doorway wondering if he’s supposed to bow.

“Come on in. No need for formalities here,” Cure assures him. The stallion nods, then looks over his withers to call for his wives. One elects to stay in the lobby and entertain the rest of their foals while the other, a dark red, nearly maroon, hawk griffoness follows him in. Cure spots his patient looking around in wide-eyed wonder around his dam’s neck, first at the plants that line the west and north wall, then at the gold-clad alicorn, then at the illustrations of various creatures to his right.

“And this must be Wave Skipper, hmm?” Cure asks, perking up to project enthusiasm for the young colt. The young hippogriff got an honest mix of his parents; his coat is a slightly lighter shade of blue than his sire, but his mane and tail are the exact same deep red as his dam’s coat and plumage. That the foal shares half of Cure’s own name nets him bonus points in his book, even if he opts not to share that.

“That’s him!” the hen proudly declares. “My sweet little colt,” she coos, scooping him off her withers and turning to set him on the couch by his sire.

“If you could,” Cure interrupts, motioning to the couch behind himself, “that couch is where I treat my patients. You’re both welcome to join him, I just need the plant nearby, and maybe a little space.” The hen nods in acceptance, instead setting her colt on the couch by the north wall before climbing up and nuzzling his crown with the side of her beak.

The foal rolls to his barrel; a more difficult task than most would have due to his missing limbs. Diagnosed with a generic “birth defect,” he was born without a forelimb or hind leg and a small, deformed wing on his right side. “Are you a real prince?” he asks, voice full of awe and eyes locked on Cure’s crown.

“You bet I am,” Cure declares, pushing the door shut with levitation as he approaches the patient couch. “Princess Celestia even gave me the fanciest hat in the whole country ta prove it!”

“Wooowwww! It’s super shiny!”

“It sure is. The darn thing’s heavier than you’d think, too. Here, give it a feel,” he says, taking the crown off and offering it to the colt. Wave starts reaching out to take it in his left talons, pausing when Cure quickly insists, “but don’t put it on! If you put it on that means you have to stay here and work and I get to leave and go play.”

The young hippogriff eyes the crown warily, trying to decide whether it’s worth the risk. He finally shakes his head no, saying, “I won’t put it on! Promise!”

Cure narrows his eyes pretending to weigh the colt’s answer, then hesitantly passes it over. “Okay. If you’re super sure. That’s probably a good idea, ‘cause I have super boring work to do the rest of the day.” He leans in closer and stage whispers, “I have to go to court and get asked a bunch of questions, and it won’t be fun at all.” He lets his wings and tail sag and hangs his head in dejection. “It’s gonna stink so bad. I’ll probably be there for like EVER!” he melodramatically laments.

He finally passes the crown to the colt who almost drops it as soon as Cure lets go. The hen squawks in panic, nearly lunging as it’s caught in Cure’s aura. He shoots her a smirk and floats it to her son again, this time setting it on the couch by his side. With the colt busy ooh’ing and aww’ing over the crown and tracing the snake scales with his little talons, Cure looks between the parents.

“It’ll sound like a really dumb question, but I absolutely have to ask for confirmation: What exactly can I do for you all today?” The two glance at each other, both trying to figure out how to word their request. “I would assume we’re hoping for fully functional limbs, but, again… I have to ask before I do something somepony doesn’t want done.”

“That’s exactly right, highness,” the stallion replies. “Sorry,” he winces, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I wasn’t sure how to ask.”

“No, it’s fine,” Cure assures him, waving a wing in placation. “I mean, I guessed that, but it would be really, really awkward if you were like, ‘No, dummy, he has a sinus infection.’ or something like that. Especially if I just assumed and grew everything out before I asked.”

“Why would anycreature not ask for you to give him his wing and legs?” the hen asks, voice full of genuine confusion.

“Honestly? I don’t know. I’m certain that at some point, eventually, I’ll come across somecreature that insists they’re perfectly fine just the way the maker made them, ma’am. I’m not sure I want to get into the moral, ethical, or philosophical argument that would ensue from misunderstanding, if ya know what I mean.”

“Not… really?” she honestly answers, looking completely perplexed at the suggestion that somecreature would refuse treatment for what is clearly a disability. She shares a look with her husband who also shrugs in confusion.

“Well, for example, a scar,” Cure suggests. She stares uncomprehendingly. “One of the first ponies I ever healed was in the military and got in a scuffle with a tom. He got scratched up pretty good and lost some mobility in his foreleg, right?”

She doesn’t respond verbally, only nodding in understanding.

“I told him I could fix up the leg, and I did, but he said he wanted to keep the visible scars. Said mares dig the look. If I hadn’t asked, I would have probably healed him up completely. See what I mean?”

“I… guess?” she hesitantly responds. “But we want our little Skipper all fixed up if you can.”

Cure reflexively opens his mouth to retort that he doesn’t need “fixed” but stops himself at the last second. The hypersensitivity and rabid political correctness that Ed used to complain about doesn’t exist in this world, and it occurs to the colt that arguing that there’s nothing wrong with their foal that needs “fixed” is probably the wrong move.

Instead he simply nods his head and says, “You bet.” He turns to look at the colt who has not made any attempt to put the crown on his head, but is rubbing the underside of his beak around the textured scales, smiling as it catches on each edge that he passes over. “So how ‘bout it, Skipper? You ready to learn how to fly?”

“Dam said you could fix me,” he says, perking up at being addressed. “Can you?”

“I certainly can.” His horn lights up and he turns to look at his plant. His golden aura extracts a round globule of origin cells from a stalk and holds the faintly pink, slightly translucent orb in the air. “Hold out your foreleg first.”

The colt obliges, sticking the almost nonexistent stub of a foreleg out and watching as a small piece of the floating globe tears off. The three watch in wonder as it shrinks down in size, morphing into a perfectly formed foreleg; a mirror of the foal’s other. Just like a puzzle piece, Cure moves the new limb into position. He numbs the deformed stub and, with a quick application of his talent, fuses the two pieces together, holding the colt in his talent as blood begins circulating as normal.

“One down, two to go. How ‘bout your wing next?” The colt eagerly bobs his head in a frantic nod, extending the tiny nub of an appendage as much as he can.

Both parents fidget in nervous excitement, watching with rapt attention as the alicorn all but pieces their foal together, making him whole for the first time in his life.

When all three limbs are attached, Cure calls for them to wait just a moment, a decent portion of the origin cells still hovering in his aura. “Okay, so everything is where it should be, but we have a bit of a… Well, atrophy isn’t exactly the right word. Muscular deficiency, I suppose, issue that needs to be addressed before you’re all set. I’m going to pick you up, Skip. This may feel a little weird, so bear with me” he warns.

He gently lifts the foal in his aura, then floats the remainder of the glob of cells down, wrapping it around the young colt. The extra mass sinks into his body like he’s a sponge soaking up a spill. The foal looks himself over as his barrel, legs, chest, and neck fill out, giving him the musculature and physique that a typical foal his age should have.

“And there we go,” Cure says, nodding in approval as he sets the colt down. “One strong, healthy, able-bodied hippogriff colt with all the standard accessories, good as new.” He has to speak up to be heard; he no more than sits the young hippogriff down before his dam snatches the foal up, nuzzling him into her plumage as she trills soft, happy noises with tears streaming down her face.

A flap of his wings brings her husband over to join the pair as they all but squash their foal between them.

“Now don’t tell anypony, or anygriff, but since you’re my last patient of the day, it’s a Friday, and because you were so well behaved, I have somewhat of a little prize for ya if ya want it.” Cure has a Serpentus plush toy assemble itself out of sight in his plant.

Once it’s finished his horn glows gold and, in a small flash of light, it pops into the air within reach of the smaller colt. “Really?!”

“You betchya! Hopefully that won’t cause a fight with your siblings,” he half asks the parents who both shake their heads no. “Good!” He pulls the door open with his telekinesis and waves a wing. “Go on and show the rest of your family how you’re doing. I’m sure they’re curious, and I bet you owe somecreatures out there a few big, strong hugs.”

It takes more time than Cure would prefer to get the three out of his room. As much as he appreciates the family’s thanks, he would just assume they say it once and let him get on with his day. He recognizes the immense impact a few minutes of his time has and will have on the foal and their family, but after already being bombarded with thanks dozens of times today alone he just wants to move on.

As soon as they finally make their way out he makes his way to his patient couch, heaves himself atop it, and collapses on his barrel, wings laying limp and legs sprawled in all directions.

Spc. Twist’s head pokes around the doorframe. “Ready for that cookie, sir?”

“Yes, please. In fact, bring whatever’s left on the tray. And the coffee. The whole pot. Thank you kindly, good sir.”

“We’ll get some for the road, sir. The nurses just brought some lunch, too. Packed ya up a nice little meal.”

“Aww… that was nice of ‘em.” Cure instinctively rolls to his right, stopping on his back. He squirms and wiggles on the couch for a moment, his wings flat on the surface and legs flailing about. The specialist chuckles at the scene followed by the soft snickering of Spc. Strafe when she pokes her head around the corner too. He stretches his legs forwards and back, arching his back as much as he can while inhaling deeply, then blows out an explosive sigh as he relaxes back.

“Alright,” he says, rolling to his barrel, “let’s get moving.”

“Your, uhh,” Strafe begins, motioning to his mess of a mane and untidy wings. A shake of his neck, a single flap, and a quick application of his talent has everything back in immaculate order as he trots past the two. “So unfair,” she quietly groans.

“Not my fault I was born this beautiful, Strafe.”

“Whatever you say, sir.”

The pair fall in line with the colt as he makes his way around the nurse’s desk. His eyes land on the boxed lunch and the cookies the nurses had brought for him. He calls out his thanks as he levitates the lunch onto his withers and floats over a couple cookies, snacking on the pair as they head out the front of the hospital.

Sergeants Blackhoof and Glazer, Glazer’s two specialists, and a dozen local Baltimare guards stand at attention around his carriage awaiting him and his escorts. A throng of reporters stand to the right snapping picture after picture of the young alicorn and his royal carriage, but he pays no mind to the flashes or called out questions about the trial.

Sgt. Glazer’s horn ignites, pulling the door of his carriage open and unfolding the step-up.

“Thanks, sarge. We all set?” he asks as he approaches the open door.

“Yes, sir! Ready when you are.”

“Great!” He hops up in the carriage and calls back, “Twist, you’re with me. Let’s get a move on.”

The protective features added to the carriage are more-or-less what Cure had anticipated. The protective shielding is, allegedly, enough to withstand a coordinated attack from several mages. Upon failure of the shield, or if the occupant triggers it, an emergency Teleport should shunt the carriage, the occupants, and any ponies pulling it, assuming they’re alive, to a designated, secured location somewhere.

“So you’re saying that this whole thing will teleport itself just before the shields fail?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You can chill with the sir bit when we’re in private, specialist. Colt, Cure, or, if you must, Serpentus are all fine under the circumstances.”

“Sure thing, sir.”

Cure rolls his eyes. “You’re going to keep calling me sir, aren’t you?”

A smirk and a nod are the unicorn’s response.

“Meh, that’s fine,” he shrugs. “It’s part of the job. I get it. So two questions: Where does it teleport to and how hard is it for somepony to set up some kind of interdiction field?”

“No clue, and what the hay is an interdiction field, sir?”

“You know… a ‘no teleport’ zone. Something that would prevent that from firing off. You do realize that that’s exactly what will happen, right?”

Twist cocks a brow at his young charge. “Sir?”

“If this thing ever gets attacked then whoever is doin it will have planned for it to teleport. That’s how these things work, dude. You gotta have the teleporter, then when that fails ‘cause of some teleport blocker you need some kinda teleport blocker blocker.”

The unicorn chuckles and shakes his head. “Oh yeah? What if they have a teleport blocker blocker blocker, sir?”

“Those exist?!”

Twist cracks up, shaking his head no again. “I don’t think they do, sir. Blocking anypony from teleporting is not easy. You would need a prepared site set up in advance and a whole lot of power to interfere with the spell going off. Layin those wards takes a moment, and the pull on the ambient magic would be noticeable from a distance once activated.”

“Okay, that sounds pretty unlikely,” he voices in agreement. Chances of that exact scenario happening just went up to about one hundred percent. “So when it does teleport, where does it go? ‘Cause if I’m tryin to nail somepony and I can’t block the teleport, then I’m either going to try to redirect it or have a group there waiting.”

“Nopony knows but her majesty, sir.” Cure’s disbelief shows on his face. “No, really. She added that enchantment herself. Wherever it does teleport, it’s a secure location and the ponies assigned to guard it supposedly don’t even know what they’re guarding it for. Nopony is allowed to know.” He pauses to look out the window. “We’ll be there in a minute, by the way.

“So I’m guessin the princess would probably tell you if you asked, but nopony else should have any idea. As for redirecting the teleport?” His face scrunches in thought for a moment. “Maybe her highness would be able to pull it off if she were ready for it. I wouldn’t know the first thing ‘bout how to do that. It would be a whole lot easier to follow a teleport than it would be to stop or redirect one.

“Would still take a lot of talent and enough power to cover the distance. As for some kinda teleport blocker, uh, blocker? Wards can be overpowered if the caster is powerful enough.”

“So the teleport in this thing?” he leadingly asks.

“I wouldn’t wanna assume, but I don’t see her majesty skimping on something like this.”

“What about if the immobilizing enchantment is active? I’m assuming it still teleports, right?”

“Oh yeah, definitely. That only stops external forces.”

Both look to the door when the carriage comes to a stop. “Probably should have asked you what to expect while we were at it.”

“I don’t think it’ll be a big deal, sir. They know you’re a foal and they already talked to everypony else. I’m honestly surprised they need you at all.”

“What do you mean? I was right there the whole time.” The “clunk” of the step lowering precedes the door opening.

“Yeah,” he agrees with a shrug, “but so was the hospital’s chief physician.” With those departing words, the stallion steps out of the carriage, turns ninety degrees to his left, takes one full step forward, pivots a hundred and eighty degrees, stands at attention, and salutes.

Cure tucks his emptied lunch box under his wing, absorbing the paper and small bits of remaining food in the process. Just before stepping into visibility, he reabsorbs his flight suit, going completely naked, save his regalia, in public for the first time ever since his coronation. With no clothing and no atypical anatomical additions, he gives his coat another quick once-over with his talent, ensures he looks and smells like he just left the groomer, and steps out of the carriage with his head held high.

He nods to the sergeants standing in the middle of their respective teams; Alpha on his left, Bravo on his right. They turn at once and form up into a hexagon around the colt, giving just enough space for the reporters standing to the side of the court steps to get some good pictures of their beloved prince. The cameras all erupt at once when he looks in their direction and gives them a small smile, but neither he nor his escorts break stride ascending the stairs.

The short, blocky building lacks the distinctive columns Cure has come to expect from government facilities, though he would recognize the building as a municipal court by one feature alone; like so many other parallels to Earth, Lady Justice stands tall above the entry to the building.

Sat upon her haunches, the blindfolded alicorn holds a balance up high in her left hoof and an unsheathed sword in her right; a combined symbol for the pony tribes conveying the message that all are, in theory, equal before the law. Three large Equestrian flags drape down from poles at base of the statue, all flapping lazily in the winds blowing in from the Celestial Sea.

Cure briefly wonders if he and the other future alicorns will be added to the nation’s flag some day as the seven ponies march underneath, six sets of hooves shod in steel clanking in unison with a seventh tapping like a noisy clock’s second arm, slightly off-beat. Two of the Baltimare guards open the double doors ahead of them. Out of sight of the reporters, they close ranks to fit through as they march in.

Creatures in the offices that line the court building’s sides stand at attention and peer through their windows at the passing procession of six heavily armed guards pounding their way through the lobby. Cure spares a glance to his left, meeting the eyes of the messenger that delivered the subpoena on Monday. A small incline of his head is all he manages before losing sight of the stallion through Sgt. Blackhoof’s legs.

Apparently one of his pegasi know the way; they lead the group through the lobby, around a corner to the right, down another hallway, and then to the left where a smaller desk is mared by a single unicorn. She looks up, paling slightly at the wall of steel approaching before she catches the glint of gold from the shorter colt’s crown. A raised hoof points to an inconspicuous door to her right which is promptly gripped and pulled open by Sgt. Glazer’s telekinesis.

The room is shockingly small and not at all what Cure had expected. Only slightly larger than his office at the hospital, the courtroom, if that’s even the correct term, is barely more than a meeting room with two slightly raised seating areas; the judge’s bench in the center of the room and the witness stand to her left. The defendant and her attorney are sitting behind a small table in front and to the judge’s right while the prosecutor and, Cure assumes, her assistant are opposite the aisle on her left.

The seating area is just two rows of square, hoof-thick cushions separated from the prosecution and defense by a meter-tall wooden divider. All of the wood is a light cherry color and the walls are a near-white, giving the room a very bright feel despite the crampedness of the space.

Cure can only assume that the other witnesses have come and gone; the one still present is not anypony he recognizes. The earth pony mare looks to be in her late sixties with a deep brown coat slightly lighter than his sire’s. Her darker brown mane is graying, and she wears thick glasses, a light purple business suit that’s seen better days, and a string of white pearls around her neck.

The absence of anypony else makes the deployment of both sets of his Royal Guards feel like massive overkill.

All conversation halts and every head turns their direction as the procession enters the room. Cure nods to the seating on the right. Bravo takes up position on the inside of the door while Alpha sits in a triangle around the colt; the sergeant on his tail with Strafe and Twist on his left and right.

With everypony seated, and all other parties still staring in the young alicorn’s direction, Cure raises his right hoof and makes a “proceed” motion, granting permission for the court to resume whatever they had been doing before six steel-clad sentinels paraded through the door.

The middle-aged unicorn on the bench, Judge Suretrot according to the placard, peers over her glasses at Cure and his guards. Finally breaking the silence, she calls out in question, “Are we expecting an attack, your highness?” Her tone has a slight edge of mockery about it, which strikes the colt as an inordinately unprofessional way to make a first impression.

“I have asked that any would-be attackers submit a request for permission in advance, your honor,” he responds matter of factly. With a helpless shrug he continues, “Sadly, none have acquiesced thus far, forcing me to adopt the prudent pony’s approach.”

The response gives the mare pause for a moment before she makes a thoughtful noise. “I suppose one can never be too cautious.” She looks to the defense lawyer, a rather short gray pegasus stallion, and motions for him to continue.

“Thank you, your honor. Mrs. Duty, did either of Lady Bush and Mr. Flourish’s foals actually see, with their own eyes, any acts of harm visited upon the latter?”

“No, but -”

“No? You said they were aware of the alleged abuse, but they never witnessed any such thing. Am I understanding that correctly?”

“Even foals can figure out the result of two plus two, sir!”

“Perhaps, but we must look at facts, madam, and you just confirmed that they did not, in fact, witness my client striking her husband. I have no further questions, your honor.”

“Miss Cause?” the judge calls, looking to the prosecutor’s desk.

The prosecutor shakes her head no. “Nothing further, your honor.”

“Very well,” she nods, turning to the witness. “You may step down, Mrs. Duty. The court thanks you for your time.” As the mare steps out the back of the witness stand the judge waves to the prosecutor. “I believe your next witness is here.”

“Yes, your honor. If it pleases the court, the prosecution calls His Royal Highness, Prince Serpentus to testify.” She belatedly turns to Cure and ducks her head in a shallow nod, adding, “Please.”

Cure stands, igniting his horn to pull the swinging door open for the guardian ad litem and standing aside for her. She flashes him a grateful smile and bobs her head, greeting him with a quiet, “Your highness,” as she trots by.

“Ma’am,” he returns, waiting for her to pass before he trots around to the stand. The bailiff mare rushes over with a stool that he takes in his aura and positions before hopping up on it.

The judge speaks up to address him. “Your highness, could your highness please raise his right hoof?”

Cure cocks a brow, looks at his gold-clad hoof, and lifts it in the air. “Sure, but why?”

The innocent question gives the mare pause. Mouth slightly open, she blinks before saying, “It’s tradition when swearing an oath.”

“Really? The princess didn’t have me do that. Why the right hoof?”

“In ancient earth pony courts, ponies granted clemency would have the inside of their right fetlock marked,” she patiently explains. “If they appeared again then it would be visible, thus barring them from clemency again. It simply became tradition, even after the marking of criminals ceased.”

Not expecting an actual answer, Cure is surprised and genuinely appreciates that she took a moment to explain it. “Oh. Thanks!” Whether it was to secure his cooperation or from a legitimate desire to convey knowledge, the small concession abolishes his further plans to be a general pest.

Cure raises his right hoof as asked and volunteers, “I, Prince Serpentus of Equestria, do hereby swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth in response to questions and in my statements bearing relevance to the events leading to this hearing.”

He puts his hoof down and looks to the judge for approval.

“Not… exactly the standard oath, but I am satisfied.” She regards both attorneys, each of whom nods in acceptance as well.

The prosecutor, a cherry red unicorn with a black mane and matching suit, stands and approaches the bench. “First and foremost, thank you for taking the time to come today, your highness.”

“No problem. I know I was ‘asked,’” he mimes air quotes, “to be here at nine, but I literally had thirty ponies from all across the nation coming to see me today. I am not telling the dude from San Franciscolt that lost his foreleg trying to dig survivors out after an earthquake that he needs to reschedule.”

“Understandable,” she agrees. “In regards to the events of Friday, July thirty-first, please recount…”

The mare proceeds to question Cure, going through the events of the encounter with him, asking about the nature of the injuries he detected, the conversation with the victim, and his interaction with the mare afterwards. Aside from the results of his scan the questioning is brief, as if the mare is simply verifying what Dr. Care likely already covered.

“Does your highness typically treat injuries such as Mr. Flourish’s?”

“Not usually. Most of the ponies I see have something that is either difficult or impossible to otherwise treat.”

“But your highness was asked to see Mr. Flourish immediately upon arrival, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The defense stands, saying, “Speculation, your honor.”

The judge nods and turns to Cure, asking, “Were you told why you were being asked to see somepony with, relatively speaking, a minor injury?”

He hadn’t expected the judge to ask him questions like that. The look of confusion prompts her to explain, “Pretrial hearings are different from trials, your highness. Less formal.”

“Oh. Okay. I was told that Mr. Flourish has suffered injuries like this in the past and Dr. Care was concerned how those injuries were occurring.”

The prosecutor continues her questioning. “She was not able to determine the cause?”

“She stated that the hospital staff was never able to get an answer regarding how he was being injured. She said Lady Bush prevented them from speaking to her husband alone.”

“But you were?”

“He did not directly tell me. Indirectly, yes, but not directly. I was able to separate the defendant from her husband so that he could give an honest statement to the authorities. Specialist Twist,” he nods towards the unicorn, “was present when he gave his statement to the guard unit that was summoned. I learned from him later in the day that Mr. Flourish indicated his wife kicked him.”

The defense calls out, “Hearsay, your honor.”

“I disagree, Mr. Clout. A royal guard reporting to his highness is not hearsay.”

The stallion cringes and shallowly nods before sitting back down.

With all of her questions answered, the prosecutor turns to the judge. “No further questions at this time, your honor.”

She nods and looks to the defense. “Proceed, Mr. Clout. And I very strongly recommend you measure your questions carefully, or I will intervene immediately.”

“Of course, your honor.” The stallion stands and approaches Cure, bowing slightly before beginning his questioning. “The injuries that Mr. Flourish suffered. Could your highness please repeat them for the court?”

Cure can only assume the stallion is hoping he will forget or omit something, otherwise it doesn’t seem like a question the defense would pose. It seems like a valid tactic when dealing with a typical foal, but a grave mistake given Cure’s talent.

“Sure. It would be easier to explain if using Illusions is permissible,” he suggests, looking to the judge for her okay.

“No, that’s not necessary,” he quickly denies.

“Your honor!” the prosecutor shoots to her hooves. “I would very much like to see those Illusions, if the court permits.”

“With all due respect,” the defense retorts, “we have no means of verifying that the illusory images would be accurate. A simple description is all I’m asking.”

“They’d be flawlessly reproduced,” he argues. “My memory is perfect.”

“Again, with all due respect, your highness, nopony’s memory is perfect.”

“No, you don’t understand. My memory is perfect. Not good or great; literally perfect.”

“Your honor?” the prosecutor calls, voice full of hope while she nearly dances on her hooves like a foal on Hearth’s Warming Eve.

Judge Suretrot gives Cure a long, considering look. “Perfect is a rather high bar, your highness. Is that indeed the case?”

“Yes, your honor. I can, with clarity down to the cellular level, perfectly recall every single scan all the way back to a few minutes after I discovered my special talent and healed my sire’s shoulder. I could demonstrate that with Mr. Flourish’s scan, any of the hundreds of creatures I’ve healed while working, the many thousands of mares and foals I’ve helped during the birthing seasons I’ve worked, uncountable plants, animals, bugs, single-cell organisms, so forth and so on.”

The whole time Cure describes his ability the defense attorney’s wings droop more and more. “I withdraw the question, your honor.”

“Very well. Proceed with your questioning.”

“Yes, your honor. Your highness, in regards to the injuries, you stated you could not conclusively say who caused these injuries. Is that correct?”

“That is correct.”

“Thank you. No further questions.” Despite the final statement being somewhat to her favor, Lady Bush doesn’t hesitate to lay into the stallion in growled whispers as soon as his rump hits the cushion beside her.

“Miss Cause?” the judge questions when the prosecutor nearly dives around her desk.

“I would ask that his highness show us the injuries he witnessed on the morning in question! Please!”

“Your honor never said; are Illusions okay or do you want a physical reproduction?”

“I’m sorry,” she asks, “physical reproduction?”

“May I demonstrate?”

“I find myself curious, your highness. Please proceed,” she nods to the defense attorney who stood to speak up, “though I’ll caution that your demonstration may not qualify as actual evidence.” The attorney nods in thanks and returns to his seat.

“Sure, I understand. One second, please.” He reaches under his left wing and slowly extracts a full-sized replica of the stallion’s left foreleg from the shoulder all the way down to the hoof, exactly as it was when he initially scanned him that morning. Absolute silence descends on the room as everypony stares in stunned shock at the unexpected display.

“See, right here,” he points with his free hoof, “is the visible abrasion, but the damage goes much deeper, all the way down to the bone, in fact. If we look under the skin,” he begins peeling off layers like a banana, folding the flesh and coat down over the hoof in strips to reveal the damaged muscle tissue, “then it’s visibly obvious that the impact was significant enough to propagate damage through several layers.

“You can see the contrast between healthy muscle tissue here,” he points higher, “compared to the injury site. Also, note the distinct curve of the abrasion here. Now, I realize it’s difficult to see since you’re looking at a single layer at a time, but my talent makes reproducing the size and shape of the instrument used to inflict the injury mere foal’s play.”

He continues peeling layers back until he reaches the cannon bone, showing the fracture inflicted on Mr. Flourish’s leg. “As you can see, the impact was significant enough to reach all the way to the bone; a not-insignificant feat given that Mr. Flourish is, otherwise, a healthy earth pony stallion. I don’t need to tell anypony here how difficult we…” he pauses, snout scrunched momentarily, “Well, they, now, I suppose, are to hurt like this.”

He pauses to reach under his wing again, this time extracting a model hoof. He levitates his golden shoe off his right forehoof and places the model on it as he continues, “More than that, with my ability to scan an injury, reproduce the instrument used, reproduce the uninjured limb, and heal the limb after inflicting an injury, determining the angle and the strength of the impact is only a matter of trial and error, which I already performed. Observe.”

Cure promptly heals the leg, replacing the layers of skin after he shows the court that the injury is mended. Without waiting for permission, he levitates the limb in his aura just in front of the witness box, sits up, puts his left hoof on the podium surface in front of him, winds up his right, and kicks with the model hoof against the hovering leg. The loud “thud” that sounds out garners winces from everypony in the room.

The judge and prosecutor glance in Lady Bush’s direction briefly to gauge her reaction. To her credit, she does look ashamed to Cure’s eyes, but he has no idea if that’s from being semi-publicly revealed or if she genuinely regrets her actions.

As he once again strips the layers off to reveal a nearly identical injury to the bone, Cure continues, “Granted this injury was just inflicted, whereas I did not see Mr. Flourish until the morning after the incident, but as you can see,” he points to the fractured bone, “the damage to the bone is nearly identical.

“I want to be clear so there’s no confusion; I cannot say with absolute certainty that the defendant is responsible for inflicting the injury, but I would note that,” he floats the model off his hoof for everypony to get a good look at, “the size and shape of the hoof is exactly what you would expect from an earth pony mare.”

“I object, your honor,” the defense calls, standing as he does. “We have no way of verifying if that substantial of an impact is required to cause the described injury. With all due respect to his highness, he is an alicorn, not an earth pony. It stands to reason that a greater amount of force would be required to damage anything he creates.”

The judge nods in understanding. She turns to Cure and asks, “Is your highness aware as to whether or not his creations have an inherent toughness beyond that of a typical pony?”

He shakes his head no, explaining, “I cannot say one way or another, and I think both the princess, and more importantly, my parents, would be extremely unhappy if I conducted the tests necessary to determine that.” A few slight smiles are all he earns for the jest.

“Understood. Thank you.”

“Sure thing.”

“Miss Cause?” she calls, turning to the prosecutor and waving for her to continue.

“Yes, ma’am. Your highness,” she begins, “can you estimate approximately when the injury occurred?”

The defense leaps to his hooves again, calling out, “I must voice my objection, your honor! While his highness’s skill with healing is unquestionable, that does not, by itself, convey the necessary medical knowledge to make such a determination.” He softens his gaze as he turns to Cure and adds, “Unless your highness is the youngest medical doctor to graduate, perhaps?”

The judge cocks a brow at Cure and, as before, he shakes his head no. “I do not have a medical degree, or any degree for that matter. I have seen other injuries from impacts, their effects, and have been told how many hours prior they occurred for comparison. I can estimate based on the soft tissue damage, but Dr. Care, hopefully, would have been able to give a better response.”

“Question withdrawn, your honor,” the prosecutor defers. “How many earth pony stallions with a fractured cannon has his highness treated?”

“Mr. Flourish was only my second earth pony stallion.”

“How many other similar injuries has his highness treated, then?”

“Sixty eight.”

“And how many were earth ponies?”

“Only seventeen. You’d think that living in a predominantly earth pony town I would see more, but we… they’re harder to bruise than the other tribes. That doesn’t matter as much as you’d think once the bruising occurs, though. A bruise is a bruise, and skeletal damage is pretty similar for everypony once it happens. Earth ponies do heal about thirty percent faster than the other tribes.”

“Thank you, your highness!” she chirps. “No further questions, your honor.”

Judge Suretrot nods and glances in the defense’s way. Mr. Clout shakes his head no. “Nothing further, your honor.”

“Very well. I once again thank his highness for his time. The court respectfully asks that he step down.”

While the Sound Bubble blocks the clomps of her hooves, Cure’s nose tells him that Wind Shear just arrived at the top of the stairs to collect her weekly payout. Though it’s been a slower week for the girl that doesn’t mean she’s making an insubstantial amount, especially for a foal working, essentially, her first job ever.

His last customers give the filly a brief glance as they make their way by, likely making assumptions regarding her presence in the young colt’s workplace. Cure follows them out, wishes them a pleasant weekend, and promptly climbs on the couch to join the older girl, nosing at her wing a few times until she finally lifts it for him to flop against her side.

Soft downy blanket in place, he nuzzles up against her right foreleg, grinding the top of his muzzle against her elbow.

“That bad?” she asks, caught somewhat off guard from the insistence for physical comfort.

“Not really. It’s just another thing. I guess I was a little anxious over the whole ‘I have to go to court’ thing, but it wasn’t that big of a deal once I got there. It wasn’t like I expected.”

She climbs half on his right side and looks down on him. “How so?”

“Better, in a lot of ways, honestly. I figured it would be a big courtroom, lots of members of the public, reporters. You know… the works. Instead, it was just a little hearing room with three lawyers, a judge, the defendant, and me and my escort. Think of a courtroom scaled down to the smallest possible size that can accommodate that many bodies and you more or less have the picture.”

“Doesn’t sound too bad.”

“I know. Just… tiring. And I get the feeling this kinda crap is going to happen a lot in my career, unfortunately.”

“Sucks to be you,” she sarcastically quips.

“Yeah, it’s a rough life. Somepony has to do it.”

“Uh huh. I saw your carriage pass by while I was out. Looked like you had twenty guards with you.”

“Protocol,” he answers with a shrug. “I coulda flown there invisible in under a minute, but… what are ya gonna do?” He inhales and blows out a deep sigh. “Would you wanna ride in it someday?”

She tilts her head side to side and shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe. It would be neat to see, I guess. Daddy and sissy said it’s pretty fancy.”

He nods in agreement. “Maybe next time I have to take it out I’ll cruise over and pick ya up. Give ya a ride around town. Then you can tell the papers how much you enjoyed yourself in his highness’s company.”

She narrows her eyes at the colt, unsure whether that was innuendo or an innocent comment. “What if I don’t enjoy the ride at all?”

He scoffs, answering, “Please. As far as carriage rides you can’t get any better. Best of the best. One you’ll remember for the rest of your life. All the other fillies will be super jealous, too. School starts back up in a couple weeks. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t brag about your encounter with his highness to all the other girls in your classes. It may even help your career, ya know?”

“Glad you brought that up. We met with that agent on Wednesday.”

“Oh? How’d it go?”

She smiles broadly and thrusts her chest out. “She said I’m perfect! They have an advertising campaign starting soon for some fancy jewelry store, and they want me to model some of their pieces! The pay… isn’t very much,” she deflates slightly at the admission, “but she promised that’s just how it works when you’re new.”

Cure shrugs underneath the girl and bobs his head in understanding. “Dunno. Sounds plausible. You do realize that looks are only like… a small percent of modeling, right?”

“What do you know about it?” she retorts.

“Very, very little. I think it’s a lot like acting, though. You gotta be able to play the role. No idea what the role would be, but I’m guessing you gotta be able to project confidence, poise, or whatever,” he suggests, shrugging again. “Not like I’ve ever modeled.” He pauses in thought for a moment and turns to look up at her. “Let me know how it goes. If the money’s good maybe I could give it a whirl.”

She gives him a considering look for a moment before eventually nodding. “Maybe. If you can look however they want…” she trails off, waving her wing idly.

“Right. Dunno if they pay enough to be worth my time, but if so? Why not? Maybe we can be a team.”

“A team?”

“Sure! I bet for a lot of those ads they’ll have you posing with other ponies. Why not have it be with somepony you know?”

“I guess.”

“You know what would be even better?”

“Hm?”

“Twins!” he declares, his voice suddenly a perfect match for her own. The filly blinks in confusion, hopping away from the colt as his colors bleed to white and gold. He rolls to his barrel and hops off the couch, suddenly matching wings fluffing up as he lands. His barrel thins, legs lengthen, and face rearranges itself as he takes a couple steps away before turning back.

Wind catches sight of one detail in particular that leaves her absolutely gaping. Cure strikes a pose with his wings spread and right forehoof held delicately off the ground, declaring, “Just call me Thermal Inversion!”

“CURE!”

The ~~colt~~ filly giggles in her voice as ~~he~~ she turns around and innocently asks, “What’s wrong, sissy?”

“Tell me, for the love of the maker, that you don’t have my vagina!”

“Well we’re twins, so…” he teases, her eyes widening comically before he cracks up. “No, you goof. It’s only surface level. No internal plumbing!” he/she insists, twisting so his tail-covered rear is facing in her direction. “If you don’t believe me…” he trails off, waggling his brows suggestively.

“Oh. My. STARS! What is wrong with you?!”

“Why, what ever do you mean, Windy?” the ex-colt sincerely asks as he saunters back to the couch.

Wind reflexively backs away, her rump pressed against the wall as he flaps his wings once and hops on the couch. Cure pauses, cocking a brow at the filly when his nose catches the unmistakable scent of anxiety. He stops dead and, in his own voice, asks her, “Why are you acting like I’m going to do something to you?”

“SERIOUSLY?!” she shouts, waving at him as a whole.

“What? I look like you. So? It’s not like I’m going to friggin eat you or something. I take very good care of my minions, I’ll have you know.”

“I’m not your minion!” the filly heatedly retorts.

“Minion, employee, tomato, to-mah-to. Whatever,” he shrugs her wings. “That still doesn’t explain all this,” he waves to her, her back still pressed against the wall. “Do you really think I would ever do you or any of the others any actual harm?”

Her snout scrunches but, much to his relief, the tension disappears from her posture and she shakes her head no. “It’s just weird. Like… really, really weird. How would you feel if you saw somepony that looks and sounds exactly like you?”

“Very curious if I saw them change. Probably less amused if they suddenly approached me out of the blue,” he confesses, his thoughts drifting to a changeling infiltrator.

“Well, I’m sorry if I, for whatever reason, scared you, Wind.” He leans in for a nuzzle that she doesn’t shy away from. “Truthfully, the whole twins thing would be a huge money-maker, I bet, but it’s not like I could commit to that given my schedule. I really didn’t expect you to freak out… I mean, you’ve seen me do stuff like this,” he flares his wings, changing his coat to the deep royal blue and golden macaw colors he showed the herd before, “plenty of times.”

“You. Gave. Yourself. A. Vah. Gine. Ah!” she exclaims, posture shifting forwards into a more aggressive stance. “It’s not the same!”

“Yeah, but I kept my balls, too!” he defensively declares, looking down to verify the boys are still hanging out.

The filly’s eyes automatically follow his gaze and, just as she looks down, his head whips up to meet her eyes with a smug looking smirk crossing his muzzle. Caught red-hoofed, the filly’s coat ignites in a blush as she averts her gaze. The sound of his chuckling washes away the embarrassment, replacing it with annoyance instead.

Without warning, the filly dives on the colt from only a few hooves away. Cure, in his infinite mercy, allows the older girl to bowl him over off the couch, landing on the floor with her hooves pinning his forelegs down. He has to struggle not to laugh even harder at the position they end up in; he on his back with his hind legs trailing behind them, her straddling his prone form much as a lover would before copulation. He chooses not to point that out, instead giving the girl a small victory.

“Haven’t we done this before?” he instead asks the girl, tone completely unbothered.

She snorts and shakes her head, stepping off of him to her left. “You’re lucky you pay so well. Speaking of which,” she holds out her hoof in a beckoning motion, “pay up. I can’t deal with you any more today.”

He gives her an exaggerated pout. “Sometimes I feel like you’re only with me for my money.”

“Damn right, so gimme!”

“Fine,” he huffs. A silk bag of jingling bits flashes into existence right before the filly’s hoof. She looks at the colt’s hornless head in confusion, then looks around the room for the source. “I’m laying on my plant, dummy. I don’t need a horn on my head to use magic.”

Her eyes drift down to the carpet under her hooves, realization dawning a moment later. “The… whole floor?!”

“Duh?”

She snatches the bag out of the air and tucks it into her wallet strapped to her foreleg. “Whatever. I’m out of here. Later, doofus,” she grumbles, disappearing in flash.

Shortly after dinner

The pod splits open and Cure stands, taking in his new form.

Much like the body he had shown the unicorns last weekend, the one he’s in now comes in at a dozen hooves; every bit as tall as a typical earth pony stallion, or roughly the same height as Prince Blueblood. Unlike the other royal, there’s no extra fat to be found on this body; while it doesn’t have the thickness a strong earth pony has, it falls somewhere in the middle, looking much like a middle foal between the two tribes.

Taking inspiration from Onyx Mark, Cure had gone with a dark ebony coat and a nearly metallic silver for his mane and tail, the former spiked up and parted to his left behind his majestic horn.

With one foreleg raised, the disguised colt meets his mother’s eyes and poses like a prancing pony. In a smooth, deep voice he asks, “How do I look?”

“You look good. For a unicorn, I suppose.”

Cure cocks a single brow. “For a unicorn?”

Title shrugs and says, “Unicorns never really did it for me. Most of them are too…” her muzzle scrunches as she looks for the right word, “mareish, I guess. Even before your sire started working out, at least he had a pretty good build. Now?” The chuckle that escapes the mare can only be called lecherous. She licks her chops and loudly smacks her lips before continuing, “Now he’s downright delicious.”

The initial reaction of disgust passes in an instant, leaving the colt reluctantly nodding. “Yeah, I guess he does clean up pretty well nowadays.”

“Darn right. That aside, your dam is going to lose her mind when she sees you.”

“Which is why I was gonna sneak out, duh.”

“You really shouldn’t do that, honey. You don’t want to hurt her feelings, and her nine year old son sneaking out without telling her because he thinks he doesn’t have to will do exactly that. You always go out of your way to reassure her you care… well,” she finishes, waving to the young stallion.

The colt lets out a whiny groan and sinks down to the floor, chin resting between his forehooves. He flicks his tail to the right and pins his ears back, crying, “But she’ll say no!”

“Mmmyep,” she nods, popping the p at the end. “At least, she probably will. She doesn’t complain about you flying to practice anymore. Maybe she’ll be okay with you going to spend the evening with your friend before he leaves.”

“Ehhh… I don’t see it. Wait!” the colt hops to his hooves and cocks a grin. “I’ve got an idea!”

“Okay…”

Hoof pointing to the mare’s chest, he suggests, “How about you come with me. Or dam herself, but I don’t really see that. Or Lemon or Amy, I guess. How bout it, ma? Wanna go hit the town with me and maybe stalk a certain unicorn?”

“No, Cure,” she firmly refuses. “We’re not going to go to Baltimare just to follow your friend around like a couple ‘a weirdos. Why would you even want to?”

“It sounds like fun?”

“What part of that sounds fun? What, exactly, were you planning on doing? Drinking?”

“I might have one or two. It’s not like I’d let myself get drunk.”

“You actually like the flavor?”

“Of some drinks,” he nods. “Mostly the fruity, girly ones like rum runners and piña coladas. Some whiskey drinks were pretty good. Old fashioned, whiskey sour, maybe a highball or, on a cold winter’s night, a hot toddy.”

“Those aren’t considered girly here, Cure.”

The colt shrugs dismissively and says, “Cool. It wouldn’t have stopped me from getting them if they were. I never really understood the whole ‘acquired taste’ thing.”

“I dunno, there’s a few things I didn’t like at first but kinda grew on me. Brandy, for one. The first time I tried it I sprayed it all over the table.”

“Three wise men!” the colt explains, bouncing to his hooves. “Ed did the exact same thing the first time he tried a shot. I forget what’s in it - three whiskeys… Jim, Jack, and…” he shrugs, “no clue - but I distinctly remember him aerosolizing that shit the instant the flavor registered.”

“Sounds about right. So not necessarily planning on drinking. What, then?”

“Dunno. Dancing?”

“With who?”

“I dunno,” he repeats. “I figured I’d find somepony there.”

“Then what?”

“Dance?” he answers with another shrug.

She rolls her eyes. “We established that, dummy. You find a pretty mare and dance with her, maybe buy a couple drinks. All while covertly following Solar and his friends. What then?”

“I guess, maybe…” he drifts off, snout scrunched in thought. “I dunno. Worm my way into their group somehow?”

“And what about whoever you’re using to blend in? The whole reason most mares go to places like that is to find a stallion.”

“I guess it would be a little shitty to use a girl like that,” he concedes.

“A little,” she agrees.

“I’d be obligated to at least show her a good time before bailing.”

“I really, really hope you’re joking.”

“I am.”

“Good, because I can probably come up with a dozen or more reasons why that would be even worse.”

With a scoff he argues, “Yeah, ‘cause I’d totally let them know who I am.”

“No, but eventually I bet the subject of your experiences will be questioned by your fillyfriends. Shit like that tends to come out eventually.”

Cure rolls his eyes as hard as he can. “I know, mom. I can’t even fathom how, at my age, to explain that I’m not a virgin. I bet even Celestia would probably give me the big, sad, disappointed face, not to mention dam’s reaction.”

“Good. I’m glad you’re at least thinking that far ahead. So your plan was, basically, follow Solar and his group, find some poor, lonely mare to lead along, who you would later ditch, presumably,” Cure winces as she continues, “then… what? Just walk up to them and be like, ‘Hey you all seem cool and even though you’re obviously all out to celebrate, do you mind if I, some random unicorn-earth pony hybrid, join you this evening?’” She stares expectantly while he shuffles his hooves uncertainly.

“I guess I didn’t really think of that. Things usually work out, so I kinda figured they would, ya know,” he waves vaguely at nothing, “do that. Somehow.”

“That’s a really good plan, Cure,” she sarcastically quips.

“Look, all of that could be sidestepped if you just went with me. He’d know who I am unless I disguised you too, but I don’t see what the problem there is.”

“The problem is that I’m like… nine years older than him. He’s not going to want to hang out with me, especially if he’s going out with his friends. That’s not even factoring how weird it would be to just show up unexpectedly.”

“He went out with all of you just a couple weeks ago, and you’re all younger than any of the other parents by, like, almost the same amount!”

“Without his friends,” she argues back. “We went out as a big group. It was as much a family thing as it was a ‘go out and knock back some with your friends’ thing and you know it. How many times has Solar shown up on the front door askin if me or your dam or sire can come hang out, hmm?”

The colt grumbles and stamps his hooves. “But… but… mommmm!” he petulantly whines.

“Listen to yourself!” she laughs, throwing both forehooves in his direction. “Even with that voice you sound like an actual foal!” She does a poor job mimicking his normal voice and sneers, “In a way, I’m twice as old as you are!” then shoots him a smug, mocking grin.

Cure pouts even harder.

“You know,” she starts, “this would almost be adorable if it weren’t for the whininess. You always… almost always… behave like an adult. A bit of a brat, I’ll grant, but still. To see you like this, especially in an adult-sized body, is actually kind of amusing.”

Cure huffs and turns away.

“Are you gonna get out of that thing? They’re probably starting to wonder what the hay we’re doing in here.” She cringes, nearly to the point of retching. “Wow, that did not come out how I meant it.”

“Gross, mom.”

“Eh, hoof in my mouth. It happens.”

“Well if I can’t go hang out with Solar and crash his party, how bout we do something else fun?”

“As much as I’d love to raise some Tartarus with ya, how bout you take your dam and Amy out instead? Me and Lemon don’t get to spend as much time with the foals as they do, and I got a hankerin for some snuggle time with the babies.”

Cure, still lying on the ground, gives the mare the most pathetic pitiable big doe eyes he can muster. “I thought I was your baby, too,” he softly says.

The mare recoils, both hooves flying to her chest as she nearly flops on her side. “Foul! No fair!”

Cure sniffles and turns away, idly pawing at the floor. “I get it. Savvy, Blaze, and Goldie are the babies now. I’m just old, chopped hay. Yesterday's news. Nopony wuvs me.”

“Oh shut up. Now are you gonna get out of that thing or what?”

“Nah, I think I’ll just make it more ‘me,’ ya know? Add my muscles and wings on. I need a bit more mass for it, though.”

“That’s not exact-” the mare freezes when a thick vine shoots out from the floor and plunges up, directly under the colt’s tail. He stares unflinchingly at the mare, fighting back a smirk at the way her face contorts in horror. “What. The. Fuck, Cure?!”

“What?” he innocently asks.

“Did you just… ram that thing up your tailhole?!”

“Not really. It’s not like it’s actually my butthole. Gotta pump in mass somewhere, ya know.”

“Do I really need to explain why that was a little odd?! Are you seriously that detached from what normal is?!”

“I mean… if the suit actually used that area for anything, then yeah, that would have been a little odd. Right now it’s just a spot to hook up to the plant. Here,” he says, pausing as the vine violently retracts, eliciting a wince from his mother before snaking around him and, after splitting in two, spears into his ear holes, “better?”

She backs until her rump is against the door. “No. That’s not better. Not even remotely.”

“Fine!” The vines withdraw again, instead arching forward around the front of his face and plunging into his nostrils. “How ‘bout now?”

“I feel like you should have washed those first, even before going in your ears.”

“They’re beyond medical-grade sterile, ma. My entire plant is cleaner than an operating room’s table. It’s not like there’s ever been poop in this body.”

“No, but there’s a big turd in the middle!” she proudly cackles, slapping the floor with a hoof.

“Weak. Alright, I’m going to grow this thing up a little for reals.”

“For reals?”

“You don’t really think I needed to shove a vine up my own ass to make this thing bigger, did you?”

“I know you don’t. I figured you were just messing with me.”

“Yeah, more or less.”

“Or you were into that kinda thing,” she suggests with a shrug. “I ain’t one to judge. Too harshly, at least.”

“I think I’ve made my policy on that particular orifice pretty clear, ma.”

“Right, right. Exit only.”

“Exactly.”

“Except when you’re talking about huge plant tentacles, apparently.”

“I believe the proper term at that point would be consenticles, ma.”

“I don’t particularly care what you want to call them, just keep ‘em away from me.”

“Quit making it weird, ma.”

“I ain’t the one shovin things where they don’t belong. Why are you even bothering with that suit anyhow? You’re not going anywhere and it’s just going to confuse the other foals.”

That gives the colt pause. He hadn’t considered the impact a suddenly much larger version of himself would have on the others. Cherry and Lotus know enough that they would understand, at least to a degree, what is going on. Savvy, on the other hoof, is at the age where she’s aware enough of others, but not old enough, to understand why her big brother is suddenly adult-sized then small again the next day.

“God damnit. This whole fuckin thing has been a total waste, hasn’t it?”

“Pretty much.”

“Well,” he sighs, “I guess we can see what everypony else is up to, then. One sec.”

Title watches impassively as her son wraps his body in a tangle of leafy vines. The vines merge together into a shell which then splits open, letting the young alicorn step out like he’s simply walking from one room to another. “What a fucking disappointment,” he grumps, igniting his horn to unseal the door before leading her outside.

The pair find the rest of his family, minus his sire, at the front door, apparently waiting for them. Cure cocks a brow and trots up to his dam, turning to press against her side, careful not to lean hard enough to jostle the twins on her back. “You all going somewhere?”

“We’re taking the foals to the pond, sweetie.” She surveys her son and wife, looking the pair over in confusion. “I thought you were doing something in your room. Were you working on your plant again?”

“Nah,” Title answers, “he was all gussied up and planning on being a moron. I was able to talk him out of it.”

Cure shoots his mom a scowl and leans harder on his dam’s side. “Was gonna go hang out with Solar,” he mulishly admits. “Him ‘n his friends are going to be out in Baltimare tonight. I was just gonna go see if I could join in.”

Amethyst snorts a laugh and bumps Lemon’s side. “Told ya he would try somethin.”

Brows furrowed, Vines looks between the two. “Let me guess,” she starts, nearly sighing, “you were going to put on some kind of crazy disguise and hunt him down while pretending to be somepony else.”

His ears fold back and he looks away; a silent confirmation of the mare’s deduction’s accuracy. Title chuckles at the pathetic look of defeat.

“And how would he introduce you to the others, hmm?”

“I dunno,” he bashfully admits. “Wasn’t really sure. Didn’t even plan on telling him.”

“Oh, honey,” she says, wrapping a foreleg around his barrel. She lifts his front and pulls him close against her chest, squeezing him tight. “I know you want to be able to go out and do whatever you want, but following ponies around? Showing up where you’re not invited?”

“I was just gonna maybe buy them some drinks or whatever.” Snuggling a cheek into her chest, he says, “Keep an eye on ‘em. You know, keep an eye on the carriage ‘n make sure everypony gets home alright.”

The memory of the police calling surfaces unbidden. Breakfast hastily left uncooked, uneaten. A manic mother, sobbing sister, and the crushing regret of opportunities lost weighing him down as he drove everypony… everyone to the police station.

His dam’s embrace tightens, calming him and chasing away the painful memories.

“Solar’s a guard, babe,” he mother points out. “He may not be rich, but he also lives at home. He can easily afford his own drinks, and I don’t think there’s any reason to worry about his safety with your great grandsire’s ponies watching him. It’s Baltimare, not Chicoltgo. Besides, he doesn’t put me in mind of somepony that’ll get completely hammered.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he sighs. “Alright. Mind if I tag along, then? I wouldn’t mind a swim.”

Author's Note

Note - I am not a lawyer. Nor have I, thankfully, ever had to appear in felony court, and I was unwilling to spend any more time than I did (which was not an insignificant amount) trying to determine exactly what does happen at a pretrial hearing. If it's not very accurate? Meh, good 'nuf. He definitely did a few things that I don't think would fly during a real trial, but who knows? Being a foal and royalty he may get away with a little, or perhaps a lot, more than many would. He's definitely not a good pony to have testifying against you either way.

So Cure evidently didn't learn his lesson very well after the whole Solar clone bit. Some messages apparently need hammered into one's head a few times before they stick. Hopefully he'll have learned not to do this after seeing Wind's reaction. His mom? He has no qualms about messing with her.

Oh well, maybe he'll learn some day. Maybe...

As always, thanks for reading, rating, and especially comments.

Enjoy!