Sometimes Problems are Blessings
“How much did you pour into the pot?” whispered a small shadow.
“Well, the bottle slipped a little and uhh, maybe like a quarter? Is that bad?” replied another silhouette.
“BAD?!” exclaimed the shadow, “Well captain oblivious, of course it… he’s coming!”
At a frenzied pace, Angelcake rushed in with a spatula in mouth and a black box on back. He quickly positioned the small package onto a wooden table, and with a satisfying click, popped it open to reveal a variety of metal piping tools and small frosting containers.
“Oh dear, I have little time! To bake the cake, layer the cake, dress the cake…,” he rambled on. “Wait Angel, you hae something else to do, think, THINK! What was that something? That elusive something that always gets away from me, ah ha! The frosting of the wedding cake, of course you silly bumpkin you!” he exclaimed.
***
“Uh, did we stumble into the kitchen of some crazy schitzo-pony or a chef?” whispered the silhouette.
“What about shh didn’t you get?” bluntly stated the shadow, tapping the dark figure on the head.
Silence temporarily grasped the cabinet to, abruptly strewn away by another whisper.
“Ohhh, I get it, be quiet!” expressed the silhouette.
If looks could kill, the ones you cannot see are the worst as the shadow deadpanned at the silhouette, knocking it on the head once more for good measure.
***
Anglecake stood astute beside the table carefully eyeing the cake. His hooves stroked his goatee, contemplating the work that stood before him. Pacing indignantly around the cake table, he curled his brow into deep concentration, a dead light in his eyes as he stared beyond the cake and into its soul. Hooves left the floor when his face suddenly exploded into an expression of exuberance. The scowl returned as he began to digress.
“Some strands of frosting here, no I should use the leaf tip, how about polka dots? Ah, that’s it! I’ll make it look like sun-shades draping over the surface of the cake, with maybe a little red showing though!” he said cheerfully, quickly eyeing the cake once more.
His latest masterpiece, a towering three tier, blood red frosted, vanilla cake emphasized simplicity and elegance in an eccentric package. The red conflicted with the white slate that held domain to the exterior of the cake, as if a small war is waging between two indomitable sides. Smalls splashes of blood red frosting splashed onto the white, unwilling to shift to proving their dominance of the battlefield. White drapes overcame larger portions of the red, overcoming the efforts to stain the halcyon surface overland.
Skipping over to cylindrical vats of frosting, he scooped a dollop of his favorite blend of white chocolate ganache into a small ceramic bowl. By the commander’s choice, today, the whites were going to prevail over the reds.
A small keg filled with ground cinnamon was tilted into a small vat and began to siphon out. Piping above the container dripped goat’s butter as he slowly mixed the two ingredients together. Divots were pressed into the moist base, filled with reservoirs of vanilla extract; a film of sugar was briskly sprinkled on top. He kneaded the mixture together with his hooves, making sure to granulate the ingredients just enough to blend with the ganache properly or unappealing clumps of spice would remain. So much trouble was gone through just to kick taste buds into scrumptious submission.
“It will be something to remember, as a prince or princess will hopefully revel in its very existence, slowly enjoying each molecule of mystery and perfection!” he gleefully asserted while kneading the blend of spices into the ganache.
He drew in a sharp breath, taking note of his surroundings. Baggies formerly filled with flour and sugar lay strewn across the tile floor as batter dripped slowly into the basin where he had mixed the cake earlier. Paying no attention to the mess, he turned towards the towering cake. Intended for the officer currently operating the North Cloudsdale Pegasus Brigade outpost, he hoped to capture the conflict and bloodshed of war with the layering of the frosting. Any mistakes he made with red frosting were deliberate, to signify that even with the greatest protectors, they too are flawed in existence.
“Why the deep thought my old friend, it’s only a cake. The art of the cake won’t be appreciated by the consumer, just eaten and tossed away.” He moped. “Still, I must forge on to make sure that pony is happy, for that I hope he is, or I cannot call myself a chef!” refuting his previous grim assumption.
He whipped out the small pouch and plopped in a scoop of ganache, but stopped dead before laying the first of many four pointed stars across the cake’s surface. To ensure all was not to go to waste, he remembered to taste the toppings to ensure they are, c’est magnifique, so he immediately scarfed down a small spoonful of icing.
The effect was immediate.
Words of bloody murder burst out from the Cloudshed Bakery, shaking loose the morning dew strewn on the tops of cottages littering the Cloudsdale skyline. The dew that collected into puddles reverberated as the onslaught of guttural insults continued.
“By Celestia’s flaming tits! My tongue feels like it is in the crematory for the apocalypse! Oh the humanity, what on Equestria is this infernal torrent of sun and flame?!” squealed the baker.
Snorts and giggles erupted from the cupboard and caught the ear of the stallion. Carefully sneaking over to the cabinet with frosting spatula in hoof, the stallion threw open the doors to find two cheery fillies holding a can of drake-root powder. How the small children came across such a potent blend of leaves and spices escaped him as he brandished his club of delicious tenderization with fury.
“Get out of my bakery, or I’m going to make you two my next delicious pastry, soufflé ailé de caramel!” shouted Angelcake.
“This is bad.” stated the silhouette.
“You don’t say?” the shadow put bluntly.
It was a scene of chaos, powdered sugar flew, cakes crushed, pastries popped, pies pounded, and windows fragmented. Blur of light brown and teal zipped around the room as they deftly evaded the flying debris. Frosting slapped the teal pony square on the face as it flew out the shattered window. The beige pony was not as fortunate, as it decided to be a thorn in his side that much longer.
She hid behind pots and pans as Angelcake flung copious amount of ganache her direction. Hitting her head on the low ceiling, she drunkenly flew into the wall before attempting to vacate the premises. However hard he tried, Angelcake hooves found no purchase as he attempted to grab the flying pony as she slid out of his grasp.
The scrumptious destruction came to a close as Angelcake took account of his extreme kitchen makeover. All of which, from the time they stepped foot into the fortress of treats, to stop the pranksters from rigging his shop.
A sigh escaped his lips as he picked up broom and dustpan, scooping up the remains of his elegantly crafted desserts. “Well at least they have good taste in food…” exhaled Angelcake as he continued to sweep up the remains.
He gazed over to the right to see the droopy remains of his newest cake slump down the wall, collecting in a murky puddle of syrup and frosting. Red pooled over white, staining the regal gild a bright red, claiming victory to the embarrassment of the whites.
“Sacrebleu! Oh not the cake, my chance, strewn in the void once again…” he moped as he slumped to the floor in escaping sobs of his newly desecrated pastry.
***
It was not a successful day by any pranking pony standards, as the good old spicy powder trick left not a window of time for neither of the fillies to escape. Butterscotch and her friend Fleetfoot flew homeward; the sun raised high into the sky, catching the fleeting shadows of the two. As they made haste, it was to their fortune that the streets lay quiet as they weaved in and out of street corners.
A small cottage rose in the horizon as the two approached it with fevered pace. Busting down doors, they exhaustively collapsed in Butterscotch’s room and began to lick their wounds. Laughter erupted into the air as they recollected their latest endeavor.
“Did you see the look on his face? He looked like he ate a thundercloud!” laughed Butterscotch as she licked frosting off her mane.
“I think the best part was when he ate the spicy stuff, he made so many funny noises!” guffawed Fleetfoot, washing her head in the sink.
They were many things according to peers, among them, pranksters, vandals, insolent ponies, innocents just trying to have fun. It was almost a match made in the heavens, as the two fillies shared one key interest, lots and lots of pranking.
More often than not, it is an absurd display of ingenuity with who to prank and why. Why prank the baker with spicy-powder? To Butterscotch, the consensus was because he bakes and likes to eat cakes of course. Fleetfoot’s assumptions were rather blunt, as Angelcake is bogard and acrocentric with how he treats desserts as opposed to ponies.
Butterscotch gazed over at her friend, contemplating the cutie mark that dominated her flank. It was nothing special, just a wing with small wisps of wind around it. Although, with the cutie mark on Butterscotch’s flank, slightly obscured by frosting, told an ominous tale.
An obsidian scythe with a small femur laid across would be regarded as a death sentence from the princesses themselves, but how it came to be was even more unusual. The simple pranks she engaged from day to day did not yield a cutie mark, but when her father was stuck down by a bucket to the head from the “water bucket on the door,” trick, the mark burst through to the relief and shock of the filly.
She treated it like a sore, a disease, a plague, a part of her that hung around like a stray wolf at the door. It made her think, had her actions escalate to irreparable consequences? Pain of others, suffering and disheartening prose, none of this pay heed to her actions. Pleasure from such an act disgusted her; to hurt another pony maliciously makes the punisher guilty, not the initial bully.
She heard muffled sounds from the outside of her mind. “Oh wait, someone is talking, I guess I should pay attention.” She pondered as her conscience wandered the vast expanse of her mind.
“You know, I feel like Angelcake was angry at us…” Fleetfoot contemplated, “do you think he wants some sort of apology? We might of actually hurt his feelings or his shop or somethi...”
“Apologies are for sprite-heads Fleetfoot!” Interjected Butterscotch, “Have you seen any pony get far in this world by just apologizing for every mistake that they made? It’s a sob story at best, and for sure, and it’s going to stay the way it is right now.”
“Well just because we can run away from the problem doesn't solve it Butterscotch!” shot back Fleetfoot.
Storm clouds brew between the two fillies, but before any tussling could begin, Butterscotch’s father yelled up the stairs. “Girls! Fleet and Butters! It’s almost time for the tour of the academy!! Are either of you girls even remotely close to being prepared?”
“Oh no!” thought Butterscotch. She had completely forgotten about the tour of the flight-academy today, and of all the things she had done for herself, nothing mattered more, to her parents anyways, than being on time to this meeting.
Her father was punctual, her mother was punctual, even her family and old Grannie Scotch was punctual, but she is the plague of punctuality for all that any nurse-pony cared. Being late was the last thing she wanted to incur upon her already strained relationship with her father. She hastily grabbed satchel, and friend in hoof, she descended the stairs straight into her father.
“Oomph!” Mr. Scotch exclaimed. “You think by now I've broken my back because of these shenanigans, Butterscotch. And for what explanation do you have this time?”
“Soreee pa, wasn't looking. I’ll make sure it won’t happen again…” sighed Butterscotch, “unlike the other fifty-bazillion other times” she muttered under her breath.
“What was that Butters? I didn't quite catch you.” Accused Mr. Scotch
“I said nothing dad, as I've ‘hurt’ my back too.”
“Well fantastic Butterscotch, you've done it again, it’s not like he enjoys the regular hug or hello,” She thought.
“Never mind that, we have to get going now or we will be late! And you know what happens to fillies that are late right?” pondered her father.
“A pony late to rise is a pony early to die, I know that crappy nursery rhyme, dad.” Sneered Butterscotch.
“That’s your own rendition Butterscotch, it actually goes, A pony late…” rambled her father.
Blatantly ignoring her punitive parent, she peeked at the clock, and to her dismay, it was already half past noon. As flight school held no reservation for delinquent ponies, they needed to hurry. It was her easiest shot at making her father the slightest bit proud, and curbing her habitual pranking as a bonus.
“Tally ho, we must take flight now Butterscotch… stop staring at the fourth wall like Ditzy and move!” her father said exasperated.
“Coming!” yelled Butterscotch, snapping back into focus as she and company rushed off towards the horizon.
***
To her, pranking was nothing short of a drug, euphoric pleasure in just hampering the daily lives of ponies around her. She felt guilty about it, but why would it hurt anyone? It’s all in good fun, and the other ponies know it right?
“Maybe Angelcake was really mad at us,” she wondered, “nah, he probably knew we were just having good fun at all. Besides, we didn’t hurt him or anything, right?”
She jostled the contemplative thoughts on how she should lead her life to the back of her head as she focused on the rush of air through her wings. Ice crystals wisped skyward as the three floated past, melting as they wandered sun bound. Melting into nothing more than harmless rain, they fell towards the sodden earth, landing on the pink lilac that gently caressed the droplet as it rolled toward the ground.
“Simple, so simple the job of a weather pony. All they have to do is move the clouds and clear the skies, and anypony could do that in their sleep, you have to be derpy not to be able to do so.” Reassuring herself.
“Maybe I should be a weather pony… nah not enough action, but I can prank things with lighting and rain, action? Pranks. Action…” waging a war internally as she and company flew past the pastry shop.
***
He was pissed, but not because he had lost feeling in his tongue, or even the mess that he had to clean up for half an hour. They touched his elegant cake, and nopony, not even his clients can touch art in progress.
Peering out the window of his shop, he caught a glimpse of a light-brown colored pony with two others gliding down the street. “Well, 'tis a nice day to go for a walk.” He contemplated.
“For show!” he exclaimed, “the ponies that thrashed my cake today!” taking arms with a rolling pin in hand, he knocked down the door with the force of an anvil hitting the ground, and with a chef’s dexterity, hurled the pin right at the light-brown pony.
The pin whipped through the air with malicious intent, turning head over handle, plowing through the tinges of ice and frost in the air as it reached deadly velocity.
A satisfying *thunk* rung out, and with something that resembled a fist pump and unintelligible remark later, the chef pranced indoors to celebrate his small victory against the forces of destruction.
***
Black, the ground was black, the sky was black, everything turned to black as she felt the pain leave her cranium. On her stomach, she opened her eyes eagerly greeted by exploding nebulae, what might as well be a zap-apple extract trip. Gazing to her left, she saw what caused her dilemma. The rolling pin, of the utmost quality straight from the heartwood of the walnut tree, can hurt when used as a weapon. Of course, of all the people to find this out, she just had to be the one as she rolled over onto her back, her wings poking out beneath the clouds in happy relief.
“You okay Butters?” asked Fleetfoot as she glided over to her friend, “I saw you randomly fall into the cloud, what happened? Did it hurt? Can you see my hoof? How about colors, is this cloud white to you?” rambled Fleetfoot at a word per millisecond.
“Gee, she never shuts up does she… well I guess I should get up to let her know that she doesn’t have to faint on me again.” Butterscotch considered as she rose to her hooves.
“Oh YAY!! You’re okay! How’s your head, there’s a bump on it, kinda looks like a strawberry, I like strawberries, they’re sweet and delicious and might be my favorite fruit! Oh wait, do you like strawber…” Fleetfoot excitedly listing off her own rendition of how fruit takes a larger priority than her dazed friend does.
“Good grief, I better shut her up quickly, before she goes into pomology,” thought Butterscotch. “Naw, it doesn’t hurt at all,” she sarcastically remarked.
“Huzza! That means we can still be on time for the school…” stated Fleetfoot.
“I was being sarcastic Fleetfoot, of course it hurts, like someone dropped a tree on me.” Interjected Butterscotch.
She gazed over to the clock tower, “time, what’s the time?” she wondered as she squinted her eyes in focus. 11:00, no… 1:00 the clock read, the arms ticking happily along as if nothing had occurred within the past couple of minutes.
“Could you two fillies hurry up? We have to be at the school in less than fifteen minutes, and lying around doesn’t help with that, doesn’t it?” Mr. Scotch glared.
“Whee.” Replied the fillies as they picked up their hooves and flew towards the school offset in the horizon.
“So… it did hurt?” Fleetfoot asked as innocently as possible.
Butterscotch said nothing, she only glared with her best “not impressed” face. This seemed to do the trick as Fleetfoot went full circle and clamped her mouth shut.
***
I'd like to give thanks to Ed2481 as he is the crazy pony, in spirit the Crazy Wasteland Son of a Bitch, Ethan, who decided to steer me into this grand scheme and convince me to actually write something fun for a change. Go out and level a few citadels on the way you crazy man.
“Are we there yet?” whined the two fillies.
“No.” replied Mr. Scotch
“How about now?” inquired Butterscotch.
“No.”
“Now?” asked Fleetfoot.
“No.”
“Are we close?” asked Butterscotch.
“Closer than a couple seconds ago, and if you ask again, there will be hooves flung and crying fillies! Am I clear?” expressed Mr. Scotch, glaring intensely at the innocent troublemakers.
“Crystal!” the two fillies chimed in.
Silence grasped the group once more as they flew towards their destination. Neither Butterscotch nor Fleetfoot really needed to be taught how to fly. Fleetfoot had been taught by her father, while Butterscotch had learned to fly through a series of unfortunate events. Falling off a bell tower can do that to a young pony, as she quickly learned.
***
The bell was a magnificent brass construct, ordered straight from the metal smiths of Canterlot. Foundries had labored hours on end to amass the nine tons of brass needed to mold the bell, one ton reserved for the chain. The metal smiths had been forced to work around the inherent flaws of casting such a large bell all at once, prompting repeats until it was crafted properly. Even after the beast of a bell was cast, the effort needed to haul and secure it to the roof was an escapade in and of itself.
A score of Celestia’s Pegasus Guard had carried the bell and the chain in hoof to Cloudsdale, frequently taking breaks and swapping duties. The local pegasi that had been charged with erecting the tower had to remove the roof temporarily in order to affix the chain properly. As the guards took turns holding the bell in place, the pegasi hurriedly reattached the roof to the tower. In the end, it was worth the effort for both parties as the Princes decided to throw a feast in their honor.
The tower dominated the skyline of the Cloudsdale countryside, ringing every morning to hurry the sleeping citizens to their respective jobs. Conveniently, the town kept time through a simple system of tones by adjusting the bell’s tone with two clappers, one to indicate morning or evening, another dampened to indicate the hourly interval. Today, however the tower had been replaced by a modern rendition, a mechanical clock with hands to precisely indicate the time. The legal and community restraint to do so was an entirely different behemoth in itself, but a trivial matter for Butterscotch.
Butterscotch had attempted to rig the bell to drop hay and rain on top of the poor worker whose job was to ring the bell every morning. A detail not taken into account was the immense height of the tower as she clambered up the structure in the allure of dawn.
Stopping on the platform below the bell, Butterscotch dropped a small clump of hay beneath her hooves. Exhausted from her long climb, she wiped the sweat from her brow and examined the structure of the clappers.
“Hmm, I should put the hay in between the clappers, and then when the bell pony rings the bell, it’ll fall on his head..,” she thought. In her naiveté was she failed to notice the large gap between her and the clappers as she reached out above the black void below. As she somehow managed to latch onto the clapper with the tip of her hoof she felt her standing leg leaving the platform. In a snap decision, she jumped.
Nothing really scared her through her childhood, not the angry parents that yelled at her to get off their lawn, or her father when she was raiding the cookie cabinet, but this was different. Real danger was upon her, not some trivial matter involving other ponies, but her life, her life itself was under the knife this time.
“This isn’t so bad, I’m here holding onto a very secure clapper. Not only that, but the hay is in place and I can have a good laugh after this is over.” she asserted. Her eyes grew to the size of dinner plates as she looked down, vision obscuring to a spin of color as she realized her predicament.
“Oh, this was stupid idea, why did I jump? I’m such an idiot. Buttterscotch, you mulligan, why in the fluttering right of mind would you actually consider this kind of a foalish prank?! Stupid, stupid, stupid…” She said while face-hoofing herself repeatedly.
“Celestia, are you there? It’s me, Butterscotch. I promise, on my very heart and pony soul that I will not prank any more ponies if you just help me out of this screwball of a situation. Is that okay with you?” she begged.
“This is really high, really REALLY high! Help, somepony help me! Oh who am I kidding, no pony will help me, all I have done is *sniff* been a pain in their flanks. Wahhhhhhh uaahhh, mommyyyyy…” she sobbed.
“You know what? I bet when if I die, there will be plenty of flat ground, no pits of doom, and nothing else for me to harm. Come at me death, I’m ready to give you a great big hug!” She said with a grin as she accepted her fate.
To any bystander, she was slowly descending the five stages of grief solely described in the psychology scripts contained in the Canterlot library, extensively catalogued by the pony, Rapture. Her grip loosened as she felt the hay leave her mouth. It came to a wet plop as it rested upon the frigid cloud below, accelerating her fear of impending doom. Mind made up, she decided on her craziest idea yet.
She let go.
There was no screaming, there was no fear, all emotion escaped her as she plummeted towards the floor. A slice of air caught her right wing, opening it like a parachute as the other followed suit. She opened her eyes, not to the floor, but the wall, she was moving forward! Primal initiative grasped her conscience as she franticly flapped her wings, expending the very little lift they had to offer. She steadily slowed down, and by the time that death was to welcome another visitor, a small hole was punched into the tower wall; it all there was left as reminder of the small filly’s revelation in the tower.
Rather than show her new founded skill to her father immediately, she dedicated her afternoons to honing her flight skills by jumping off her cottage rooftop. When her father had found out, screaming like a maniac as he rushed to catch the falling filly, he was surprised by her dedication to the craft as she explained how for the past week, she had been hurling herself off the rooftop. Although he had to prompt a harsh lesson on the effects of gravity, Butterscotch now had another weapon at her disposal in pranking other ponies.
***
With a glazed expression, Butterscotch peered at the clouds around her as they quickly left the suburbs. Cottages faded into the horizon as puffy clouds came to replace them, the last of which obscured the clock tower. She lazily peered forwards to be met by a huge assortment of clouds.
Large and small, wide and thin, slopped and flat, so many different formations dominated her view. Little colts and fillies squealed with delight as they slid down a slide into a small pit. Others were revving their wings in preparation for drag races across the lengthy runway that bisected the construct. Some flew through wispy cloud rings, others were lying in the glory of the sun overhead.
Counselors directed the show, herding the ponies to different stations to keep the fun flowing. Some colts had to be peeled off the slides and fillies wrenched from the ice clouds. A system of organization applied chaos, to consider such an idea in such a scenario is almost suicide. The difficulty of getting each of the ponies into their cabins for the night was almost unthinkable. Lights out wasn’t even a question when it came to the uproar of chatter that could result from the dreaded bunk beds.
The show was abrupt although, as Mr. Scotch disregarded the existence of the camp. He snorted indifferently as he flew further and further from the main cloud mass of Cloudsdale and camp.
“Isn’t this where we were going, camp?” Fleetfoot inquired.
“Why yes it is Fleetfoot, but I mentioned academy, not flight camp” Mr. Scotch responded.
“So that means we aren’t there yet?” asked Butterscotch.
Mr. Scotch snapped a look at Butterscotch, head cocked and eyes ablaze he flew towards the empty sky. His wings twitched involuntarily and the pair realized that his patience was already stretched to breaking point. A couple of minutes passed until Butterscotch silenced the silence once more.
“Hey, I see something there!” yelled Butterscotch.
“Something where?” Fleetfoot yelling back.
“Over there!”
“Here?”
“No there, that way!”
“Oh, here! No, that isn’t it.”
Mr. Scotch sighed as he glided near Fleetfoot. “Over there silly filly.” He told her as he directed the giddy pony’s head at the intended scene with his hooves.
It was a miniature city. It was constructed mostly out of cloudsstone, a shining reflective meta-metal straight out of the labs of Canterlot that was valued for its ductility and lightness. It was simpler to construct the city like a puzzle than a mishmash of clouds in a relatively short time. Illustrious towers dominated the five corners of the platform, ascending towards the sun. Yet they barely touched the cirrus clouds that wisped overhead. Small apartments littered the outskirts of the city, the fronts lawns of which dominated by a vast, blank slate. The center carried the greatest trove of all, a massive citadel with four branches extending outwards, a different colored flag sported above to distinguish the wings. A long alabaster bridge linked the floating island to the mainland of Canterlot, arching over the peaks of nearby mountains.
The trio approached the intimidating complex, the sunlight’s glow intensified as they flew closer. Applying the knowledge gained earlier at the bakery, the two applied their new grasp of the pony text.
“Ho-“
“-ly”
“Buck.” exclaimed the two fillies simultaneously, eyes bulging and jaws agape.
“Girls! Language and attitude, what have I told you about language and attitude out in public. Why, when I get my hooves on you, I’m gonna… I’m gonna… I don’t even know what I will do, Gah!” voice shaking as he shook his mane furiously.
“But the baker said…” Fleetfoot catching herself.
“What was that? I heard baker, was that the source of the uproar this morning?” accused Mr. Scotch.
“Of course not, it’s not like he ate anything spicy at all.” Butterscotch said precariously filling in the story.
“Yeah, we were just home like silly fillies, just like you said.” Fleetfoot said as she dressed the story for the finishing touches.
“Besides, you knew we were home, you even locked the windows so we couldn’t sneak out!” blurted out Butterscotch.
An intrinsic stare caught the two fillies as Mr. Scotch diligently formed a hypothesis to their strange behavior. By the time they landed, his mind was a hailstorm of overcast theories and outlandish renditions of the tale they had told. He opened his mouth to speak when he had a revelation, a key fact that they had mistaken. He had not locked the windows, nor had he the entirety of that summer.
“So, if I were to say, that you two snuck out using the windows would be a lie, correct?” asked Mr. Scotch.
“Yes!” the two fillies happily bobbing their heads.
“Not because I left you two the baking set from my yesteryear upstairs with my trademarked blend of burns spice cabinet, that couldn’t play a part in Angelcake’s very specific genre of swears?” he elaborated.
“Of course, we just were playing with the dollhouse, fun you see?” Fleetfoot gladly attested with a life-size Fleetfoot doll.
“Uh huh, and because I haven’t locked your windows for the entire summer doesn’t sound a bit, daft, to you, does it?” established Mr. Scotch, hammering the final nail in the coffin for the two pranksters.
The two fillies locked eyes with each other, snapped a quick look at Mr. Scotch, and then quickly initiated a huddle dominated by guttural muttering and excessive hoof gestures. A rogue wing caught Mr. Scotch as the two paced by, knocking him flat onto the floor. He felt a bruise developing on his snout as he picked up his legs and stormed over to the debating duo.
Halting the intense argument, he put his hoof down and looked them in their eyes. “Was that entirely necessary? I had assumed this kind of thing might have happened after long enough. So, this is why we are here.”
“To torture us?!” exclaimed Fleetfoot.
“No, no, not at all Fleetfoot, why would you assume that?”
“Well you seemed pretty mad at us this morning, considering the circumstances. Why would you treat us to something fun after what we was done?” Butterscotch questioned.
Mr. Scotch’s lips twisted into a whimsical smile as he put his hoof to chin. He scratched the edges of his lips briefly as he gazed upon the academy. His eyes, deep pools of gold, were devoid of expression as he contemplated the way the sun refracted off the rooftops of the complex, miniature rainbows cascading across the walls. The color melted off the walls and pooled on the ground, collecting in the small divots that littered the street. Briefly, he himself considered a stay at this artistic pinnacle, the brainchild of Vanner van Gogh with much consultation from Celestia herself.
“Perhaps I should get a job…” he mused to himself before he addressed the two perplexed fillies. “Depending on how you take it you two, this could be a new adventure or house of damnation, for all I care. I now have enough free time without you two around to pursue a career in something useless!” Mr. Scotch expressed as he jumped and clicked his hooves together.
“But before that entire grand escape, I must escort you two to the registration office to arrange the dorm situation.” He sighed as his head drooped to the floor.
“Wait, we aren’t staying home and making a commute here every morning?” asked Butterscotch, shocked to her core.
“I thought I implied that before, but I’ll address it directly. You are staying here, as in this wondrous monument of chiseled stone, for the next year or so until Celestia decides whether or not this ‘experiment’ is worth continuing or not.” Mr. Scotch explained.
Wasting no time in lollygagging, he took the two stunned ponies under his wings and he herded them towards the administrative building in the center of the platform.
***
A rush of chilled air escaped the building as the double doors opened. The room dimmed to a modest hue as the glass panels, tinted a slight gold, diffused the sunshine evenly. Warmth from the outside escaped them as they cantered towards a blue, velvet flag hung from the ceiling. The words “Registration” were printed out in large silvery lettering as differences in light exposure curled the edges of the lettering and furled the interior like linoleum.
They arrived to a purple unicorn sitting behind a desk, reading a book, paying no attention to the new arrivals. Mr. Scotch cleared his throats as he whipped out the appropriate paperwork, laying it on the desk. The mare snuck a peak above the fresh print to see two curious fillies and one apparently gleeful father.
“May I help you today?” she asked.
“Yes, actually, these two delightful young children are here to collect their accommodations for the dormitories… and you are?” inquired Mr. Scotch.
“Rosaline. Now, what do we have here… west dorm requested, occasionally feed…” as Rosaline muttered the words on the paper as they flew past her face.
The fillies stared at the unicorn bewildered. How was she standing on a cloud? Better yet, why is she employed at the Flight Academy, for pegasi? Doing a double take of the unicorn and each other, Fleetfoot spoke up.
“Ms. Rosaline? How are you standing on the cloud? How come you are working at the Flight Academy when you are a unicorn? Why is your name Rosaline? Do you like the color purple…” Fleetfoot rambled incessantly. Her friend face hoofed promptly as she shut Fleetfoot’s mouth before she leveled the building with her daily dose of twenty questions.
The mare turned towards the two fillies, taking a quick look over the “specimens” now a part of the system of the Academy.
“Light brown, unusual cutie mark, unkempt mane, you must be Butterscotch, correct?” she asked.
“Yup, that’s me. Do you have any answers for what my friend Fleetfoot here asked? She won’t be quiet until she knows, so I hope you do” Butterscotch demanded.
“Well Mrs. Sourpuss, I do have the answers you need, but they aren’t the ones you are looking for. This entire situation will be explained at the meeting later tonight, but until then, here are your room keys.” She explained as she handed two small key chains to the fillies.
A small pony trinket was attached to the end of the lanyard, along with a small card and various keys. The bright lime green lanyard burned Butterscotch’s eyes of as she reached out to seize the new treasure. Fleetfoot spun in glee as the tested the durability of the chain that looped around the assorted trinkets while Butterscotch read the map on the wall.
“I’ll take it that you’ll guide these two to their rooms? Here’s a map to help you out.” She said as he handed a pamphlet to Mr. Scotch.
“Thank you Rosaline. Now, Fleet and Butters, to the dormitory!” Mr. Scotch yelled as he shot his hoof into the air, brandishing the pamphlet like a sword as the trio charged out of the office.
Rosaline sighed as her office was vacant again, not to be visited for the rest of the school year unless some late arrivers come tumbling in. “Let’s just hope to Celestia that they don’t level the place.” She muttered as she resumed reading her book.
***
As you might have noticed, or indicated in the comments, I need an editor. If anyone is willing to do so or knows someone who can, please contact me with a PM or just in the comments. Anyways, thanks again to Ed2481 for prereading and making minor edits!
