To Be Young and Stupid

Chapters

Prologue
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9

Prologue

Canterlot Train Station

10 years ago

A blistering winter wind whistles through Canterlot city’s foggy streets, the frost biting at anypony unfortunate enough not to be wearing a scarf, or at least a cosy saddle. By the railroad tracks of Canterlot Train Station, a cluster of ponies, most complete strangers with one another, huddle for warmth.

Two members of this pony-cluster happen to be husband and wife. A union that both hardy earth ponies, Ponyville farmers by trade, take as a blessing until their dying day.

Another couple, further along the station, are exchanging hushed words over their child. The father is unicorn, complete with a posh Canterlot air about him. The mother, like the slumbering foal in the baby pram, is a pegasus. And further again, a third couple, a jolly earth stallion and a cheerful unicorn mare, this time with a young unicorn filly next to them, her glowing yet tired smile breaking through the young filly’s shivers. The mother of said filly has an undeniable bulge in her stomach. Another bun in the oven, as they say.

A sense of relief can be felt from the ponies waiting out in the cold; their train had finally come into view. It pulls into the station without a hitch. The earth stallion working the engine pokes his head out to the freezing travellers outside, apologising for his lateness.

“The weather’s a nightmare,” he says, removing his engineer’s cap to mop his brow despite the surrounding frost. “Shame about that incident with the weather factory in Cloudsdale, but I’m sure it'll be over within the week!”

Without further ado, the train doors open, allowing everypony on the station to scramble aboard. The many ponies all take different places on the trains. The earth pony couple take a few seats near the front, out of everypony else’s way, courteous as they are. The couple with the foal sit somewhere in the middle of the train, as soon as they find a place with enough room to store a baby pram. Finally, the couple with the unicorn filly push their way aboard. They were too generous in getting on the coach, letting other ponies on first, becoming one of the last few to fit on. They end up having to shift to the furthest carriage, but as luck would have it, they find a table for the pregnant mother and her eldest daughter to sit by.

The engineer of the train finally re-doffs his cap and signals the all-clear to close the train doors and leave the station. Without a moment to spare, the train sets off.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the train, the family in the furthest carriage have just settled down by their table.

“That was a wondrous trip to Canterlot, Father!” the white unicorn filly - with an uncharacteristically refined tongue for a youth - beams. “So much glamour, so much life, both in the ponies living there and what they wear! Their dresses, their hats and tuxedos! Their clever use of gems and… and…” she trails off to release an adorable little yawn. It’s been a big day for her.

“Well, I sure hope it’s inspired you, kiddo,” the father smiles, patting his daughter’s back, “It’s why we went there for your cute-ceañera after all.”

He’d have kept talking about the cute-ceañera, but his thoughts are cut short by the gentle kick of the foal in his wife’s womb.

The mother gasps. “Oh my stars, Rarity, quick, put your hoof right here...! Feel that? That’s your little sister kicking…”

A little further up the travelling train, another family huddles over their baby’s pram. The unicorn and the pegasus. Their conversation isn’t as buoyant as it is bittersweet.

“It’s okay, honey,” the rich unicorn father gently places a hoof on his pegasus wife’s shoulder, “Ponyville’s one of the best places a pegasus could grow up in. Not so much as Cloudsdale, sure, but she’s going to have a wonderful life, you’ll see.”

“I know, I know,” the mother sighs, “She’s going to live a great life and have tons of friends of every pony race. I’m just worried about the moving itself. The fact that I had to leave Cloudsdale altogether, or else you‘d never be able to see her grow up.”

“That’s why we’re not living in Canterlot either,” the husband explains. “We can all start fresh, a new life together. And don’t worry about the house; the payment is entirely sorted out and we’ll be shifting the rest of our belongings over in the next few weeks. It’s just gonna be you, me and little Scoots, all in this together.”

The two lovers nuzzle each other in support. The foal in the pram turns over in her sleep, flittering her tiny wings like a hummingbird.

The two earth pony farmers at the front of the carriage catch a view of this tender exchange before turning to each other.

“Are you alright, sugarcube?” the mare nudges her husband gently. “You’ve been quiet ever since we left your brother’s place.”

“I have, haven’t I?” her husband drawls in a homely southern accent. “It’s jus’ that I’m thinkin’ ‘bout our kids back in Ponyville. I know we couldn’t miss goin’ to see my brother’s first foal bein’ born, but we couldn’t afford to take our own kids with us. I wager Mac or Jack would’ve loved to see their little cousin for the first time.”

“But what about little Apple Bloom?” the wife casts a quizzical look.

“Yeah, but she’d be too little to remember summat like this. But seein’ little Babs lying there in her father’s arms got me thinkin’,” a moment of reminiscent pause from the earth pony father. “I miss holdin’ my own kids. First thing I’m gonna do when we get back is give my son an’ my daughters a hug.”

“And if they’re asleep when we come home?”

“We give ‘em the nicest breakfast known to pony-kind come mornin'. Eggs and toast with melted butter, peppered with daisies and dandelions, a side of apple sauce to dip if they want, the whole thing.”

“Oh stop it, you’re makin’ me hungry,” the wife teases with a giggle.

“Just wait until we get back, dear, and you’ll see how hungry I am myself.”

Meanwhile, at the front of the train (more specifically, the steam engine itself), the earth pony driver shovels one last scoop of coal onto the roaring fire. That should do until the train reaches Ponyville; it’s an entirely downhill affair from Canterlot’s mountain, so all he needs to do is keep the embers alive for now and let the downhill slope take care of the rest.

It goes so well at first. The gentle chug of the train sailing along the side of the mountain in a smooth, steady decent lulls everypony into a sense of contentment. Despite the frost and feral winds that whirl around outside, it’s calm and cosy in every compartment.

The train-driver breathes a sigh of contentment, looking up at the propped-up frame of his loving wife and newborn baby colt in a humble black-and-white photograph sitting above the engine’s stove.

A photo frame that promptly topples over from the sudden shocking jolt of the train.

His innards lurch as the train seems to throw itself back and forth without warning. Stumbling towards the engine, he grasps the fallen photograph in a foreleg.

Another sudden jerk from the train. The passengers can be heard panicking from the ruckus. The freezing wind battering the train is threatening to throw the whole thing off-track. Even worse, the train is hurtling along the track much faster than the driver expected it to be.

He reaches a shaking hoof towards the lever for the brakes and pulls it as hard as he can, expecting the train to screech to a standstill. No such luck.

Then it occurs to him. The frost outside. It’s iced up the entire railway line. The train itself is slipping out of control, careening down Canterlot’s mountainside at a dismal speed. The fear and fright of the passengers aboard didn’t help.

And then it happens; the final sickening throw of the train as it tries to turn a corner by Canterlot mountain’s misty cliff side.

The train’s going too fast to remain on the tracks.

The tracks are too icy and slippery to keep the train steady.

It all falls into chaos. The child, pregnant mother and father in the furthest carriage take refuge under their table. The rich unicorn father throws himself over his pegasus child’s pram in order to protect it from harm. The earth pony farmers, husband and wife, hold onto each other as tightly as possible. One could almost hear them whispering “I love you” to each other.

The train driver takes one last look at the family photograph; his lover and his newborn child, before holding it to his chest as a tear rolls down his grizzled cheek.

With a wretched groan, the train breaks from the rails and tumbles down the steep incline in a mess of commotion and pandemonium.

Part 1

Ponyville School Playground

10 years later; present day

You’re running. Galloping as fast as your little hooves can carry you. Three assailants are seconds behind you. Three crazy, blank-flanked and possibly cootie-ridden assailants.

“We nearly have him, girls!” the leader of the group yells, keeping up her brisk pace, “We’re gonna figure this out once and for all!”

“Cutie Mark Crusaders Interrogators! Hooray!”

See, now that’s a good enough reason to keep running. With your youthful vigour, you leap over the playground’s sandpit in a single bound from your earth pony legs. Rumble, a little tyke from the lower years, doesn’t seem to mind you jumping clean over him and his sandcastle.

He does mind, however, the three fillies that tumble past him in your pursuit, knocking over both himself and his sandy creation. This does nothing to slow them down.

You get an idea. Just as you can sense them closing in, you change direction, heading straight for the play swings. A few of your classmates are merrily swinging to and fro, shouting profanities (“Silly head!” “Dumb-dumb!”) as you weave quickly and recklessly between them. Your pursuers aren’t so nimble, as evidenced when one of them ends up in a swinger’s path. The teeny white unicorn of the group is hit with a squeaky “Oof!” and gets knocked right out of the chase. One down, two to go.

From there, you make for the climbing frame; luckily there weren't as many kids around that one. You slip through the gaps of the metal thing flawlessly, without slowing down in the slightest. The earth pony leader of the group does the same, but the second-in-command, a short-maned pegasus you remember mistaking for a colt when you first met, gets a hoof caught in the metal frame and falls flat on her face. Two down, one to go.

Now for the great escape up the ladders of the twisty-tube slide! You bound up the playground ladder’s steps with the intention of getting the leader to follow you. Once there, you leap down the slide and, hopefully, by the time she’s made it down, you’ll be long gone!

Wait, where did she go? She should have been following you and- Oh for pony's sake, she’s waiting at the bottom of the slide!

You can’t escape! You can’t just jump off the slide, because it’s a twisty-tube one! You have no other chance but to go head-on into her and hope she doesn’t get the chance to cling onto you.

This plan, of course, fails miserably. No sooner do you try to leap past her at the bottom of the slide, than she anticipates your actions and jumps at you with perfect timing. A half-second of struggling later, you’re on the dusty playground floor, being pinned down by the earth pony herself.

“I got him, girls! I got him!”

Your captor’s name is Apple Bloom. She’s in the same school year as you, but one of the few left still waiting for her life’s calling to slap her on the rump. She’s got two gleaming orangey-peach eyes that look you up and down in triumph as you fail to tussle yourself free from under her. Two of her creamy-yellow hooves have your shoulders pinned to the ground, while her back legs are nestled firmly (and uncomfortably) on your tummy, keeping you securely under her arrest. The most attention grabbing feature of her, though, was the bright pink bow that sits atop her reddish mane. It’s almost like she’s trying to declare to the world; ‘Hey look, I’m wearing a bright pink bow! I’m such a darling li’l filly!’

She isn’t, though. She really isn’t. She’s rough and rude, and silly, and she’s a smelly girl, obviously covered from head to hoof in cooties. A sticky, horrible creature, with all the gross things little girls like her do. Like tea parties and pretending to be princesses, no doubt.

And she’s sitting on your tummy! The nerve!

“Way to go, Apple Bloom!” you hear her friend’s voice (the tomboyish pegasus called Scootaloo) call out as she rejoins her fellow Crusader.

“Scoots, you grab his hind legs.” the bow-wearing Bloom orders, “Sweetie Belle - ah, there you are - you keep his forelegs down. I’ll do the interrogatin’.”

Sweetie Belle (that would be the daintiest member of their brigade) shakes away her dizziness from her little accident at the swings and holds you down to ensure you don’t escape their questioning. Then, and only then, does Apple Bloom have the decency down get of your now slightly sore tummy.

“There, now we can get down to business,” she gloats, “Are ya sittin’ comfortably?”

“No!”

“Then I’ll begin. You know what we’re after, don’cha?”

You shrug as much as Sweetie Belle’s grip would allow you to, “Not really. You just pointed at me and yelled ‘There he is, get him’!”

The leader rearranges the bow on her head, as if trying to look as professional as a… little filly you guess, “Ah, but do you know why we did that? And why we hadda chase you down?”

“If I did, I’d probably have avoided it.”

“Oh, ya couldn’t avoid it, silly,” she explains, “After all, we’re talkin’ about that!”

She jabs a hoof towards your butt. Or at least, the latest addition to it; an image of two different-sized gears working perfectly in sync with one another.

“…my Cutie Mark? You want my Cutie Mark? Come on, you know I can’t just give you my Cutie Mark. That‘s impossible!”

“Not your Cutie Mark, dummy,” she corrects you, “We want A Cutie Mark. Any at all! And you’re the most recent pony here to get one!”

“So?” you ask.

“That means you’re the only pony here that remembers best on how to get one! You only just gained it, after all!”

“Is that what all of this was about?” you try to sit up in disbelief, but the white unicorn holds you back down again, “You didn’t need to chase me down just to ask a couple of questions about Cutie Marks.”

“Then why did ya run off when we tried to reach you then?” Apple Bloom retorts.

“Because you didn’t try to reach me,” you groan, “You just pointed at me, screamed, then suddenly I’m being chased down by three fillies!”

“Oh yeah. We’re talkin’ in circles here, ain’t we?”

To your relief, the distant ringing of the school bell carries over the playground. Most of the kids stop what they’re doing and calmly make their way back to class at the beck and call of the gentle teacher Miss Cheerilee.

“Aw, shucks!” Apple Bloom hoofs the ground in frustration, “We didn’t even get to the interrogatin’ part yet!”

“Um… sorry to hear that?”

You totally aren’t sorry. It’s best to find a way out of this foal-napped-by-fillies issue; you’re a smart pony after all. Smart for a kid, at least. “Look, if you really want to know more about Cutie Marks, we’ll meet up at lunchtime, okay? We‘ll have the whole lunch break to talk about it.”

“Ain’t we in the same class?”

Darn. You mean, “Yeah, but not the same row. We don’t wanna get in trouble with Miss Cheerilee for talking or passing notes in class, do we?”

“Hmm…” Apple Bloom scratches her chin with a hoof. She nods towards her two friends/crusaders/cooties-ridden minions as a sign to let you go. “Lunchtime it is. Just don’t make any attempts to run away this time, okay?”

“Sure thing,” you sigh, “wouldn’t dream of it.”

Part 2

You’ve been dreaming about escaping the school since you first settled down in class. Anything to get away from those creepy Crusaders at the front of the classroom.

“Alright now, class,” Miss Cheerilee chimes, “Today is a very special day for a certain colt. That’s right, another student earned their Cutie Mark just last night! Let’s give a nice round of applause to-”

Oh no. You forgot about her doing this for every kid so far. When she calls your name, you quietly stand up from you seat, letting the other kids take in your glorious gear-stamped ass with a semi-enthusiastic hoof-stomping ovation. Of course, you don’t say that in front of the teacher, as you don’t want to stay behind during lunch break. Sure, you don’t wanna bother with the blank-flank trio at the front of the class either, but hey; you gotta eat sometime.

After everypony had settled, Cheerilee brings up today’s task; a small one-page paper on something you’ve lost and something you’ve found.

“If you like,” she beams her usual beam, “you can write about something you lost, and found! Or they can be two different things! Like losing a sandwich, only to get a free ice cream!”

Oh, teacher, stop talking about food this close to lunch. Maybe all that running you were doing during morning break had given you an appetite.

“And don’t forget, if you’re stuck, see if you can get some help from your friends! This is an informal paper, after all!”

As the writing time begins, you can see the Cutie Mark Crusaders at the front of the class, taking on the teacher’s challenge as a three-filly team. It’s quite interesting how three girls, despite being so different, can work out most problems when they all work together.

Meanwhile, in your own three-pony group…

“Hey, Snips and I need a ‘Puppy-Dog’s-Tails’ member of our group, but your gears are kinda like puppy dog’s tails on account of them being more than one of them or something. I guess we’re a team now, eh!”

Oh sweet Celestia no. Not these idiots.

To be fair, they were the nearest two by your desk, so it was bound to happen. Maybe some of your smarts would rub off on them?

“Hey, Snails, I’ve got an idea on how to pass this paper!” the stout snickering pony, Snips, chatters to his tall, dopey friend. You decide to butt in.

“I have an idea too,” you raise a hoof to them, “Maybe we should just keep quiet and write the paper without going into some dumb harebrained scheme?”

The two colts fix you with an apprehensive glare, as if you just asked them an unanswerable question about moral philosophy combined with quantum engineering and a pinch of rocket science. After the rusty mechanics of their brains finally start to function, they decide to simply glaze over your question with aloof ignorance.

“So, Snips, what this cool idea you have?” asks the orange one. You bury your face in your hooves.

“Well, you see Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon over there? What if we just copy their papers! We can pretend to get up and sharpen our pencils, but as we’re passing their desks, we can see what they’re writing about and copy them!”

“That’s awesome! But what about Puppy D? He’s not got anypony to copy…”

Puppy D? What the heck?

“First off, don’t call me that,” you declare, “Second off, I’m capable of writing my own work just fine. I know what I’m gonna write about in regards to something I’ve lost. And with that, I know what I’m gonna write about in regards to something I’ve found.”

“Wait! Don’t forget!” Snips pipes up, “They can be the same thing, so you don’t have to do as much work!”

Ugh. You just don’t get these guys. Whatever. It’s not your business. Let them copy any pony they want. As for yourself, you have an idea; you’re going to complete this paper and tell the girls at the front of the class about the origin of your Cutie Mark at the same time. That way your lunch will be undisturbed and they get the explanation they want. It’s win-win!

*******

“Alright class, pencils down,” Miss Cheerilee chirps after an undetermined amount of scribbling, “Now who would like to read theirs out first?”

Precisely zero hooves rise in response.

“Fair enough, I suppose we can start from the front of the class and work our way back. Featherweight, would you like to begin..?”

The brightly-coloured clock mounted to the wall ticks away second by second. Featherweight’s paper about him losing and finding his toy airship collection moves on to how Scootaloo lost a bearing on her scooter and found the repair kit she needed in her attic. One by one, the other kids stand up and read their papers, until they reach the end of the classroom.

Snails stands up to deliver his stolen speech, seemingly unaware that his victim, Diamond Tiara, had already made her speech not ten minutes ago. The worst part? He forgot to change the ‘him’s to ‘her’s, all the ‘he’s to ‘she’s and all the ‘Diamond Tiara’s to ‘Snails’.

“…and that’s when I, Diamond Dazzle Tiara Rich, finally found my missing ballet tutu.” he finishes with an oblivious smile followed by the horrible realisation. “Oh geez, wait a minute-!”

“Just… sit down, Snails.” the teacher interjects with one hoof raised, the other covering her face in embarrassment, “We’ll talk about this after class.”

The red-faced colt takes his seat again, making you the next student to make a speech. With your paper in hoof, you stand up and clear your throat.

“Something I lost and something I found,” you read the title from your scribbles notes syllable by syllable, much like the other students before you, “A long time ago, when I was really young, my Dad used to own a model train set. He liked how much it had in common with real trains, especially since you could power them with a tiny matchstick-fire and a tiny bit of water in the engine compartment. A steam-powered model train set, just like the real trains he used to work aboard.”

You glaze over the next part of the story. A paragraph containing the details of your father’s passing is scrubbed out. You decided not to dampen the class with something you’ve been at peace with for most of your life. Instead, you continue talking about the model train set itself.

“Years ago, we packed away the train set, along with almost everything else that belonged to Dad, in the attic. As far as I knew, it was lost to me. It was only yesterday after school, as I was looking for something to do with my time, did Mom decide to take it out again for me to play with..”

“I spent hours in the shed at the bottom of my garden, cleaning away the dust from the small cogs and pieces from it, trying to get it to work. Mom said that it could’ve been broken from a lack of use. I decided to fix it. It was dark by the time I managed to get it working again, but I didn’t mind. I liked fixing it. And I kinda understood how it worked in order to repair it. Finally, I filled the engine with a little bit of water and lit a tiny ember under it. The steam went through the model and it started working all by itself. I had fixed it. I went to bed, all tired from what happened that day. Then, as I woke up this morning, I found my Cutie Mark that had appeared overnight.”

You stop reciting what you had written to glance upon the picture of two gears that adorn your flank.

“And that’s how I lost something a long time ago, but was able to turn it into something I’d found. The End.”

A polite round of applause is heard from the class; the sound of light clip-clops tapping against their desks. The only ones who weren’t applauding were the three fillies at the front of the class. They just exchanged confused and almost worried looks. One of them even had her hoof raised.

“Is there something you’d like to ask about his paper, Scootaloo?” Miss Cheerilee says, “Something Cutie Mark related, perhaps?”

“Nah, nothing about Cutie Marks today,” the scooty little pegasus shrugs, “I just wanna ask… is your Dad dead or something?”

“Scootaloo!” your teacher recoils in shock; she, like all good teachers, knows the personal history of each of her students in order to give them the best understanding and head-start in life. And she knows that if there’s something you shouldn’t just blurt out in class, it’s that.

“It’s okay, Miss Cheerilee,” you give her a smile to show how little it matters, “I’m over that. But yeah, it was a long time ago and I was too young to remember. Mom and I have moved on from it.”

Another, cuter hoof rises in Scootaloo’s place “Did it happen ten years ago? Your Papa dying, I mean.”

“Sweetie Belle! A little courtesy, please!”

You ignore your teacher’s second consecutive flinch, “Now that I think about it, yeah. About ten years ago.” What a strangely specific question for the ditsy unicorn to ask. The leader of the group decides to ask the last question…

“Did he die in a train wreck comin’ back from Canterlot during a snowstorm caused by a mishap at the weather factory that blew over from Cloudsdale?”

“Apple Bloom, for crying out loud!”

Okay, that question was really weird. And, to your discomfort, one hundred percent accurate. "Yeah. Exactly like that. He was the train driver.” you pause for a moment, if only to ponder how three little girls were able to guess something so specific. But then you see their expressions. “Why are you staring at me like that..?”

“That will be enough morbid questions for the poor colt today, you three!” Miss Cheerilee stomps once she recovers from her third fluster in the space of about twenty seconds, “Can’t you see you’re hurting the poor colt’s feelings!?”

Uh… what hurt feelings? You’re over it.

“Should we just move on, Miss?” you ask, if only to diffuse the situation.

“Good idea,” your teacher agrees, “Great work on your story, by the way. Gold star. Snips, you’re up next. Is your paper ready?”

“You betcha!” the stout colt smirks with soon-to-be-deflated bravado.

“Is it an exact copy of Silver Spoon’s story about her missing crockery collection?” Miss Cheerilee hazards a guess.

“Uhh…” he looks at his paper, then back to the disapproving glare of his teacher, “…no?”

“See me after class.”

Part 3

Finally! Lunch break! And a good one, too.

Not only were you able to tell those three fillies how you got your Cutie Mark, but you were able to do it in the middle of class, as a class project! Genius! Two birds with one stone!

With your troubles solved in the first half of the school day, you sit down in the school cafeteria, taking a large, welcoming bite out of your soft, scrumptious egg and cress sandwich…

“Hey, there you are! We wanna ask you somethin’!”

You don’t know how those fillies became so good at sneaking, but somehow they’re now all sitting at the same table as you. Apple Bloom, the girl who called you, sits opposite, while her two partners-in-crime sit on either side.

Sighing internally, you finish chewing your food before politely telling them to go away.

“Come on, girls, I already told you how I got my Cutie Mark in class. I wasn’t even aware of it until the next morning, so chances are you just have to wait until you find what you’re good at naturally. Now can you please- ”

“That’s not what we wanna talk about.” the bow-wearing filly clarifies, dumping her lunch bag onto the table. Looks like she intends to stay.

You cram another bite of your sandwich into your mouth with the intent of finishing it as fast as possible so you can leave. You’ve already had today’s fill of ‘stupidity’ with Snips and Snails.

“You see, a while ago, I learned a little something special from my big sister and her friends,” Apple Bloom begins what will no doubt be a boring girly-girl story, “You see, she’d learned that she had this special connection with her friends long, long before they’d even met. Like they were all experiencin’ the same funonimun.”

“Funoni-what?” Scootaloo asks. Sweetie Belle scratches her head in thought.

“Fun-nom-nom-um? I think it’s more like ‘fin-nonny-mum’.”

“Fun… femnomnoman?”

“Fee, no, nah, maaa..?”

“Phenomenon,” you drag the girls’ discussion back on track, swallowing another bite of sandwich and starting on the crusts like a good colt, “Your sister’s friends were sharing the same phenomenon. What‘s this got to do with me, again?”

“We’re just gettin’ to that!” Apple Bloom insists, “Anyway, they weren’t the only ponies who share that special connection. Apparently, all ponies with a strong sense of love and friendship end up with somethin’ similar. And a couple weeks ago, we found out what that was for us.”

Ah. The cootie-ridden ones think that the powers-that-be have some sort of divine purpose that links you to them for all eternity.

That’s not crazy and stupid at all!

“So if you’re telling me the truth here,” you slowly try to pick this theory apart, “Then at one point in our lives, we all had some major event that ties us together. Gee whiz, what about Nightmare Moon’s revival? Everypony had a longer night than usual, is everypony in Equestria best buddies now?”

“You’re cheeky,” the bow-maned leader pouts, her bottom lip sticking out in an uncomfortably adorable way, “But you know what I’m referrin’ to.”

Aw, come on, if they’re trying to pry their snouts into your personal life like they were in class… wait.

“Is this about my dad again? It was creepy enough that you knew pretty much everything about what happened to him, now you want to keep rubbing my nose in it!?” You can’t decide whether you should feign offence and grief so they’d leave you alone, or whether you were genuinely offended.

“But we’re not rubbing your nose in it,” the orange-coated tomboy suddenly butts in after giving up on hiding her frustration, “The only reason we know so much about what happened to your dad is because it’s happened to mine too! He died on the same train! And both of Apple Bloom’s parents! And Swee- no, wait, actually, they both survived. Her big sister too. But they were on the train when it happened, that’s the point I’m trying to make!”

“Scootaloo!” Sweetie Belle squeaks, “Apple Bloom was gonna break that to him gently!”

“She was takin’ forever-!”

“I’m done.” A simple declaration from yourself to the Cutie Mark Personalspaceinvaders. “Not listening to this anymore. I know for a fact that you’re making this whole thing up! I might not remember it fully because I was too young at the time, but we have the newspaper clippings back home and the paper clearly states that the only ponies that suffered in the crash were my dad - the train driver - a married couple coming back from Manehattan and a stallion protecting his foal.”

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Ding! Your epiphany is ready!

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” the pink-bowed head of the group nods when it all starts to sink in, “So now that we’re all connected, you can see why we’d think you’re such a vital part of us getting our Cutie Marks.”

“And then there’s the whole ‘cosmic friends forever’ thing.”

“Priorities, Scoots. Priorities.”

As shocking as this revelation is, you still aren’t entirely comfortable hanging out with these girls. Best use whatever resources you have to make them go away for now. You can worry about supposed destiny - and with that the giant question mark hanging over the very concept of free will - later.

“So, you think I can help you get a Cutie Mark, right?” you muse aloud, recalling your own experience as much as you can, “I think you girls should, uh, instead of just thinking of silly things to get a Cutie Mark in, wait for the opportunity for the Cutie Mark to come to you. It’s what I did.”

Your idea is met with silence by the three fillies. It’s as if it never occurred to them to just chill out for half a day, waiting for a situation to arise rather than just kicking up the situation itself.

“That… might… work?” the unicorn shrugs, “We could give that a shot, at least.”

“Oh, come on, Sweetie Belle,” Scootaloo moans, “Why spend our time waiting for our Cutie Marks to come when we can get them ourselves? What are the odds that our destinies are gonna just pop up in front of us like-”

“-a bag full of chocolate muffins?”

The three Crusaders turn their heads toward the source of the voice; Dinky Doo, a dainty filly from the year below, is sitting across the cafeteria table from you, peering into her brown lunch bag with a hum of disappointment.

“But Mom knows I can’t have too many chocolate ones, or else I’ll get a tummy ache!” she continues, “Aw, what am I gonna have for lunch now..?”

You nod at Apple Bloom, as if to say ‘Yeah, that’s your cue’. The terrible trio exchange knowing glances before going into full ‘Crusader’ mode.

“Cutie Mark Crusaders Independent Traders! Hooray!”

A blink later and they’ve left your side, only to commence a series of rabid bartering with the confused filly.

Great job! They’re distracted! Now get out while you can!

You snatch the remains of your lunch and high-tail it out of there.

Part 4

The end-of-school bell sounds like a heavenly choir to you, especially after the long day you’ve had to endure. Silly fillies, silly colts, silly fillies again… But all of that’s behind you now as you merrily saunter out of school, the bright sun in the sky having plenty more to give before sunset. Maybe you can re-arrange the track on your train set after dinner, make it a more challenging route with twists and turns. That’d be fun!

You keep an eye out across the schoolyard. Most colts and fillies are all meeting up with their parents or guardians, some were loitering around waiting for their parents to even arrive, while others simply decided to head home of their own accord. Among the throng of ponies, you could see Dinky being reunited with her tender-spirited mother, little Rumble and his friend, Ruby Pinch, skipping home with Thunderlane and Berry Punch respectively, and Sweetie Belle keenly prancing towards her parents.

And out of the hubbub, a pink bow can be seen bobbing about, reuniting with what appears to be a stetson hat. Ah, Apple Bloom and her older sister only a few steps away from you.

As you’re about to turn away and head for home; you only live a few minutes away, there’s no need to wait for anypony to pick you up. Hopefully you can slip by without the southern-drawling, bow-wearing cooties factory noticing you.

“Hey, there ya are!”

Too late. You’re having all the luck today, aren’t you?

“Applejack, this is the colt I wuz tellin’ you about!” the filly beams, acting far more buddy-buddy than she was during your last two out-of-class encounters, “He’s gonna teach us the secret to gettin’ us our Cutie Marks!”

Rather than shoot her down with a polite request to leave you the heck alone in front of her big sister, you take the easy route. You smile and nod, conjuring up the perfectly valid excuse of needing to get home quickly. Can’t wait for dinner and all.

“Sure thing,” Apple Bloom, The Filly Who Is Incapable Of Taking A Hint, replies, “And after dinner, come by Sweet Apple Acres! We’ve gotta show you our clubhouse!”

After dinner? But… but the model railway set!

“I’ll… think about it.” you dismiss.

“Alrighty, we’re gonna be makin’ candy apples in the clubhouse, so I’ll be sure to leave some for ya.”

Candy apples? Well, that’s one way to grease the wheels.

“You mean you’ll be havin’ candy apples if you finish your meal, Apple Bloom,” the filly’s sister - what’s her name, Apple Jack? - corrects her, “See you around, nice meetin’ ya, kiddo.”

Your short walk back home lets your mind wander. You suppose you should get out of the house more often, but tinkering with the train set sounds way more preferable than sitting around in a filly’s clubhouse drinking imaginary tea and pretending to be a princess.

Maybe you should ask Mom when you get home.

*******

Note to self: Never talk to Mom about girls.

As soon as you brought it up at the dinner table, she seemed to become possessed by the Spirit of Making a Fuss of Things. “Go for it, dear!” she cooed, “It’s so nice that you’re finally going out with friends on a play-date!”

After that, you knew you couldn’t just say to her “Nah, train set it is”. Flash forward to the present moment. You’re approaching Sweet Apple Acres and its looming barn, the property itself sitting comfortably among its apple trees and fields, lit up by the late-afternoon sun.

The fresh smell of crops and dirt hangs in the air. There’s a hundred different things to do from the eyes of the young and childish; things to run through, things to frolic on, things to climb up, things to fall off after climbing up them…

…it’s just a shame that you’ve got no choice but to sit in a clubhouse playing with girly dolls. Especially now that the main culprit, the bouncy filly, Apple Bloom herself, managed to spy you upon entry to the farm, and is now galloping towards you with a smile on her face.

Wait, she’s still galloping…

…isn’t she going to stop galloping now..?

“Ah knew you’d come! Ah knew it! C’mere, gimme a cuddle!”

Oh no not this again run for your liiiife!

You bound to the side, narrowly avoiding Apple Bloom’s constriction attempt, kicking up the dust in your wake. And thus another game of Chase begins. Luckily, this time you know it’s only game. It kinda feels good to get a rush like this.

“Aw, c’mon, gimme a hug!” Apple Bloom catches up with you, yet you still manage to pull that little bit ahead of her, “Please?”

“Ew, no thanks!”

“Gimme a cuddle now!” you hear her demand as you both dart through the many trees and thickets, the gates and fences, the bushes and branches, “Gimme a cuddle or Ah’ll kick ya and hit ya and smush ya and tell Big Mac on ya and pour glitter dust on ya and put a bow tie in yer mane and make ya eat broccoli and hit ya again! So gimme a cuddle!”

“Wait, wait, I’m trying to decide which is worse!” you call back over your shoulder, paying no attention to the root of a tree jutting out of the ground mere feet away from you, “You giving me a cuddle could be worse than all of- Nagh!”

A split second later, the inevitable happens. With lurching senses, you suddenly trip, falling forward, one hoof tumbling over another. The next thing you see is a flash of white as your head bounces off the solid dirt ground with a remorseless THUMP. The rest of your vision shakes and shivers from the pain shooting through your head. The nauseating throb that accompanies it does nothing to help.

“Oh my stars!” Apple Bloom skids to a halt, her hoof covering her mouth in shock, “Are you okay!?”

The aching patch of pain on your head stings when you raise a hoof to comfort it. Involuntarily, you cough out a pathetic, whining sob, holding back your shudders and tears in front of the filly. Colts don’t cry.

While you can’t see very well, you feel Apple Bloom’s presence as she hunkers down next to you. You could even smell her girliness dangerously close to you. You’d visibly flinch at the idea of catching the girly-bug from her if you weren’t preoccupied with controlling your whimper.

The next thing you feel summons a lump in your throat, cutting off your blubbering; her tiny hooves wrap around you, comforting you in a tender… cuddle. Your breath stops for a second, not knowing how to react. Your heartbeat, still quickened from the chase, shows no signs of slowing down. Your stomach feels… you don’t know. You can’t think of a name for what you’re feeling right now. You’re sure the grownups have a name for it though.

But it feels nice. You don’t mind her holding on for another minute or two.

“Any better?” she asks after a while.

You sniffle away the already-fading twinge. “A little.” You admit, maybe a cuddle wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

“C’mon,” Apple Bloom helps you to your hooves, “the clubhouse ain’t too far away.”

“Promise you won’t tell anypony about this?” you mumble, rubbing the sore spot on your head. Even now, the pain becomes a faint, silly memory.

“I promise.”

*******

The dreaded Clubhouse of Frilly Filly Doom looms into view, nestled between the branches of a sturdy oak. A greenish ramp leads up to a one-room house painted a (ugh) salmon-pinkish hue on the outside. There’s a love-heart cut into the door.

It’s enough to give you cold hooves about hanging out with them.

“Here we are, friend!” Apple Bloom beams, “Ain’t it somethin’!?”

“Um,” you openly vocalise, “Yeah. It certainly is… something.”

Nothing good, you speculate, but something nevertheless. Your hesitance is cut short by Apple Bloom coyly beckoning you up the ramp - far more stable than it looked from afar - and up to the scary door of cooties.

You take a deep breath - woe betide you having to breathe in their girly perfumes and glitters and whatnot for longer than you need to - as you place a hoof on the door handle, twist it and pull.

Part 5

The wooden door opens with a quick, clean squeak, revealing the insides of the clubhouse. It’s as bad as you thought; truly, you had stepped into a nightmare of pink curtains and… and…

Wait. No, it’s just the curtains for the rough-hewn windows that are pink. Everything else is pretty much inconsequential. Look, the floor-boards are just a pale green and the walls are just a plain sandy colour, all of which is lit up by a couple of plain lamps hoisted towards the ceiling by a rope.

Two other ponies’ heads turn towards the door as it swings open. Apple Bloom’s partners-in-crime, Sweetie Belle, the dainty white unicorn, and Scootaloo, the rough-and-tumble pegasus of the group. Scootaloo’s short mane is obscured by her crash helmet as she holds her scooter. Sweetie Belle is busy making huge letters on a large piece of cardboard.

There’s not a single doll or tea-party set in sight.

“Hey, Apple Bloom!” the pegasus beams as the earth pony leads you inside, “We’ve just had this really cool idea! See, you and Sweetie Belle can charge other ponies to watch me pull off tricks on my scooter, then we’ll be able to draw a profit and improve the clubhouse! We might even get Cutie Marks in showmanship!”

Sweetie Belle, as if to punctuate Scootaloo’s idea, holds up her finished cardboard sign; the words “See Scootaloo the Splendid!” are scrawled in big, eye-catching letters.

“That’s a great idea!” the southern filly says before turning to you, “Could ya be a pal and help me set up a few ramps and such for Scootaloo? I’ll give you a real tour of the clubhouse later, I promise!”

You don’t agree, exactly, but nor do you refuse; you’re still trying to piece together why a group of little girls own a base-of-operations and are now attempting crazy ideas that you’d never even consider. Boy, were you wrong about them.

*******

“Just a little further… and… perfect!”

At Apple Bloom’s command, you drop another wooden ramp outside the clubhouse, aligning it perfectly with a few others that had been set up. To you, it looked a lot more like an accident waiting to happen rather than a carefully made arrangement for a show.

“Are you sure Scootaloo can handle this?” you ask, counting one potential risk after another in your head. The pegasus in question is practicing a few rounds on her scooter, weaving between the ramps rather than actually going up them. That’s probably the safest bet for now.

“Sure she can,” Apple Bloom waves it away, “It was her idea after all! Besides, she’s had a ton more falls than anypony else here! She’s a tough gal.”

“Really?”

“Of course she is!” Apple Bloom grins, “See that thorn bush with the purple clump of tail-hair in it? Scootaloo. See that tree with the tooth stickin’ out of it? Scootaloo…”

The stunt-filly in question interrupts; “I think you can stop pointing out every single time I’ve crashed, Apple Bloom…”

“…See that nearby fence with a hole the size of Scootaloo’s head in it-?”

“Cut it out!”

“I get the picture.” you put an end to the potential conflict between filly and filly before it arises, “When’s this scooter show actually starting?”

“As soon as the crowd arrives, of course!” Sweetie Belle pipes up. Her cheery, sunshine-filled face is then replaced by one hit by a stark epiphany; she was supposed to go into Ponyville and advertise the event, not sit around and watch it being set up.

“Uhh… pardon the delay?” she squeaks before darting off to do her special duty as a Cutie Mark Crusader Advertising Specialist. Hooray.

Scootaloo groans in exasperation, before flaring up her wings. “Whatever. I’ll be practising my awesome moves while we’re waiting, you two wanna watch?”

*******

As the late afternoon starts to slowly turn a sunset-orange, Sweetie Belle returns with a respectable audience. Mostly other kids from school that had been convinced to come out and play with her. Still, a crowd’s a crowd, and Scootaloo’s more than happy to shred up and down the makeshift ramps and jumps to the “ooh”s and “aah”s of the fellow young ponies.

When her final stunt - dropping down from the balcony of the Crusader clubhouse onto a ramp and gathering enough speed to launch herself cleanly through the branches of a tree - is landed without a hitch, the crowd make slowly disperses after the show.

The first ones to leave were Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon; they were only there in the first place so, in the event of Scootaloo badly crashing, they could churn out a smarmy insult or two. But since that wasn’t the case, they just decided to slink away. They’d have probably asked for their bits back, if they'd donated any in the first place.

“Ya know what,” Apple Bloom says as you’re helping her dismantle the ramps before dark. The other two members of her club had retired home due to curfew, but you agreed to help clear away the rest. “You’re a good kid. We’d have probably let you join the Cutie Mark Crusaders if you hadn’t already gotten yours.”

You dump the dismantled ramp by the clubhouse’s tree, where it promptly crumbles to pieces. How lucky was Scootaloo, again!? “Thanks,” you reply, “I enjoyed today more than I thought I would. It was… different.”

“Whaddya mean by that?” the filly gives you a strange look over her own pile of dismantled wood. Honestly, you weren’t sure how to respond to her in a way that wouldn’t seem insulting.

“Well, I thought that hanging out with girls would be more… I dunno…” you bite your lips at the prospect of finishing the sentence, “girly.”

“Girly?” she raises an un-flattered eyebrow, “Whatever gave you that idea? My pink bow? Sweetie Belle? The fact that you’ve never hung out with girls before?”

“All three of those, I guess. I just made the assumption. We’re cool now, right?”

“Don’t worry, I ain’t insulted. It’s just hard to accept being called girly when we’ve been up and down Ponyville bowlin‘, zip-linin‘, bungie-jumpin’, water skiin’ and Celestia-knows-what.”

She has a point. “I didn’t know that before, though,” you reply, “but I’d love to hang out and do more of…” you gesture around, pointing out the ramps that surround you both, “this sorta thing.”

“You really mean that? Even if you ain’t a Crusader?” inexplicably, she seems to perk up at the premise of you being around more often. A moment later, she catches herself. “I mean, uh, sure you can tag along with us. But only if you apologise!”

“For what?”

“For callin’ us girly.”

“But you’re all g-” You know what? It’s better not to rise up against Apple Bloom. The one thing you’ve learnt today is that she’s the single most stubborn filly you’ve ever had the misfortune to encounter.

You resign to just doing what she says for now. The sooner you get yourself home, the better. “Fine. I’m sorry for thinking you were all a bunch of frilly fillies, Apple Bloom.”

“Aaand?” she smirks.

“And the clubhouse isn‘t girly either. And it's very well-made.”

“Aaand?” Oh jeez, is she really doing this?

“And Scootaloo doing those tricks was pretty cool too.”

“Aaand?” her smile widens. You don’t want to play this game anymore. You have a train set and a warm bed calling you.

“And… I dunno, I’m looking forward to all the awesome things that I’ll do with you guys in the future?”

“Aaand?” You know what? Screw this.

“And that your butt’s so big it can pin down a colt the same age as you.”

“Aaa- wait, what!?” Bursting into laughter, you turn on your hooves and run, with Apple Bloom herself giving chase, “C’mere!”

Despite her eventually catching you and demonstrating her devastating butt-pinning powers on you against your will until you apologised, it was a pretty good Tuesday.

Part 6

Each day saw something new from the three strange fillies. Wednesday had you drawing plans for them in your sketchbook regarding patrol routes around the school. Thursday gave you the idea that Cutie Mark Crusader Bodyguards weren’t so well received by the teachers, especially since it did more harm to them than good.

Friday, as wonderful as that day usually is, doesn’t seem to be making much headway. None of you can come up with anything worthwhile to do, be it to do with Cutie Marks or not, and the fillies are busy with a “family-related party” that was due that night after school.

“It’s a welcoming party for Herman!” the team unicorn squeaks, over the school cafeteria table, “He’s finally getting one tonight!”

“His name isn’t Herman, Sweetie Belle,” Scootaloo interjects, “A herman is what he is. There‘s a difference.”

“You’re both wrong,” Apple Bloom rests her head on a propped-up hoof, “it’s pronounced hyoomin!”

“Hyoo… mun?”

“Huuuh… Mann?”

“Isn’t it pronounced human?”

“Naw, that doesn’t sound right to me…”

You remember seeing supposed "herman" around town and the farm, once or twice. You've never really batted an eyelid at it though. It's no minotaur or gryphon, or even diamond dog. Either way, Apple Bloom invites you to come along to the welcoming party; the more the merrier, after all.

“Sorry girls,” you frown, “Mom says I should ask her at least a week in advance to sleeping over at somepony's house - especially if it's a filly - and I wanna stay on Mom’s good side if she’s gonna buy me more parts for the train set.”

Of course, you don't know why your mother dislikes the idea of her son sleeping with girls at your age. Nor will you know for a good number of years.

“Aww, darn. That’s a shame.” Apple Bloom sighs. You could have sworn you saw her internally slump a little, “But you’re good for Saturday, right?”

“Tomorrow’s fine,” you give your friend a playful nudge to cheer her up. She seems to perk up slightly, if only in reaction to you touching her. “You girls enjoy the party and stuff, I have things that need doing anyway.”

“Like what?”

Your thoughts drift towards your saddlebag and the sketchbook that sits within it. You’ve been playing around with something in your head for a while now and it would be interesting to have enough free time to get the idea onto paper.

“It’s a surprise,” you reply with a wry, knowing wink. Apple Bloom has no idea what you mean by that. Honestly, neither do you. Yet.

*******

The end-of-school bell tolls and you say your goodbyes to the Crusaders. Your friends, as you call them now. Normally, you’d walk with them until it was time to part ways. Today, Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle branch off early to rendezvous at the Carousel Boutique, Sweetie’s sister’s home (no idea on her name, something posh) to collect party invitations.

That just leaves you, Apple Bloom and Apple Jack (is it one or two words in that name? You don’t know) to walk most of the way.

The walk along the cobblestone Ponyville streets is mostly in an awkward silence. Apple Bloom’s sister is clearly thinking about something else, probably wondering if everything is set for “the herman’s” party, while Apple Bloom’s confidence seems to droop whenever her fellow Crusaders aren’t nearby. You still manage to get responses to simple questions from her. But they seemed to be lacking something. For example…

“So,” you ask, “Any thoughts on getting your Cutie Mark?”

“…Nah.”

You try again. “Are you looking forward to the party?”

“…I guess.”

Jeez, what’s up with her? Think, boy, think! She’s obviously feeling down about something, so what’s the best thing you could do to help? Clearly, you should ask her if she’s okay!

“Are you okay, Apple Bloom?”

“…Yeah.”

Well that didn’t work at all. C’mon, the awkwardness of this walk is increasing with every hoof-step. Think harder… think about how you’d like to be treated if you were feeling glum. If you were hurt, she’d - well, she already had once before - hug you. She needs a hug? You dunno, talking didn’t work. But you don’t wanna catch cooties from her, which will almost certainly happen if you try to hug her. Oh, the indecision!

You reach the fork in the Ponyville streets, where you split off for home and the Apple family heads on for Sweet Apple Acres. This is where you would normally split off for dinner before reuniting with them at the clubhouse. Today, it’s where you say your goodbyes until tomorrow.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, alright kid?” Apple Bloom puts on her best brave-face, which is strange. Considering all the trouble and dangerous situations she’s been through in her short life, whatever is making her feel nervous now must be a real big thing for her.

“Tomorrow it is,” you smile back, ”One more thing, though.”

Your friend’s blank stare gives you the impression that she’s ready for what you’re about to give her. Or not.

Okay, take a deep breath, whatever you do, don’t inhale her girly-fumes to make her better. Ready? Three, two, one…

Holding your breath, you put one hoof over Apple Bloom’s unsuspecting shoulder, another around her tummy and pull her close to you, holding her there in what one could mistake as a gentle embrace. Her body tenses at first, completely gob-smacked, trying to process your attempt at being caring and nice. You’d be confused too, really.

Slowly, Apple Bloom returns the hug, her head burying into your shoulder. Her red hair tickles your nose. Despite trying to avoid her smelly, girly aroma, you can’t help but notice her hair smells a little like… almonds? You’d have imagined it would be something more apple-related like, I dunno, apples.

When the hug finally ends after ten seconds - not nine, not eleven, but ten; that’s how hugs work, right? - you let her go. She kind of falls back until she lands in a sitting position, her face a little happier and a lot redder.

“Feeling any better?” you ask.

“A little.”

Her older sister, a prime witness to the whole event, quietly breathes a sigh of relief. Her little sister hugging a boy? At least she’s not sky-diving or cliff-jumping or bear-taming or anything equally as dumb in an attempt to gain a Cutie Mark. Hugs are fine in comparison. Heck, maybe the colt’s sense could rub off on her.

Apple Bloom’s goodbye wave as you trot away is far more enthusiastic. Whatever you did to her sure helped. This isn’t the first time a hug between you and her seemed to have that effect. Strangely, you have absolutely no idea what “that effect” is. Pony scientists should totally research hugs as a means for scientific advancement.

That’d be awesome.

Part 7

Sketch.

Sketch sketch.

Sketch sketch sketch.

It’s a quiet night in for you, the only sound keeping you company is the scratching of pencil-lead on paper. It’s a good sound, really. You could listen to it all night.

The moonlight glows behind the closed curtain of your window, all but driven aside by the gentle glow of your bedside lamp, lighting up the off-white paper that you scribble on with the pencil nestled firmly between your teeth.

What an idea to play with! You’ve been considering it for a while, but you’ve never had the chance to sit down and weigh this idea on paper. You bear with yourself; What if you could take the same technology that’s on a train - steam powered locomotive gears, simple lightweight chassis, all that stuff - and apply it to… anything!? Anything else in the world! Genius!

But what could you test it on? A hot-air balloon? A carriage? Maybe a boat, if it could support the extra weight? You can’t exactly put this idea to use on your train set, since that already has such technology. It’d be redundant! Maybe Apple Bloom and the Crusaders could come up with something. They’re always coming up with things, after all.

Especially that Apple Bloom. No wonder she’s the ringleader. You hope she’s feeling better after whatever brought her down. Maybe it was those two mean fillies again, the rich ones that put everypony down when they can? Nah, the cute girl can usually brush them right off.

Wait, what did you call Apple Bloom just now?

Cute girl. Yeah, you guess she is.

She’s nicer than you thought she’d be, at least. With that cute little bow that bobs up and down with each step she takes. Those rosy eyes that are always on the looking for fun things to do. Her reddish mane that smells a little bit like almonds whenever you give her a cuddle, her adorable nose nuzzling into your shoulder as you share each other’s warmth, her soft, pale hooves wrapping around you, what you wouldn’t give just to drift off to sleep by her side, holding her like a teddy bear…

What the heck are you thinking?

You snap out of your daze. You look down at your sketchpad. Your face turns bright red.

There, sketched from your own memory and into the pencil-lead of the sheet, is none other than Apple Bloom’s adorable face smiling back to you.

Oh Celestia, how embarrassing.

Before anypony even has half a chance of seeing your work of art, you tear it from the sketchpad, taking care not to damage the picture itself. As crude as the picture is, it stirs you with a sense that nothing else could. What’s wrong with you? What did Apple Bloom do to make you feel like this!? Why did she invade your mind!? And how!?

Yet… you can’t bring yourself to tear up the paper and forget about her.

As precisely as possible, you fold the picture in half twice, before slipping it under your mattress. It’s best to lie there for now, at least until you can figure out what to do with it. What to do with her.

Returning to your sketchbook, ignoring the jarring feeling of your little drawing incident, you try to recall the train of thought you had before…

Yes. Train. Using a train’s technology on other vehicles, wasn’t it? Maybe you should start small if you’re going to try attaching gears and chassis and goddess-knows-what onto things. Think small. Think a block of wood with wheels, or a skateboard or rollerblades or-

*******

“My scooter?”

The pegasus of Apple Bloom’s crew, Scootaloo, gives you a suspicous look once you'd finished explaining last night's brainstorm. And rightfully so. “I dunno, something tells me I don’t want somepony giving it the Frankenstein-Train treatment. What if you break it? What if your little experiment screws up and I can’t use my own scooter anymore?”

You eye the blue scooter as it lies on a table in the centre of the Cutie Mark Crusader’s clubhouse. The midday sun provides ample lighting for any work that might need to be done on it. By the side of the table sits a bulky toolbox, hopefully with everything you’ll need for the scooter’s ‘surgery’. Sweetie Belle and Apple Bloom are also there, but you try your best to ignore the latter; even when she’s quietly watching over things, she’s still a major presence in your mind.

“Don’t worry,” you reassure the pegasus, “If anything happens to your scooter, I’ll pay for a new one myself. And that’s only if something goes wrong. Which it won’t, I remind you. Besides, imagine how awesome it would be to ride the first ever mechanical scooter around!”

Despite her hesitance, Scootaloo agrees that, yes, it would be pretty awesome. She backs off slowly, not taking her eyes off her prized scooter, as she joins her friend Sweetie Belle. Apple Bloom, on the other hoof…

“Hey, if you’re really makin’ this into a gear-driven machine,” she steps forward, nudging the toolbox with a hoof, “maybe you could use an assistant? Y’know, to pass you different tools and such. Might get a Cutie Mark in that!”

She makes a good point. And honestly, you couldn’t say no to that face even if you wanted to. An assistant she is! The other two Crusaders decide to hang back, however, to reduce the chances of overcrowding. Almost as if going at something three-at-once has ruined the chance for a Cutie Mark on more than one occasion. Good to see them learning.

The first fifteen minutes of the experiment drift by smoothly, considering how you’re doing most of this with your mouth. Now to finish hooking up the wheels to a set of well-oiled, locomotive gears that should, hopefully, turn at the command of a lever you have yet to install on the scooter’s handle.

No problems so far, at least. Apple Bloom obediently passes you one tinkering instrument after another. Now there’s only one more tool you need from her.

“Pass me the wrench.” you tell her, holding a lever over the scooter’s handle, “It’s time to tighten this thing on.”

At your request, she picks up the wrench from the box with her mouth and places it on the table for you to pick up with your own mouth. As awkward as that setup is, it’s better than just passing it from one mouth to another. Because of girly-germs and all that. It'd just be weird, too. Can’t be too careful.

Huh. For some reason the lever’s not fastening onto the handle correctly. Maybe you should twist it on tighter.

You ask Apple Bloom to give you a hoof; it’ll take more than just twisting it in your mouth to screw this on.

With two sets of hooves firmly holding the wrench, you push. Slowly, the handle starts to obey the concept of having a gear-activating lever attached to it. Soon it should be ready for…

Hey, you know Apple Bloom’s hoof is touching your own right now? You might as well be holding hooves with her!

Wow, that thought came out of nowhere. But it's true. In fact, she’s practically pushing right up against you, helping you with the wrench-work. Her face is just inches away from yours, the scent of her almond hair-

PANG!

The sudden shock slaps you out of your daze. The lever you were trying to attach had been twisted far too much, firing off the handle due to the immense pressure you both had been putting on it. It ricochets off the door of the clubhouse at a dangerous speed, causing a very uncomfortable crunching sound within the door itself, before smacking into an overhanging lamp directly above the scooter.

With only a second’s warning, you and Apple Bloom jump back from the table in time - your toolbox snatched up by the filly herself - to see the lamp fall, smashing into the scooter itself with an ear-ringing shatter.

The lamp’s metallic frame scrapes against the newly-oiled gears on the scooter. A stray spark from the collision flickers to life.

The spark becomes an ember. And the ember becomes a burst of fire.

In the blink of an eye, the gears, the scooter, the whole table is set aflame.

Part 8

The fire engulfs the entire table, along with everything upon it. The flames trickle down the table legs, to the horror of present company and spread to the wooden floor below. Black smoke billows from the inferno, rising and swirling to the ceiling. Panic grips your heart, and the hearts of the very fillies who cannot stop their own clubhouse from burning.

Luckily, Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle are backed up against a nearby window. You and Apple Bloom are backed up against the door. Sweetie Belle doesn’t waste a second pushing the window open, clambering out with the speed and urgency of a child trying to outrun a fire. Which was a perfectly accurate way to put it. Scootaloo follows suit, hopping through the window frame, looking back towards her burning scooter and the remaining two little ponies by the door.

“You owe me a new scooter!” she yells over the cackling before hopping out of view to safety.

“You don’t frickin’ say!?”

You’re unsure of whether she heard that remark; a stray gust of wind blows through the newly opened window, fanning the flames at the centre of the clubhouse. In a single swoop, the fire spreads to the curtains and walls, blocking yours and Apple Bloom’s way to the window. The only way out is through the wooden door behind you.

Turning on your hooves, you grab the door handle with a twist and a tug.

The door doesn’t budge. You shove your body weight into pushing it. Nothing happens from that either. The handle just twists limply back and forth, having no effect on the door itself.

“What’s wrong?” you hear Apple Bloom, dropping the useless toolbox from her mouth in frustration, “Hurry up and open it!”

With a cry of desperation, you rattle the door handle; a hopeless thing to do. Must’ve broken when the stray lever smashed into it moments ago. You’re both stuck.

The realisation hits hard. All of this was your idea. You and Apple Bloom. You’re both going to burn to a crisp. And it’s all your fault.

You fall to the floor. “I can’t.” That’s all you can stand to utter in the heat. The sweat from your brow stings your eyes. At least it’s an excuse to cry.

No sooner do you fall to the ground in desolation do you sense a pair of eyes upon you. Apple Bloom’s eyes. You can’t bear to look at them, but you have to. If only to apologise.

As you huddle together to keep away from the fire, you take in her features one last time. Her pink bow hangs limply down her frazzled mane as two watery eyes look you up and down. A screwdriver, taken from the discarded toolbox by her side, is clenched between her teeth.

Without a sound, she places it down by your hooves. With her fear as prevalent as your own, she nods her head toward the broken door. Your eyes flash over the damaged wooden blockade as you notice a vital detail that could save you both.

The door hinges.

“If anypony can do this,” her voice gives away a quiver as the fire draws closer, “it’s us.”

It’s all coming together in your head. You know what to do now; if you can't open the door via the handle, just take the whole door off!

Picking up the screwdriver with your mouth, you turn your focus toward the hinges and twist the first screw anti-clockwise. And again. And again.

“For what it’s worth…” Apple Bloom says as she keeps an eye on the flames as they rise to the black smoke gathering at the ceiling. The entire back of the clubhouse is now ablaze, “I’m sorry I dragged you into this. If I hadn’t had the bright idea to chase you down and make you help us find our Cutie Marks, we’d never be in this mess.”

You don’t reply; you can’t with a screwdriver in your mouth. Slowly, far slower than you wanted it to, the screw finally loosens and drops to the floor. Another screw later and the bottom hinge on the door disconnects.

Maybe that should do it? You kick your rear legs against the door, hoping for it to fall away without its lower hinge. To your frustration, it still doesn’t budge. Your only hope is being able to unscrew the top of the door too. If only you could reach that high…

“I’ll help you up!” Apple Bloom places her front hooves against the door, propping herself up, “Climb on top of my shoulders!”

The second you try to clamber up her, she buckles under the stress, falling into a slump. The heat is stifling. She’s far too weak to lift you in this state. The surrounding smoke stings your eyes. The tip of your tail starts to burn. You pull it away from the ever-enclosing fire upon reflex.

You drop the screwdriver from you mouth. “Change of plan,” you nudge the filly, dizzy from the ordeal, “Can you unscrew the top hinge instead? I’ll be able to lift you, I promise!”

She nods weakly, “I was the one who screwed ‘em in in the first place,” she reminds you.

You hope she catches a glimpse of your encouraging, yet understandably fake smile as you lower yourself to let her climb on top of you. With the screwdriver now in her teeth instead of yours, she positions herself on your shoulders. Once she’s ready, you stand yourself up on your hind legs, your surroundings doing little to help your efforts, pushing Apple Bloom up towards the top of the door.

Your fore hooves rest against the unmoving door for support. The last thing you’d want is for her to fall at this point. You keep perfectly still, holding Apple Bloom steady as she slowly, groggily twists one of the higher screws little by little. The dark, thick smoke swirls around her head as she works.

“If it’s any consolation,” you call up to her, “All of this was my idea. You don’t have to apologise for anything! And if we don't make it, I just want you to know that..."

Your thoughts return to that sketch of her you made last night. That feeling in the pit of your stomach when she first hugged you. How... right... it all felt.

A screw falls from the hinge and bounces off what little wooden floor is left. Just one more to go. If there's anything you want to tell her, any encouragement, any secrets, any confessions... do it now.

"I like you, Apple Bloom. I mean, I really, really like you."

Out of nowhere, Apple Bloom sharply convulses, a sudden violent cough striking her at the worst possible time. The smoke chokes her. The screwdriver itself falls from her mouth as she coughs. She manages to catch the tool with her hooves as she balances atop your shoulders, but that doesn’t stop her coughing fit.

You lower yourself toward the floorboards, pulling Apple Bloom away from the unforgiving smoke, giving her room to breathe, even if it’s not much better.

“No,” you hear her feebly croak into your ear, “Push me back up there. I can do this. I gotta.”

You’d argue with her. Tell her that she doesn’t have to go through with this. That there’s a better way. But there isn’t. Hating yourself more and more, you lift Apple Bloom back up again, watching the smoke envelope her almost entirely. After a few more tense seconds, you sense her pitifully turning the final screw with more effort than you’d ever want to force on her.

The heat from the blaze behind you bakes your spine. Your tail is tucked, shaking, between your hind legs, but you don’t care how cowardly it makes you look. You just want to leave. You just want to head back home and play with your train set, safe and comfortable in your own home.

The high sound of a pin dropping snaps you back to the burning reality. The screw hits the floor and roll away into the all-consuming blaze, never to be seen again. The screwdriver itself falls a moment later, followed by a horrible, choking cough from the filly above you. And a heavy, futile gasp.

Your heart stings with fright when she falls from her standing position on your shoulders. She lands limply on your back with a soft thud.

She’s not moving.

You push against the unhinged door with what little might a colt possesses. It slowly creaks from the pressure, before falling clearly away. You fall through the door-sized opening and away from the tormenting fire, Apple Bloom still wilted over your back as you rush into the clean air of the outside world.

You made it.

Part 9

Hurtling out of the fiery death-trap that used to be the Cutie Mark Crusader’s clubhouse, you trample over the broken door and down the tree’s simple stairway just as a rush of air causes the inferno to belch black smoke and fire, precisely where you and Apple Bloom were standing moments ago.

As your eyes recover from the stinging sensation that plagued your escape, you notice a shivering white figure curled up in mute fear, hugging her pink-and-purple tail out of shock. Sweetie Belle is watching the remains of the wooden building fall to pieces before her very eyes.

“W-w-when you two didn’t come out, Scootaloo ran off to get help!” she whimpers. Her vocals emit a squeak - or perhaps a tiny, muffled scream - when she notices Apple Bloom slung over your back, weak and motionless.

You set the earth pony filly down upon the cool, green grass as carefully as you can, laying her face-up towards the sky. To your relief, you can tell she’s breathing as soon as you see the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The cold air is already doing wonders for Apple Bloom; a weary pair of eyelids open partway, letting the filly’s tired eyes scan the fire raging in the background. Finally, her tired gaze turns to you.

“We did it.” she displays the smallest of smiles.

“Yeah. We did.”

You take her by the fore-hoof and pull her in for the most meaningful hug you've ever given to a friend. The filly’s head tucks itself into your shoulder, brushing against your neck. Her mane doesn’t quite smell like almonds anymore; far too singed for that. But all the same, you’re glad she’s safe and sound. The worst is behind you both.

And the hug makes everything better, it seems. Dispels the fear you had felt. She taught you that.

The moment is broken by the intrusion of pegasi whizzing overhead, a huge rain cloud dragging alongside them. Scootaloo reappears shortly afterwards, despite having to run without the aid of her scooter. Between her exhausted panting, she tells you that she’s been galloping all over Ponyville looking for help these past few minutes alone. She takes one look at you, then at Apple Bloom, lying on the grass outside, and then finally the burning clubhouse. It’s already started to rain a heavy downpour thanks to the pegasi’s efforts.

The four of you sit back in silence, watching the fire billowing from the windows and doorway die down slowly, revealing more of the blackened, burnt wood that had once been the Cutie Mark Crusader’s headquarters. Sweetie Belle’s bottom lip quivers. Scootaloo’s head droops solemnly at the loss.

Apple Bloom, however, is smiling.

“We can rebuild it.”

Every pair of eyes, including your own, cast an enquiring look at her. She jabs a wayward hoof forwards, “Look; the damage ain’t so bad on the tree itself. It‘s just the woodwork and the frames.”

The dainty unicorn’s eyes seem to dry a little. A challenging smirk appears on the lips of the young pegasus.

“If we can build a giant apple float in the space of a single night, rebuilding our clubhouse should be no problem at all!”

The three fillies’ hooves gather in the centre of them, one-over-another. All for one and one for all.

“Cutie Mark Crusa-!”

“Wait.”

They stop in mid-chant, turning to the sheepish interrupter. That would be you.

“I wanna make up for… you know, setting your place on fire and everything,” you start feeling a burn of embarrassment as you speak. Though you’d prefer that to the burn of the fire you so narrowly avoided, “Can I help with rebuilding the clubhouse too?”

The Crusaders exchange looks for the shortest time, “Of course you can!” the leader grins, “I thought you wouldn’t even need to ask!”

In that case, you place your hoof in the centre too. You may already have a Cutie Mark, but to them, you’re just as much of a friend now more than ever.

“Cutie Mark Crusaders, Clubhouse Rebuilders! Hooray!”

*******

Balancing a week of schoolwork with handiwork is tough.

By some divine miracle, neither you nor your friends were grounded for the whole ‘Clubhouse-burning-to-the-ground’ mishap. A mix of ‘Accidents happen’, ‘It could’ve been worse’, ‘Kids will be kids’ and ‘They learned their lesson’ helped a lot to smoothing the worries of parents and guardians alike.

Since it all worked out for the better, every single day after the end-of-school bell you’d walk back to Sweet Apple Acres with Apple Bloom and discuss the blueprints of the Cutie Mark Crusaders Clubhouse Mark II. At least, that’s what you call it. The others disagree.

Later, you would return home for a quick dinner where you‘d talk about your day with Mom (for the love of Celestia, don‘t mention Apple Bloom too often), after which you’d meet the fillies by the clubhouse itself. There, you’d help them rebuild in any way you can.

A school-week later, you arrive to help with the finishing touches; a lick of paint on the newly-crafted windowsills. The curtains weren’t pink this time, either, which is a plus.

With a sigh, you place the paint can on the fresh, wooden floorboards and open the brand new door to air out the paint fumes. The four of you step back, wiping the sweat from your collective brows, to admire the finished product. The clubhouse is now a little bigger - they had an extra pair of hooves helping, after all - but only a little. The tree itself could only take so much.

You leave the Crusaders to admire their handiwork and head out to the balcony hugging the outside of the wooden building. You could use the fresh air anyway. The late-afternoon sun casts a bunch of cool shapes and shadows off the surrounding apple trees as it slowly disappears behind a distant mountain.

“Pretty view, huh?”

You turn your head to the side. Apple Bloom, the cute, bow-wearing leader of the group herself, is leaning against the freshly built balcony railings.

“Yeah. Yeah it is.”

She sits down next to you. You don’t mind the girly scent, or her warm fore-hoof brushing against your own, perhaps by accident, perhaps not. Of all the fillies in the world, Apple Bloom’s the only one who you’d allow to do that.

"Look, there's somethin' I really need to tell ya," she says, "remember last week when I was really bummed out about somethin', but you didn't know what?"

"I remember," you smile, thinking back to it, "You felt way better after I hugged you."

"Of course," she turns to you, but only for a moment, "Because that's exactly what I wanted in the first place."

You sit there for a while with her, letting her words sink in, watching Celestia’s sun hang low in the sky as the late-afternoon breeze sways every branch in the orchard. You’d stay there for the rest of the day, but as kids, sitting still for more than five minutes is all but unheard of, especially out of school hours.

Even Apple Bloom is shifting and fidgeting. No, maybe she’s cold? The day was dragging on, after all. What else can you do? You take your foreleg and wrap it over her shoulders. Just to show that you’re there. In response, she takes a soothing breath and leans toward you.

At first, you think she’s just leaning in for a hug.

Imagine the shock when you feel her lips push up against your cheek, her snout scrunching up as it’s being pressed against your face. It lasts only for a second, maybe even less. But the theatrical, unmistakable ‘smooch’ sound made her actions clear to you.

Your beet-red face turns to meet her own, her smile complimenting her own faint blush. In that very instant, you forget how to speak normally.

“Sorry if that took ya by surprise,” she giggles, “Just my way of sayin’ thanks. For helpin’ with the new clubhouse and... pretty much everythin’ else.”

A few words of pure gibberish are what passes as your most refined response. Instead, you ignore the need for words and just enjoy the moment, you and the best filly in Ponyville, ready to face the changes life brings, and ready to take on the world.

*******

Two little fillies are peeking out from their new clubhouse window. They’re spying on the two young ponies outside on the recently-crafted balcony. The fillies in question probably won’t be getting their Cutie Marks in spying any time soon.

“D’aww! Scootaloo, did you see that!? Apple Bloom just smooched him right on the cheek! It was so adorable!”

The pegasus’ ears flick in mild irritation. “Ugh. So Apple Bloom’s turning him soft?”

“Aw, come on, Scootaloo; just because they like each other, it doesn’t mean they’re all girly now! Besides, you shouldn’t be so quick to judge things for being soft.”

Scootaloo huffs, folding her wings by her side, “I guess so…”

“That’s the spirit!” Sweetie Belle squeaks, giving her friend a cuddle.

“Nargh! Geddoff me! Ah, whatever…”

(Spoiler; you now have a hnnng.) - Crowley