From the Big Apple: A Tale of Misadventure and Affection

by Nurse Bedpan

Rating: everyone
Tags: Main 6, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Romance, Original Character, Comedy, Cutie Mark Crusaders, Slice of Life, Babs Seed
Length: 34951

Ponies never really change, do they? Then why does her smile seem so much brighter now? And since when did you start feeling this way?

A short trip to Ponyville has left your friend Babs Seed a rather different filly. Sure, the cape was strange, but not as much as her going on and on about how you and her could help other ponies get their cutie marks.

This place she went to... This "Ponyville"... it looks like it could deserve some sleuthing. Besides, you could use some space, considering how frequently you're starting to blush and stammer around her...

[2nd person fic]
First attempt at writing fiction. Please rate, comment, and criticize!

Published 2013-02-12 15:20:01 UTC
Last updated 2014-07-13 04:57:40 UTC

Handling things

Fillies are strange. A lot of them, you noticed, either shrank away at a moment’s notice or giggled in that odd, shrill way that fillies are known for. Must be the cooties squeezing up against their brains; not that you were any better – your consistently short attention span never merited you many friends. The few ones you did have have similar interests, so much so that hanging out with them was starting to get a little… boring.

Tedious.

Repetitive.

Redundant, even.

Then you met Babs.

Babs “not Barbara!” Seed was an earth filly who had transferred to your class back in first grade. Her long, streaked mane and eyes were certainly striking and her demeanor was by no means unpleasant. No, the one thing that was stopping you from acknowledging her existence was that she, unlike yourself… was a girl.

Yes, you admit inwardly – that was dumb. Looking back, you didn’t know whether to laugh or to smack yourself upside the head.

You and her made acquaintances a few years ago due to some school project or another requiring unfortunate students to… ugh… “pair up.” It wasn’t a terrible experience; there’s just something unshakably atrocious about working with the opposite sex. Despite your mom’s assurance that it’s just a phase and that you should just roll with it, you found being essentially bound against your will TO A FILLY (WHY CELESTIA?!? WHYYYYYYY?!?!) to be fairly… less than droll. You went home that afternoon kicking many wayward cans and stomping at the ground, all to show the uncaring city the injustice that had befallen one of its loyal sons.

The following morning was no better. Your best friends apparently ate an entire refinery full of four-leaf clovers: not only were they paired up, they were also assigned to report on technology and its many gifts to ponykind. Fuming, you had declined their invitation to watch Star Wrek “in favor” of discussing your report with Babs. You remember your line of thought going somewhere along “…and I hope you burn that popcorn of yours and then get allergies and then…” until you saw something far more serious.

It was Babs, sitting all alone at the cafeteria; she was slumped over, shivering, and had papers stuck to her mane. Walking closer, you found out that she was actually whimpering; the papers were sticking on wads of gum and had been scrawled on with an assortment of demeaning messages. One message repeated over and over: “crybaby.”

You didn’t know what possessed you to do what you did. You sat silently next to her, waited around two minutes (at the time, it felt like hours), and then introduced yourself. Babs didn’t look or make a sound; she balled up even further, swinging her tail (also covered in papers and… lemon wedges?) to hide her cutie mark from you. You said your name again and told her that you were her assigned partner for upcoming school project.

“Well? What are you waiting for? Just tell me how much of a loser I am and leave already!,” she shouted, her voice shaking with rage and gloom.

It looked so familiar and alien to you at the same time.

She looked just like you did when Top Brass, D-Cell, and Lemon Drops first showed you how big city ponies “displayed their counter-arguments.”

“You’re not a loser, Babs. Go home and rest. I’ll handle this.”

Babs looked up at you, her eyes filled with uncertainty and something you couldn’t quite put a hoof on. Her face is red and her lip is sporting a large cut, probably from a blow or from getting shoved into the ground too roughly. You put a hoof on her shoulder and make your first honest promise to a stranger.

“Trust me. I. Will. Handle this.”

==================================================================

The look on Bab’s face was priceless. Here she was standing next to you in front of Mister Chickenscratch’s class, being congratulated for a job well done despite not doing anything.

“That was simply lovely, children! Jolly good! Wherever did you find such an inspired topic?”

“We brainstormed, sir! It’s what partners are supposed to do, right?” you recite in exactly the way you had practiced. It was forty percent cheek, thirty percent humor, and another thirty percent confidence.

It was quite the show, you had to admit. While you weren’t able to get back at Top Brass, you did get D-Cell to promise to back off from now on. A quick snapshot of the former’s restructuring of your face yesterday proved to be an all too easy deterrent; a single press and Officer Gaslight would have all the evidence he needed to haul off his “perfectly innocent, law-abiding” hippogryph of a son to juvenile hall. Ah, the wonders of technology, no?

You were in some pain, you were sleepy from staying up all night doing that report on “The Practical Applications of Digitalization," and you felt pretty bad about making your mother feel worried sick (“I fell down the stairs, Mom! Honest! Now please leave me alone so I can finish this report!”) but seeing Bab’s face morph from a look of utter surprise to that of gratitude made it all worth it.

“Hey, uh… thanks. For everything, I mean.”

“It’s what a decent pony would do. You can probably tell, but I’ve known D-Cell since way back. He used to call me his ‘punch buddy’."

Babs insisted that she take you out for ice cream after class that day. On the way there, you traded stories: you found out about her exclusively Earth pony heritage (part of the Apple family, if you remember right), that she had yet to receive her cutie mark (which made her wince a bit), and that she was somewhat short on friends right now. On your side of things, you spoke of the same: your eclectic family tree (“It’s more like a big forest, honestly” you kid) and the trouble with your possible cutie mark and that of your friends. It was strange. She was just so easy to talk to. No giggling, no squeaking, and she paid attention to everything you said.

“I like your shorter hair. It suits you,” you say as you place a popsicle over your shiner.

You didn’t know her coat was red around the snout.

Huh.

Must be a filly thing.

==================================================================

Babs was a little bit taller than you now, but she had kept her mane and tail short. Her freckles had come in a few months before too. She looked so…

“Helloooo? Babs to Super Spy? Ya there or what?”

You shake your head and quickly flash her a winning smile. “Sorry, I was just thinking about… uh… stuff… SohowareyoudoinghowwasponyvilleImissedyou!,” you blurt out. Man, this has got to stop.

“I… uh, didn’t catch most of that. Say again?,” your filly friend says (What? No brain! It’s just “friend!”) as she scrunches her face in an effort to comprehend your words.

“N-never mind. I meant… h-how was your vacation?,” you stutter out. The knot in your stomach was returning in full force now.

“It was great! I met my cousin and her friends and I got to ride in a float and now I’m part of their club!,” she finishes, turning her side to you so you get a full view of the emblem on her crimson cape.

“Oh, cool. What is it?”

It’s hard to understand what happens next. Babs Seed, the shy little filly whom you had befriended all those years ago was quiet and reserved. She was never one to be loud or pushy or boastful, and yet here she was sucking in a lungful of air to proclaim at the top of her voice what you would soon find out was her “new calling in life.”

“THE CUTIE MARK CRUSADERS! YEEEEEAAAAAAHHH!”

Author's Note

And here's a new chapter for you guys! We'll be hopping back to the past a couple of times so we can solidify some "history" for "you" and Babs.

Mister Chickenscratch sounds like Pops from Regular Show - "jolly good" and all that.
If Babs seems out of character, please let me know so I can address it in future chapters.

As usual - rate, comment, and criticize!

Three days or four?

Dumpsters are green
The sky is blue
When you’re stuffed in the former
…*

“Sucks to be you,” Top Brass said smugly.

“Ya should’ve just quit while ya were ahead, shrimpie. Ya ain’t as smart as ya think ya are,” sneered Lemon Drops menacingly. “Yer a loser. Nothin’s evah gonna change dat.”

Ugh. Has it really just been three days? You could barely count your own hooves, let alone tell which day of the week it was. How in Equestria had it had gone sour so quickly?

==================================================================

Your ears were ringing. So were, you thought, everyone else’s within a few feet around you. You’d never heard Babs sing before; heck, you’d rarely ever heard her raise her voice to anypony. The shockwave she just emitted from her mouth was as loud as it was surprising.

Rubbing your ears, you look over to Babs. Not only did she seem completely unmindful of your current state, she also seemed completely oblivious to everypony looking at her.

“I am so! So! So! Excited! We’ve got a long week ahead of us!,” Babs chirped, hopping up and down. The sheer girlish cuteness radiating from the scene in front of you was so powerful, it could be felt as actual heat.

No, wait. It’s even worse.

Watching Babs acting like this… was making you BLUSH.

Thank Celestia though, she hardly noticed. She started walking off the platform, bags in tow, towards the taxi carriages. She never once stopped talking, even as you offered to relieve her of her luggage, as you both got into the carriage, and even as the mad cab puller wove his way in and out of the tight midday traffic.

“…and then they pushed me clear through the float wall and off the road! It was awesome! They saved my life by a fraction of a second!”

“Wait a minute. I thought you were hanging out with those other locals? And I thought the float broke? Are you talking about a different one now? And what kind of friends would body check you clear through a float?!?”

Babs sheepishly rubs her front hooves together. “Heh heh, I may have left some things out. But don’t worry – the Cutie Mark Crusaders are some of the nicest fillies I know! They’re great! Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo – they’re all some o’ the best friends I’ve ever had… uh, including you of course!,” Babs swiftly adds.

She didn’t need to tell you that she left some details out – she had stayed over in Ponyville for just two weeks, but many of her glowing stories about her newfound friends occurred in just the last two days. When you asked her about anypony else she had met, she either turned away or evaded the line of thought completely. This begged the question of just what kind of backwater country this Ponyville was – how bad was it that Babs managed to enjoy only two of her days stay there?

And yet, Babs acted so much happier. She was practically glowing. She wanted to start the Manehattan branch of “The Cutie Mark Crusaders” – a club devoted to help ponies get their cutie marks. The idea, while not bad or particularly grand, was strange coming from Babs. She hardly ever talked about cutie marks; something, you knew, was due to the… less-than-forthcoming treatment of blankflanks at school.

Before Babs could tell you anything more about her plans, you had arrived at the stop of her apartment building. “Oh, hey, we’re here,” you say as you plant your hooves down and heave some of your friend’s bags onto your back. “We’ll just get these in your room and we can go over to Carni’s for some—oof!”

Huh. You guessed physical education class was keeping you fit after all; that, or you were so excited to finally hang out with Babs that you managed to trip over your own tiny legs. It’s a good thing you had made a first impression on Babs beforehand – this was not a very stallion-like pose you had currently struck.

“Ha ha – here, lemme help you up,” Babs said as she pushed her snout under your neck. Unfortunately, the close contact was causing you to wobble even more. “Dang it, brain” you think to yourself. Being helped up by a filly – not your ideal situation as a colt.

“Carni’s? Why there?”

“Well, I was thinking we’d play some laser tag and then stuff ourselves with corndogs and then we can ride The Spill but not in that order if you think we should ride, then stuff, then shoot…”

Ugh. Still not as smooth as you had hoped.

Babs calls your name to stop your train of thought. She was wearing that expression you were familiar with: grateful, but also apologetic.

“Sorry, dude, but I think I’m gonna stay at home today. It’s been a long trip and,” her eyes grow a bit misty as she continues, “I need to catch up with my sister.”

“Oh,” you say slightly dejectedly, “S’all good, Babs. I… uh…”

You couldn’t even complete your excuse when Babs puts a hoof to your snout and says “Next time. Next time, definitely.”

“Okay. I’ll be waiting!”

Something in your guts said that you’ll be waiting for a good long while. That, and that you were being watched…

==================================================================

Long story short – most of your plans didn’t quite hold up. While Babs did eventually join you for laser tag, she spent half the time passing out pamphlets for that new club of hers. Annoyingly, the former didn’t stop her from kicking your tail by 10 points. You had forgotten how absurdly fast that filly could be. The visit to the theme park was no fun either; between Babs brazenly walking up to other blankflanks (with yourself along for the ride) and the ridiculously long lines for even the concession stands, it just wasn’t as… special as it could have been. It wasn’t one of those experiences you could fondly look back to – the only thing good about was Babs buying you a Jurassic Stable keychain because she remembered how you went gaga for the theatrical reruns.

The last day couldn’t fail. You made sure of that – Mom and Dad had their thing to go to, your brother had assembled with his garage band for a night of partying, and your sister had her big art exhibit to attend. You had nothing else to do in the morning other than help Babs with her… “crusading.” From pet walking to carwashing, you did everything in your power to make sure whatever Babs had planned was done neatly and completely, as to not muscle in on your evening. It was much easier than you had thought though – you were joined by foals of different shapes and sizes, all moved by Babs and her promise of “helping find that something that makes everypony special.”

Truth be told, it was nice. You hadn’t seen Babs this happy since.. well, ever, really. It was surprising in that, despite nopony getting their cutie marks, you still felt like you had accomplished something.

As you looked up at the darkening sky, you wondered just why Babs had changed so much. Not that it was a bad thing, seeing her glow like that; it was just drastic. She went from that shy filly you knew to the strong friend who was currently getting entangled in her tent… Wait… Oh, horseapples…

==================================================================

“Okay, Seed – just move your right – ow! Not the snout! Just… gingerly move your right hindhoof and… there!” It may have taken the better part of twenty minutes, but you had safely recovered your friend from her would-be cloth captor AND managed to set up your sleeping quarters. Not a bad effort if you do say so yourself.

Now all you have to do is enjoy the night sky and maybe get that alone time you’ve been wanting. Truth be told, you’ve been looking forward to this evening more than you expected. You had asked you father about this while you were still planning it, but he wasn’t very clear as to why. All he did was to sweep you up and give you the thickest, warmest, burliest hug he could muster while muttering “He’s growing up so fast!” It didn’t do anything to answer why, but it did tell you that this could all just be part of growing up. Why you had become more fixated on one friend in particular, a filly no less, was… still…

It doesn’t really matter, you thought. We’re here now and that’s all that counts.

“Hey,” Babs calls out to you softly. “Thank you. For always being there for me. It means so much.”

Wow. Why was she suddenly saying this? Why here and now? At night? Under Luna’s beautiful moon and stars? You scoured your mind for things to say. Should you play it cool? Lay on the charm? Run as far away as you can and explain yourself when you saw her again next school year?

Before you knew it though, your words were tumbling out of your mouth.

“Babs… You’ve been one of the best friends I’ve ever had. I mean – you deserve me treating you the way I do. You listen to me, you respect me, you make time for me. Your… one of the best friends I’ve ever had… I don’t think anything can change that.”

“Well, I actually need to tell you something. The Crusaders weren’t the only ponies I hung out with…”

Before she gets to finish though, it comes back. That feeling that somepony’s been watching you. Before you can push it out of your head though, your suspicions are confirmed by a squeaky, snooty little voice.

“Aww, well isn’t dat sweet? Two widdle blankflanks out on a date. Pfft. Could you BE any more loser-like?!?”

Ugh. Lemon Drops.

“Yeah, shrimp. Camping? In the park? Hah!”

Urrggghh. Top Brass.

“Come on, guys – just leave us alone. We’re not even in your way!,” Babs fumed. Her cheeks had flushed red as she glared at your tormentors.

‘Sure ya are – my Dad bought this park yesterday! So pack up and get outta here, losers!”

“What!?” you bark. “You can’t ‘own’ a park! It’s public property!”

“News flash, shrimp: my father signed the dotted line, so that means he owns it. So vamoose already.”

“Top Brass, I swear, if you don’t leave us alone,” you begin as you try to make yourself look as imposing as possible.

“You’re going to what? Rat me out like you did D-Cell?”

You freeze in your tracks. You weren’t a snitch! D-Cell had it coming! He was picking on a filly for crying out loud!

“Yeah, D-Cell told me. You can show him that surprised look on your face yourself when he comes back next week!”

What? D-Cell’s coming back?!?

“You really want to know, don’t you? I can tell from that slack-jawed look you’re giving me. I had my old man arrange it. Everything you did for this fillyfriend of yours is all worthless,” Top Brass practically hissed as venomous glee laced his words.

“Back. Off. Or I’m tellin’ your parents about you,” Babs challenged. Determination was strong in her voice. She wasn’t even shaking – she… wasn’t afraid.

“Nice try, toots. I got Mama wrapped around my little hooves. She won’t believe what a blankflank has ta say. You. Ain’t. Scarin. Nopony,” Lemon Drops said as she advanced on Babs, grinning slyly. That filly had always been exceedingly good at mind-games. She was eyeing Babs, waiting for her to throw a punch.

Too bad you beat her to it.

==================================================================

A lot of ponies tell you to never hit a mare. They never tell you how hard mares can hit. Or how well.

“Karate class. Ain’t they something?”

“I must say: you have guts, shrimpie. I’ve never seen anypony brave enough to get his flanks pounded in by a girl in front of his girl.”

You couldn’t even muster a grunt in reply. Your nose was caked in dried blood and your left eye had been beaten blue. Garbage reeked around you.

“Sucks to be you.”

“Ya should’ve just quit while ya were ahead, shrimpie. Ya ain’t as smart as ya think ya are. Yer a loser. Nothin’s evah gonna change dat.”

It must have been about six hours now.

“I guess it’s been four days,” you groan as you try to rise from the dumpster.

“There you are! Man, I was so worried!”

Babs pulled you out of your metallic prison and enclosed you in a tight bearhug.

Before she can say anything, you snap at no one in particular:

“I HATE BULLIES SO MUCH. I wish they’d all get what they deserve. I wish they never have friends. I wish they’d all just go away.”

Babs froze. She slowly releases her grip from you and walks away.

“Babs? Babs, what’s wrong?”

She breaks into a full gallop, sobbing her eyes out; she leaves you to sit there, dumbfounded.

You didn’t give chase. Your body was in too much pain.

Tomorrow.

==================================================================

Getting your mom to patch you up without asking why you got clobbered was tricky, but it paled in comparison to getting Babs’ sister to spill the beans on your friends location.

“She doesn’t want to see anypony right now. I’m sorry,” Miss Sesame said. She looked almost as dejected as, well, you.

“You should probably try coming back around next week,” she adds. “I’m sure we’ll have all of this straightened out as well.

Great – that’s two things to look forward to. The return of your old “punch buddy” D-Cell and getting Babs to tell you why she had just run off.

Odd as it was, you focused more heavily on the latter. D-Cell was a scary prospect, but he was easy to figure out. This trouble with Babs… It was different. You knew you needed to find an answer.

“I need to go to Ponyville.”

Carrot, Pound, and Pumpkin

It had been three days since your brush with the miniature juggernaut called Lemon Drops and her vile employer Top Brass. Thanks to the rather spirited beating you had received from the former, you were now forced to keep a black eyepatch over your left shiner. Healing magic, it seemed, would cause some unpleasant side-effects to your vision if used at your early age.

Within four days, D-Cell would come back and exact his revenge. That left you four days to get ready.

If your brain could strangle you, it would have by now, seeing as how you had planned to just willow those four days away in a strange place; one that, as it turned out, your parents had heard off before.

You had made up your mind to go to Ponyville and find out what its citizens had done to change your filly friend so.

“Toothbrush?”

“Yeah, Mom.”

“Allowance?”

“Counting the bits right now, Pop.”

“Spare underwear?”

“Trick question, Mom. It won’t be winter any time soon.”

“Phone?”

“I’ve got my gizmos all set up, Pop – phone, GPS, can opener, and… a seltzer bottle? Pop – why’d you sneak this in here?” you say as you hold up the pranking apparatus.

“I filled it with parasprite repellant. I hear the little buggers are roaming that part of Equestria again.”

“I still don’t understand why you want to visit your relatives in Ponyville all of a sudden. We’ve never even had a family reunion there,” your mother wonders aloud. Her horn was glowing a faint salmon as she coiffed your tail into a more presentable shape. Ironically, her own red mane was frazzled into a ball of fuzz and split-ends. Bless this mare, you think. Fresh from counseling a hyperactive ADD colt and she still has the energy to help you on your quest of discovery. And on such short notice to boot.

Mental note: Thank Babs for teaching you how to pull off the googly-eyed puppydog look.

Post mental note note: Give Babs a nice, hard smack for sending you off to Ponyville in the first place.

“He’ll be fine, dear. Our second little man is a toughie. He takes after his great, great grand uncle-“

“ ‘Twice removed’, “ your mother states in perfect timing with your father. “I know, I know – if our cousin-in-law is anypony to go by, then Ponyville is safe as can be. I can’t help worrying, Barrel – he IS our son after all!”

“I was going to say ‘thrice removed,’” your father mockingly bluffs, a hearty smirk etched onto his snout. A big joker he is, but always a family stallion when it mattered most. He had always exuded this warm aura of support whenever he and you and a heart-to-heart. It was his destiny after all – to take the blows so that his friends could stay safe. It was hard to tell from his cutie mark alone, but his career was a shining example of the term “padded for safety.”

“Vaccine, please. I love our kids as much as you do; you know I do. I just think junior here needs to do this. I can feel it in my bones.”

“Mister, I remember those bones. I helped reset those bones when we first met; do not talk to me about those bones.” It was now your mother’s turn to make fun of your father. It was a quirky dynamic – your brother said that they usually did this to calm each other down. The laughter, the barbs, the faux bellyaches – they were all supported by a strong foundation of love. If that pink alicorn princess ever came to Manehatten, she’d have a field day with your folks.

To be honest, it was familiar. Sure, you had seen it from your parents first, but you couldn’t help wondering when else you had felt this feeling of safety.

==================================================================

Knickknacks, doodads, and all manner of supplies bulging from your packs, you stepped into Grand Central once more. This was no time for happy reunions or spaced out adventures in fictional worlds – it was time for a hard-boiled investigation!

“Don’t forget your thinking cap, son! We love you~!”

Ugh.

This is so much more drawn out than just pressing Start, you muse.

“It’s a fedora, Mom! I need it for investigating!”

Heh heh. Smooth as usual, you devilish cur.

Ticket firmly in mouth, you stride forward to the teller. “One ticket to Ponyville, please.”

“Well, hello there, little feller! That’s a pretty nice hat ya got there – staying over for a convention I take it?”

“No, mister – I’m going on serious business,” you say with the straightest face you can muster. You were serious after all – nopony would have said otherwise.

“Alrighty – one ticket for the private eye! Keep that head on straight ‘fore ya get double-crossed by some shifty dames, ya hear?,” says the teller, punctuating his heavily-peppered Bronx advice with an air of playfulness.

“Thanks, mister. I’ll, um – I’ll just be going to the waiting area now,” you say, deflated.

Most ponies; MOST ponies would not have said otherwise. You always did find difficulty having grown ponies take you seriously.

“Well, that was… not how I wanted this to go, but I’ll take it. The sooner I can get to Ponyville, the sooner I can come back from it, fix Babs, and dig a hundred foot deep ditch to hide from D-Cell in.”

The train was coming in in about fifteen minutes.

“I hope I can find some answers there.”

==================================================================

Your initial train ride was mostly uneventful; you had just spent the better part of forty minutes getting chatted up by a jovial mare who was on some sort of cross-country vacation of hers. If you remember right, she let slip that she was heading to the Crystal Empire in a few months. She may have been at least twice your age, but she had the same enthusiasm that some schoolponies were chastised for. So much jibbering and jabbering, emphasized with the rather loud “Hoo-WHEE!” made the trip rather memorable to say the least.

If you didn’t know any better (that is, if you weren’t being talked to by this mare face -to-face), you could have sworn that the butter-colored pony was a filly half your age.

Even in a place easily more than a few hundred kilometers away from the Big Apple: some ponies never change.

The second ride was on the saccharine Friendship Express. Laying eyes on it, all you could say for sure was that this train wasn’t built for efficiency or speed. Without the magic imbued into its candy-cut shapes and odd furnishings, this couldn’t possibly make it to any of its destinations in a quick enough time. Then again, the Grand Central trains were built by earth ponies along with unicorns – it’s no wonder that they had a technological edge over other mass transit vehicles.

You descend unto the train station, the crisp country breeze helping to ease some of your tension. The sky was a stark blue with no clouds in sight.

Oh, wait there’s one – no, never mind.

It was bashed away by a rainbow streak before you could get a proper look. Strange.

The Ponyville station echoed its ferries to a tee – a simple platform built around a little cottage, with a single teller. It was for the best, you assumed. Ponyville is surely smaller than Manehattan; it only makes sense that public mass transit weren’t built to handle as much traffic.

Before you can give your surroundings another quick do-over (“A tree with windows in it? How backwards IS this place?”), your view is blocked by a young Pegasus. His round eyes squint as if studying you, sizing you up as friend or foe. The little one obviously chooses the latter as he suddenly latches onto your face with the grip of an iron claw, cooing and babbling in glee as he squeezes into your skull. Before you pass out from the lack of air, he relents. However, his power hug seems to have caused some lasting damage – that housetree was… no – EVERYTHING was upside down!

“GAH! What in the world of Equestria IS this place?!?,” you bellowed as you immediately began to picture how much harder Basic Geography would become.

“Oh my! Pound, Pumpkin – put your cousin down!” says a worried voice. It belonged to a stallion – a rather tired sounding stallion at that. You had half a mind to tell off this stranger for siccing his demon spawn after you… until he addresses you by name.

“Do I… know you?” you ask cautiously. The stallion standing a few feet from you was a yellow, gangly earth pony, dressed up in a white apron, an orange bowtie, and a small orange and white hat. Upside down or not, he didn’t look at all threatening. His green eyes weren’t dull nor did they communicate malice. They held a look of concern, almost as if he were…

“Oh, that’s right! You were too young to remember when we first met. I’m your Uncle Carrot Cake and these two youngsters are your cousins: Pound Cake and Pumpkin Cake – now, Pumpkin, be nice and let your cousin down. His face is starting to turn purple.”

Right on cue, you are swerved right side up and plopped quickly back onto the platform. The speed of it all leaves you discombobulated; subsequently leading to a quick floor plant, jaw first. Indignity aside, you were glad to see a friendly face here in stranger lands.

“Uncle” Carrot Cake is a distant cousin of your father, or so the latter recalled; he had phoned ahead to make sure you had a place to stay. You could make out some family resemblances such as his freckles and his walking gait. His cutie mark, a trio of frosted brown cake slices, caught your eye. “Cooking sweets? Never really thought about that,” you muse to yourself. Another thing that stood out was just how much reserve this thin stallion had. He managed to juggle a smack-happy pegasus pony (whom you assumed as Pound Cake) and magical firecracker of a unicorn (Pumpkin Cake, probably) as well as a newly arrived earth pony foal.

The twins were a more familiar site, considering how much each one resembled your siblings. Oddly enough however, the genders were reversed: your big brother Power Chord the unicorn was now in the form of a happy little unicorn filly, yellow coat and all, munching away on a rubber chicken her father had just given her; your tall pegasus sister Palette Swap had now lost all of her artistic grace and traded her long, drooped mane for a brown baby’s pompadour.

Dusting yourself from your fall, you manage to shakily introduce yourself to your uncle. He gives you time to steady yourself before leading you off to your temporary abode. “I take it the train ride went smoothly? We don’t often get visitors from busy cities.”

“It was fine, Uncle Carrot. Certainly made some interesting conversation,” you recall, slightly amused.

“I still can’t believe your parents let you go on two train rides and stay here in Ponyville all by yourself. I thought Padd would be more… I don’t know – bothered that his youngest son would travel so far! And what about Vaccine Booster? She couldn’t have liked this.” Uncle Carrot’s voice betrayed worry and wistfulness. You could hear his concern for you as well as his desire to see his cousin, your father, Padded Barrel, again.

“I really needed this break, Uncle Carrot. Besides, Pop said that you were great with kids and that four days wouldn’t be enough to make you start pulling out you hair,” you joke. The stallion looked like he needed to lighten up.

“If it makes you feel any better, Mom and Pop really did worry about me. I had to split a few hairs and make some bargains to even get them to consider my trip. They both have their own outings right now too and I managed to convince them that I’d be safer here than in Manehattan.”

You promised to take on a few extra chores and to get your grades up, but in the end, Babs’ patented puppydog stare was what got them to crumble. The small advantages that came with youth – you usually forgot about them, but at the time, you couldn’t be more thankful.

“Ha ha – that sounds about right.. All right, son. Cupcake, that’s your aunt, and I will take care of you while you’re here. We hope you get that rest you’ve been looking for. And if you’re in need of company, school will be out while you’re here – nothing says rounds out a vacation like making some local friends!,” he concludes warmly. You certainly didn’t feel averse to making some new friends, but they weren’t the priority here. As cold as it was, all Uncle Carrot and Aunt Cupcake were here for was to provide you a place to stay while you did your investigation. New friends could wait – an old friend needed you more than she ever did.

Eventually, you arrived at a large house made to look like a confectioner’s ice cream dream. Its large chocolate and icing-laden roof loomed over your small head. It filled you with a sense of marvel, a sense of awe, and an even greater sense of…

*grumble~*

Hunger. Those donuts didn’t last as long as you’d hoped.

“Ha ha. Welcome to Sugarcube Corner, son. This is where you’ll be staying for the next couple of days. Let me bring your things up to your room and you can go ahead and help yourself to some pretzels.” Uncle Carrot winks at you and pulls of your saddlebags. As he ascends the stairs, you take in the heavenly scene about you. Small tables held assortments of delectable confections and a glass display showed even more tasty treats for a hungry pony to eat. Shelves in the adjoining rooms were lined to the brim with wrapped candies and toffees. The lobby itself felt welcoming and, as fate would have it, sweet. Candy cane pillars held up the roof and buttresses with candies etched into them completed the “at home” feeling. It’s magnificent to behold; truly a candy paradise.

A single plate of large pretzels was placed on the glass display. Helping yourself to a morsel, you plan your approach. “I should start with the library. That could help me get some vital clues around this joint.” You could try city hall as well, but there was little to no chance that big political ponies would make time for a kid visitor. Nope – you are all alone in this caper.

Something makes you stop your thinking and your enjoyment of your sumptuous treat. That same feeling that you were being…

Oh, right – Pound and Pumpkin Cake were still here with you.

The little ones had grown enamored with you after your wobbly performance back at the station. You look at them and flash a quick smile; they respond in kind, beaming you large, toothless grins. Although they continue to busy themselves by roughhousing and play, they would occasionally saunter back to you, point and make unintelligible noises and then go back to their usual affairs.

They still reminded you greatly of your own siblings back in Manehattan.

You take a mighty gulp and shout to the pony upstairs, “Thanks, Uncle! I hope I’ll enjoy my stay here!” You pause and add, “The pretzels were delicious!”

Carrot Cake steps down from the flight of stairs and gives you a big smile. “It’s no problem at all, son. I left your things in the employee guest room at the top. I brought out the spare bed near the window. Now, business hours start back in five. You should probably go out and catch some sun while I get the counter ready.”

“All right. I think I should do that. Um, any idea where the town library is?”

“I didn’t think you’d want to coop yourself up so soon after I’d told you to go,” Carrot Cake chides. “It’s that big oak tree from across the station – you can’t miss it. It’s called Golden Oaks Library.”

“Oh,” you say. “Okay. I’ll be back in a couple o’ hours. Thanks again!”

Adjusting your eyepatch and fedora, you step out into the afternoon sun.

“First day in Ponyville. So far, so good.”

Author's Note

Now before you get to worked up, I made it so that "you" were related to the Cakes so that A) your parents won't freak out and B) you have a valid excuse for an extended stay in Ponyville.

Originally, I had envisioned "you" sneaking out at night and train-hopping your way to Ponyville, leaving only a note to your parents saying that you were sleeping over at the Seeds house. That would have caused undue drama in the later stages, so I changed it.

Also, Mr. Cake's long and confusing genealogy (S02E13: Baby Cakes) was a natural fit for "your" own big, mixed family tree/forest. It fits in pretty well, I think.

Three guesses as to whose room your staying in right now :P Don't worry - I'll address that soon enough.

Rate, comment, and criticize! Thank you!

The junior librarian and the fashionista

“I take that back. So far, not so good,” you state glumly.

The plan you had crafted after your pretzel break was not coming together as soon as you had hoped, the main reason being spelled out right in your snout.

“OUT. SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE.”

The brief message was hastily scrawled on a piece of parchment, affixed to the red door of the imposing tree. Er… house. Tree house?

“Heh heh – tree house.” Chuckling inwardly, you take a walk about the large structure to take it all in. Its thick trunk and healthful canopy gave no doubt of its nature; at the same time, windows, a balcony, and even a telescope showed that this was manipulated by the occupant. A simple sign to the left of the door featured a thick, open book - Golden Oaks Library, while admittedly small compared to the regal buildings in Manehattan, possessed a charm and authority all its own.

Sadly, this provided little impact on your search for the truth. You had been planning on going through old newspaper snippets dated to when Babs stayed here; it would have been a good foundation on where to start. Not having a clue where to begin did not give you the most straightforward plan of attack, but this had to do. Operative word being “had.”

“Hmm, maybe I can sneak a quick browse? It’s not like anypony can stop me…,” you say as you stand back in front of the library’s door. Placing a hoof on one of the handles beneath the large candle insignia, you find that the entrance swings open with ease. The head librarian must have left it unlocked when she left.

Inside, the library appeared barer than expected – as if it was built for somepony to simply come in and borrow books instead of staying over to read. The lobby had multiple shelves built into the walls, all lined with books of varying shapes and sizes. Oddly enough, the books appeared to have been placed with no rhyme or reason, as large and small spines, sometimes even pieces of parchment stuck out like gaudy markers in the alcoves. In the center of the lobby stood a round, wooden desk topped by a wooden horse head. Again, papers were hastily strewn about here and there, along with spent inkwells and broken quills. A staircase lined the back wall, curving up to an upper level.

“It’s like a tornado came through here…,” you mutter as you make your way further inside. An adjoining back room held more shelves and books; however, this room was spic-and-span. It even had… “Lace and ribbons?” In stark contrast to the central room, this room had been dusted and reorganized to a tee. Every book looked like they had been dusted and gingerly tucked in with its companions and the floors were so smooth you could have skated on them if you had wanted. Nopony seemed to be here either, forcing you back to where you came.

Making your way back to the main lobby, you settle on the flight of stairs carved into the surrounding wall. Even this was not spared the shelving treatment, as the wood was hollowed to accommodate even more books and wayward scrolls. Flecks of ink dotted the boards, indicating that somepony must have been in a rush. If the situation in the library is any indication, the upper level must also be in a similar state of dishevelment.

Your first step on the sturdy looking flight elicits a loud ~creak~ that reverberates throughout the building. A quick scratch and shuffling noise sounds out from the upper floor, followed by a tired, airy voice:

“Who?”

Hmm. It seems like the librarian was just using “out” as an excuse to sleep in extra late today. Maybe there was some sort of book party here the night before?

“Uh, hello? Sir, er… ma’am? Or sir? I was just wondering if I could sift through your newspaper back-issues. I, uh… need them for some research.” You didn’t need to fib, but the situation somewhat called for it. The hat and eyepatch are instantly suspicious after all, even you can attest to that. This librarian might try to pick your brain and that would cost too much time.

“Whooo?”

Scratching your forehooves against the step, you say your name and re-state your business. “I won’t be here long, I promise!” Maybe you were being brushed off in exchange for another 40 winks…

“Whoo.”

Odd. That last one sounded more pensive that questioning. The airy voice gave way to another scuffle before its owner made itself visible. Descending quickly from the upper floor was… an owl? The brown ball of feathers descends cheerily and lands on the horse head in the middle of the lobby. His eyes, large and black, give you a once over before he nods and sits, listening to your next words.

“Oh. Hey there, fella. You wouldn’t happen to know where the old newspapers are, would ya?”

The little fowl gives you a quick nod and flies off into the cleaner room you had just explored a few minutes ago. Trotting after it, you enter the polished portal to see the owl feverishly pulling on one of the ribbons guarding a tiny alcove near the top of the roof; it seems that your smaller height stopped you from noticing this particular shelf. A few more spirited tugs later and the offending band of fabric frays, letting loose a torrent of black and white papers. “Jackpot,” you say as you advance towards the growing pile of sweet information…

Just as you are able to make out a headline (“Twin Conponies, Apprehended in Appleoosa”), you are alerted by a tinkling bell and the sound of some shuffling footsteps. The pitter-patter of feet sounded strange – whoever had come in must have done so barehooved; the telltale clip-clop of horseshoes did not echo through the empty library. Was it the head librarian, returned from his afternoon of personal shenanigans?

Seeing as how sifting through the papers without so much as a backwards thought to the new visitor seemed rude (and made you look like a sneak-thief), you abandon your search and walk outside to meet the newcomer. Instead of a pony however, you are met with stacks of baskets, each filled to the brim with varying items: quills, corks, stoppered inkwells, and small bags of what appeared to be grain. The mountain of items is balanced precariously on a little red hand-pulled wagon.

“AAH! A burglar! Please, don’t take my stuff! I just dragged them here!”

The small voice emanating from the top of the wooden staircase sounds like it belongs to a little colt, no older than yourself. Whirling around to make eye contact, you see a stubby little lizard, on his knees and his front claws clasped together in a praying position, his eyes shut tight as if awaiting a horrible fate.

“No! No, mister – I just came here to look at some papers! I’m not a burglar, I promise.”

Your words reach the little creature immediately and he stands up to his full (albeit, still short) height, sheepishly, rubbing a claw across his bulbous purple forehead. “Phew,” he says. “I thought this was going to be one of those crazy things that happen whenever Twilight’s out…”

Giving the small creature a once over, you can’t help comparing him to an old cartoon you saw as a foal. The purple scales, the enormous green eyes, even the small fangs protruding from his upper lip. You can hardly believe it: this living, breathing thing standing above you looked just like…

“Huffy the Magic Dragon?! You’re REAL? Mom’s been convincing me that you were nothing but a hoof inside a sock puppet!”

The purple dragon stares at you at first, before breaking into a hearty guffaw that sends him doubling over and falling down the stairs towards your feet. He continues laughing for a good few seconds, tears welling up in his eyes as his green underbelly rises and falls erratically.

Making his way to his feet and polishing the dust off he exclaims “Oh, man. I haven’t heard THAT one in a long time. Nah, I ain’t famous or anything. But yeah – I guess I AM a magic dragon.” He extends a right claw to you in a hoofshake. “The name’s Spike. Junior Head Librarian of Golden Oaks.”

You introduce yourself and repeat that you came in looking for old newspapers. “Your pet helped show me where they were kept. I think we made a bit of a mess though. I’ll be sure to put them back into place when I’m done.” How you were going to do this, given your height and lack of wings or magic, is still a mystery.

“Wait, did you say… Owlowysious!,” Spike calls out as he runs into the adjacent room. You hear a bit of a scuffle, followed by some incoherent mumblings of “feather,” “trouble,” and even “…oh, Twilight’s going to cut my bit allowance for this!”

Following suit, you find Owlowysious the owl, perched atop Spike’s head, as the latter feverishly rearranges the fallen papers into multiple stacks. “I’m really sorry, kid, but I’m not even halfway done with cleaning the library. Could you maybe come back another time?”

“Really? It looks like this room’s pretty done,” you say to calm the hyperventilating junior head librarian. The stack of papers is starting to grow beyond the little dragon’s reach, his efforts having to be aided with a flying beak to place the papers ever higher.

Seeing this scene unfold before you, you volunteer to help the wayward pair. “If you want, I could help you reorganize. I can set aside what I need and just bring them back tomorrow – it’d be a win-win for both, err… the three of us.” This statement is met by a clatter of claws and a whoosh of wings as the two creatures cling to you in a tight hug.

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! Princesses know I could sure use another helping hoof. This place has definitely seen better times,” he adds with the slightest twinge of annoyance in his voice.

As you sift through the papers, you make casual conversation with the young drake. Spike the dragon, as it turns out, had been living here in Ponyville for the past couple of years. He had come in to accompany the real proprietor of Golden Oaks, a Miss Twilight Sparkle, in order to complete her studies in friendship. He has since been part of the local Summer Sun Celebration and Winter Wrap-Up (where no magic was used), had become a bit of a town personality (“I helped with the announcing for an Iron Pony Competition and the Running of the Leaves! Everypony knows me, one way or another.”). In many of his stories, he names six friends, all mares of differing backgrounds and personalities. He gives happy accounts of each: the ever-studious Twilight Sparkle, the competitive Rainbow Dash, the frank Applejack (whose name rings a bell), the timid Fluttershy, the loud and friendly Pinkie Pie, and the dazzling fashionista Rarity. As time passes, you notice how often he praises and serenades the last unicorn, the saccharine emotion just oozing from his every word. This little guy is crushing tremendously on her, you think. “He’s so forthcoming about it though. Like he doesn’t care who finds out.”

When asked about what caused the mess, he gives a casual shrug and says "Dunno. Something about some natural disaster all the way out near the Griffon borderlands... Twilight and some o' the others were sent to investigate it."

A whole morning is spent on cleaning out the library. The great mess that greeted you as you entered was now almost completely gone. Unfortunately, your search for anything newsworthy turned up empty and you had to leave empty-hoofed. Well, at least you made a new friend; a dragon no less.

“Wait,” Spike calls out. “Before you leave, could you take that basket to Carousel Boutique? The top one, filled with all the jewels. I kinda owe Rarity some since she was the one who helped me spruce up that one room in the first place. I’d do it myself, but duty calls, you know?” He punctuates the last line by donning a pink apron emblazoned with a flower and holding a tiny broom to his side.

Before you can ask, he adds “Owlowysious can lead you to the front door. And Rarity’s really good at socializing. She can probably give you that news you’re looking for.”

“Oh, wow. Really? I-I mean – yeah, sure! Thanks, Spike!,” you say before grabbing the basket in your mouth and following Owlowysious out into the afternoon sun.

The hustle and bustle of Ponyville looks like it picked up while you were cooped up in the library. Mares and stallions walked to and fro, bringing with them various items. Their cutie marks were in plain view; Ponyville, as Spike said, isn’t as avid with clothes as cities like Canterlot and Manehattan. Truth be told, it was causing you to stare for longer than usual.

Tailing Owlowysious, you soon arrive at a grandiose, multi-tiered structure that resembled a castle, a tent, and a carousel all at once. Its blue outer walls mingled with its yellow and lavender accents on various adornments and the roof itself. A large sign, seamlessly incorporated into the shop’s façade, depicted a ponyquin dressed up in an elegant bridle. Two similar ponyquins were propped on both sides of the upper structure. If this wasn’t Carousel Boutique, it was certainly doing a bang-up job of making everypony think so.

Waving goodbye to the departing owl, you deposit the basket of gems on the ground before delivering three swift knocks to the front door. A singsong voice answers “Who is iiiiiiiitt~?”

“Jewel delivery for Miss Rarity? Spike sent me!”

A few minutes later, the door swings open to reveal a small, white unicorn filly with a two-tone mane and tail. Her green eyes give you a once over before politely smiling and beckoning you in. This mare isn’t at all who you were expecting. Truth be told, she looked too young to be running a business here all by herself. Her pink and purple mane wasn’t done in the curled style that Spike couldn’t stop blathering on about either. Before you can get to look at her cutie mark however, she gives you a quick nod and runs out the door. Huh. Fillies.

“Miss Rarity, wait – the jewels!,” you call out, but your assumptions are soon quashed by the voice that had addressed you earlier.

“Just leave them there, darling! I’ll be right over!”

You are soon in the presence of a much taller mare, her stark white coat bringing out her blue eyes and vibrant indigo mane; a trio of blue diamonds adorns her flank. A small pair of red glasses adorns the mare’s snout; she also seems to be busying herself with threading three needles of varying size with different colors of thread. While obviously well-occupied, she doesn’t appear terribly frazzled; on the contrary, she appears to be enjoying herself quite a bit, her eyes glinting past her little glasses.

“Oh, why hello there, little one. My name is Rarity and this is my shoppe – Carousel Boutique, where every garment is chic, unique, and magnifique!” she intones, with the slightest giggle in her voice. She must really like her work here.

“Spike sent me a letter and said you’d be right over, the little gentledragon. From Manehattan, are we? My, my – such a busy city. The fashion trend is rather brutal there, I hear. What IS all the rage there right now?”

You can barely blurt out an “Uh…” before you are quickly levitated onto a small stage surrounded by three full-length mirrors. A number of tape measures and patterned cloths are applied quickly to your croup, dock, haunches, and shoulders and removed just as quickly. Miss Rarity seems to be just talking to herself now. “Oh, but I know something simply perfect for you, dear! Yes, yes – definitely a dapper little number I can make just for you,” she coos as scissors begin to cut out small patterns in rolls of fabric stationed near where you’re standing.

“M-miss Rarity? I’m sorry to be a bother, but the jewels,” you point out “are still over by the door.”

“Oh my. I thought Sweetie Belle had brought them in before going out. Oh well, fillies shall be fillies.” As Rarity continues on about how debonair she plans on making you look, the gears inside your head finally click.

Spike’s friend, Applejack.

“Apple Bloom.”

Rarity’s little sister.

“Sweetie Belle.”

Rarity hears your words and chirps in, “Why yes, dear – ‘The Cutie Mark Crusaders,’ those two along with Scootaloo. A handful at times, but they truly remind me of a more innocent time. Charming, really. Almost like a fairy tale… And will you be their prince?” She’s grinning ear to ear now, eyeing you with glee.

“Gah! What? No! I’m not… I mean… but they… but Babs…!”
“Oh, Applejack and Apple Bloom’s cousin Babs? I didn’t know you were spoken for. And so young too. Such a wonderful thing, young love!”

“Miss Rarity, please! I’m just here to get some news and be on my way!” You can feel your blush threaten to burn your cheeks off as your voice reaches a pitch akin to your mother’s.

“Oh, p’shaw, dear. I’m merely teasing. You just look so adorable is all Now, why don’t we start from the beginning? You tell me about you and I’ll tell you what you think you need to know.” The dressmaker claps her front hooves together, excited that her little game is about to begin.

*sigh* “Only if you promise not to tell anypony else. Please.”

“Pinkie promise, dear. Cross my heart and hope to fly,” she gesticulates, “stick a cupcake in my eye.”

“… you’re mocking me aren’t you?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, darling. I do hope you understand – I haven’t had any decent conversation since Twilight and Pinkie left with Fluttershy in tow.”

This looks like it’s going to be your only lead. Sweetie Belle and the other crusaders would have to wait – talking to fillies isn’t exactly your forte after all.

“Well,” you begin “it all started about two weeks ago when I met Babs at the train station…”

Author's Note

Sorry it's late, guys. I had a nasty mental block.
So, to summarize - only AJ, RD, and Rarity are in Ponyville at the moment. The former two being who they are, you can imagine how little Rarity gets to gossip. And I'm pretty sure AJ gushes about her family, given the chance. The other mares will definitely want to know why four fillies got involved in a float crash, after all.

As always, rate, comment, and criticize!

A promise and a treat

“And that’s really all I can say about that,” you conclude, sans fedora; during the latter part of your “fashion retrofit,” Miss Rarity managed to convince you to remove the hat. In retrospect, wearing your thinking cap miles upon miles away from home is rather… misguided. The article of clothing is now hanging on a far away coatrack, being lazily fiddled with by a white tabby. With its weight off your head, you feel as if you're just a little colt instead of a hard-boiled private eye. It’s a welcome change of pace.

Despite the rather jarring welcome, you are now able to gain better footing with the alabaster unicorn before you. As your recounting continues, you pour more and more of yourself into your story, narrating the happy memories with newfound gusto and the frustrating parts with all the seething pain your frame can manage. Somehow, knowing that somepony else wants to listen to your current predicament has made it easier for you to say what you feel. You gain a better understanding of your previous encounter with the draconic junior librarian. Is this what it’s like to feel at ease with a stranger?

Is this what Babs felt that day from those years ago?

For all intents and purposes, Rarity means incredibly well – every little grunt or shuffle you made was addressed immediately and expertly by the dressmaker; even as she made her nips and tucks, she listened quite intently to your unfolding of this caper. She said very little, aside from the occasional “Mmm” and “Oh my, just dreadful!” – you couldn’t blame her, really; the seemingly unending number of manipulations she was making during the entire process was nothing short of mind-boggling. Needles here and there, multiple rolls of fabric, and even her cat were not far from her piercing gaze and invisible hoofwork.

Upon concluding your story, you are guided to the boutique’s waiting area. “You aren’t simply a ponyquin, little one – you are a guest, and guests deserve some hospitality,” the mare chirps. As you plop yourself onto a small blue chair, she drags a rather large and posh looking red sofa to her side; she promptly, yet still gracefully, drops onto the couch belly first. She squirms about momentarily, adjusting herself for comfort before summoning two tall glasses of iced tea to the round table in front of you.

“Now, let me hazard a guess, my dear,” said the mare prostrated beside you. “Your eye injury was inflicted by a filly, wasn’t it? Just a few inches smaller than you, hmm? And I take it she did this in retaliation?” she states knowingly, her eyes squinted but not betraying her judgment.

You shrink away in fear and embarrassment. Within a few minutes, she had been able to deduce that you were beaten by a filly for trying to hit her. A quiet mutter of “She deserved it,” escapes your lips, followed suit by your forehooves wrapping themselves around your snout. You and your big mouth.

“It’s alright, little one. Rarity is not one to judge,” she states, looking up at her well-lit ceiling. “I’m not denying your reasons for fighting – few things are as noble as defending the honor of a close friend,” she punctuates, that same knowing twinkle in her eye. Maybe she’s an undercover cop that’s just pretending to be a dressmaker to fish out some dastardly perp? She’s reading everything in your story, even the parts you yourself don’t want to pay much attention to…

“I take part in self-defense classes as well, you see. It does wonders for the figure and a lady can never be too careful.” She stands up, hoofsteps clattering against the white marble floor. She looks around her store conspiratorially before drawing close, her face mere centimeters away from yours; she’s so close, you can feel her breath. She looks you dead in the eyes and speaks quietly and seriously, “Promise me that what I’m about to share with you will never leave this boutique and that you will only use it when the time is right. You don’t owe me bits or any precious stones – simply promise me that you will keep your word.”

Despite the low volume of her voice, you’re compelled by the authority in her words. You nod slowly, making sure to maintain eye contact with the grown mare. She takes another look about her store before addressing you.

“The greatest weakness of filly self-defense is that it relies on reversals and leverage. Forget everything you know about advantages in height or weight – she can use both of those against you. Judging from how you recounted your experience, I can suggest only one thing: do NOT hit her. No matter how she eggs you on or chides you, you must not give in. If you do not hit her, there is nothing in her repertoire she can use against you.”

She keeps her close distance to you for the next minute or so, later backing off and smiling to ease the tension. Her eyes go back to the normal, relaxed state they were, her eyelashes no longer accentuating her furrowed brow. She grabs one of the glasses in her blue aura and takes a ginger sip. Seeing this, you do the same with your hooves; only now do you realize that you’re shaking in place. As the ice rattles against the glass, you let the gravity of the situation hit you fully: this stranger just taught you how to stand up for yourself; with little to go on, she has trusted you with a secret in the hopes you’ll use them for the greater good.

That you’ll use them to protect your friend.

“Now, a lady keeps her promises. You’ll want to go to Sweet Apple Acres, east of here and further down a trodden, dirt path. There should be a clearing nearby, behind the Apple Family’s living quarters. You’ll find what you need there.”

Nodding and thanking the mare, you turn to leave, but a magical tug on your ear forces you to turn back. Rarity is flat on her couch again, levitating her notes and measurements around in a swirl of blue. She regards you quickly and concludes, “My little gentlecolt, you must understand that Ponyville is not like the big city. The ponies here treasure their companions, be they childhood friends or newly met acquaintances. Do not presume the worst for Babs; instead, try and see why she loved her stay here. She isn’t some case you need to unravel or a toy that needs fixing” she says while eyeing you knowingly. “She’s your friend and you need to always respect her.” She concludes by lifting your fedora over so you can reach it with a bite. “Now run along on your quest, sir knight! May the sun and moon smile upon your endeavor!”

As you reach the front door, you hear the mare call whimsically out to you, “I’ll be done with this piece before you know it, darling! It’ll be simply to die for!”

As you make your way outside Carousel Boutique, you notice that the sky has already attained a fading, orange glow. You decide that it’d be best to head back to SugarCube Corner as soon as possible – Uncle Carrot may already be halfway through ripping his mane out by now.

==================================================================

By the time you return to SugarCube Corner, your uncle looks to have baked, decorated, and sold over a dozen full-tilt party centerpieces. His eye-bags are more pronounced and some of the hairs in his curly, orange mane are standing on end. He looks like he just raised his own Frankenpony monster. Or to be more accurate, monsters; Pound and Pumpkin Cake are freely crawling about the kitchen, covered in flour and flowers, among other things. They appear to be wholly unmindful of their haggard father or their newly-arrived big city cousin. The shop itself is now full of ponies, either quietly munching on a snack by themselves or chatting loudly over some drinks.

“Hey, there’s my nephew! A certain somepony came by earlier today and told me what you’ve been up to. Now what’s all this about heading to Carousel Boutique? I thought you’d be more interested in Prankster Palace than a clothing shop,” he chuckles.

Eeyup – he even grins just like your pop when he cracks a joke. As unnerving as it is, it’s also a very comforting assurance that you’re safely with family in this strange, new place.

As Carrot Cake walks about putting orders on tables, receiving payments, and occasionally getting entangled in the antics of his children, he manages to tell you of the day’s events: while you were chatting up Miss Rarity, Spike had come over to SugarCube Corner for “personal supplies, including four very large gemstone-encrusted cupcakes.” During his stay, he told your uncle where you had headed off to and that you would be in good hooves.

“Wow. I didn’t even ask him to do that for me,” you say. It looks like Huffy the Magic Dragon still had a few lessons on friendship he had to teach you yet.

“Oh, and another thing – your Aunt Cupcake will be back here by tomorrow morning. Make sure you say ‘Hi’ to her before you go out again tomorrow. She worries, just so you know,” Uncle Carrot says with a faraway look in his eye. You swear, every minute or so, the stallion acts every bit as fatherly as your own back in Manehattan, albeit with more work ethic.

According to your uncle, your aunt, his wife, had a small accident with the taffy puller and was recuperating in Ponyville General for the night. “She sends her best and she hopes you’ll have a great stay.”

You spend the rest of the late afternoon and evening keeping your cousins occupied while Uncle Carrot worked or vice-versa, sometimes switching duties with the older stallion. These two sibling clones of yours were certainly a hoof-ful. “I don’t know what we’d do without our regular sitter around,” the yellow stallion says as he scoops up the two sleeping bundles of exhausted baby pony. “That mare doesn’t look or act much like it, but she’s one of the most responsible ponies I know. It’s like there’s more than one of her around the way she gets all of her chores done.”

After helping with tucking your cousins in (Pound Cake’s thrashing about made him the more difficult), you say your good nights and make your way to the guest quarters at the very top of the building. Apparently, the room’s original resident, one Pinkamena Diane Pie (“What a strange second name,” you think), was more than willing to lend her bedspace to you while she went on a trip with her friends, Twilight Sparkle and Fluttershy. As you reach the top of the stairwell, you are greeted with a large, two-floored room that, oddly enough, seems to be prepped for a party. The veranda above is painted a vibrant pink to contrast with the cream walls; balloons are tied onto the railings, as are large streamers that connect to the central point of the inner roof. To your right stands a wooden desk with an old record player, its golden horn giving off a healthy gleam; across from it is a long table covered in a pink tablecloth. Next to the long table is a simple vanity – this is still somepony’s room, after all. Confetti is strewn about everywhere on the blue hardwood floors. This is certainly an unexpected touch to the living space.

Trudging your way over to a generic looking bed, you take one last look around the room. A few more things catch your eye: a large black fireplace designed to look like a frosted treat, a larger bed with a candy-themed quilt sitting across from the spare one you are going to use, and a wooden cabinet. Noticing the door to the cabinet is ajar, you walk over to close them tightly – a force of habit cultivated by the belief that bogeyponies could come and go using dark spaces. Your nerves get the best of you as your apprehension causes you to swing the doors open in an effort to flush out the things that would go bump in the night.

The insides of the doors are emblazoned with identical carvings of a single balloon, its string curling down merrily towards the floor. The cabinet itself is filled with a bevy of items: large overalls, a patchwork bodysuit with bells on the leggings, a selection of eyepatches largely similar to the one you’re wearing, and even some bath sponges. As you are about to push the doors shut, a small blue circle draws your attention. Closing the doors caused the room’s light to center in on this innocuous, little…

“It’s a… cupcake?”

The simple confection is adorned with blue icing and sprinkles. After you pick it up with your hooves, you see that a note is hidden under the sugary treat. Partaking of the midnight snack (“Hmm. Tastes fresh.”), you read the note aloud to yourself.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome
A fine welcome to you
Welcome, welcome, welcome
I say how do you do?
Welcome, welcome, welcome
I say ‘Hip hip hooray!’
Welcome, welcome, welcome
To Ponyville today!”

Flipping the little note over, you read “I.O.U. 1x Welcome Party!” Huh. It’s weird, you think as you slowly make your way over to the bed and lie down to drift off. “It’s like the cupcake was made in advance, but it tastes like it was baked just this morning.”

The last thing that you hear before drifting off to sleep is a soft, muffled giggle.

Author's Note

And this will be the last overt example of Pinkie Pie breaking the laws of physics in this universe. I promise.
I adored writing for Rarity in this one. Her inflections are quite charming, even if you're not physically hearing them.

An apple a day keeps the Crusaders at play

“Real life is often stranger than fiction” – it’s an old adage you’ve heard tossed around ever so often. It isn’t hard to understand at all; it’s simply a rare sight unless you’re out there looking for it.

If a few hundred miles from home doesn’t count as “out there,” you don’t know what will. “Strange” is not the most appropriate word for your situation either – suspended in the air along with three fillies, each with their own looks of fear, shock, and surprise, as your experiment came to a loud screeching bang.

No, it’s not very easy to explain your current situation, much less put it into words.

Odd; although, your day didn’t start out mundane to begin with.

=================================================================================

The castle looms in the distance, its skull-like façade appearing ominous against the stormy sky. Sword clenched firmly in your teeth, you stride forward, pushing your aching hooves into the bloodied sands. Your foes stood little chance against your mighty blade, getting cut down with a single strike. Their maws opened as if to scream, but no sounds came forth from their zombie throats. The fight, while not particularly taxing, was incredibly long and tedious. Your body felt as if it had been constricted in heavy chains.

Your recent hardships are not astonishing – the evil wizard Copper Cauldron is a known coward and a trickster. Why, you can still remember your prolonged encounter with his dimwitted minion Shock Jock. If anything at all, you have been expecting far more devious deviltry from this fiend…

No sooner had you reached the great stone face of the castle; you were suddenly caught in a whirling, suffocating dervish of unseen might.

“Fool! Did you really think you could defeat me with a paltry sword and your injudicious chivalry?,” comes a booming voice from behind the lowering drawbridge. You gnash your teeth as Copper Cauldron reveals himself, seated on an ominous throne of black making with his vile magicks leaking from his eyes and horn. A golden chain is wrapped around his left front hoof, entangled around a figure shrouded by the castle’s darkness.

“Now that you have been entrapped in the forces of my invisible Lemon Leviathan, you can forfeit any chance of saving your precious Queen!”

As the unseen evil continues to smother you, you see the mad warlock tug on his thrall’s chain, pulling her into view. Her muddied coat and partially tattered mane do little to change your opinion – she looks as beautiful as the day you made her acquaintance. Your resolve cracks when your eyes meet, however – as your breath slows to a crawl, the last image burned into your mind is her tears flowing freely…

“I’m sorry I left you…”
It’s your last thought as the ground around you begins to shake…

=================================================================================

“Honey, get me some warm milk, our nephew’s having a nightmare,” exclaims a new voice. It’s matronly and oddly calm, despite the situation. Top Brass and Lemon Drops have you at their mercy and the best this mare could do was ask Uncle Carrot to get you some…

“Wait, wha…? Who? Where? How?”

Looking at the foot of your bed, you see the twin foals playing with a yellow, blue-striped ball; they’re being immensely spirited, smacking the toy between them via headbutts, mouth chucks, and hoof-throws. The ground wasn’t shaking; rather, it was, but it wasn’t the ground…

Rubbing the last flecks of sleep from your eyes, you sit up to survey the room you are in. You are still in Ms. Pie’s room, the only changes being the now slept-in bed you are on and a newly propped up folding table to your right side. A thick-set earth pony mare is standing at the doorway talking to a lanky, yellow stallion. Turning around, she reveals her cutie mark, an iced pink cupcake with a cherry on top, and a worried looking Carrot Cake behind the door frame. Her shaped magenta mane and blue coat contrast her heavily with your uncle, as does her short stocky build. She is wearing a yellow, pink-frilled apron. She walks over to you, tray in mouth, bearing a small plate of toast and a tall glass of what you assume is warm milk.

Putting the tray down on the table, the mare greets you by name in that same gentle voice you had heard earlier. Seeing as you are now no longer in any perceived danger, your mood and breathing has evened out significantly. You smile in return and thank her for the treat. Tipping the glass into your mouth, you feel her rub a hoof on your back.

“That’s right - tuck in, dear. The milk will help calm you down. We had decided to let you sleep in today, but then you started groaning and thrashing in bed. We were so worried…”

She is right – the milk going down your throat warms you up significantly, slowing your scattered thoughts and allowing you to completely regain your bearings. Your brain starts to put everything back into place. Your hooves ached only because you had slept on them wrong. Your frozen body and suffocation are explained by the haphazardly wrapped covers around your barrel and forehooves. Copper Cauldron, Top Brass, was never here – he was probably back in Manehattan, throwing his weight around like usual. Babs is safe with her family too.

“My name is Cupcake, but you can call me Auntie Cee. Now finish up and come on downstairs. Your uncle tells me you have plans for the day, right? You’d best get to it before your run out of daylight!” Aunt Cupcake scoops up your cousins and trots happily towards the door, leaving it slightly open for you to step through. Biting into your toast, you hear two voices growing fainter and fainter and the clattering of hooves as the family heads back downstairs.

Starting to feel more relaxed, you recall Miss Rarity’s instructions the day prior. “Sweet Apple Acres, east of Carousel Boutique. A clearing behind the main house.” You should be heading there as soon as possible, you think – it’s not wise to push your curfew in a strange place. You hadn’t given much thought on waking up early today, given yesterday’s rather exhausting events. Helping to reorganize an entire library along with an owl and a dragon resembling a childhood hero of yours, followed by a grueling fitting session and one of the most emotional retellings you could ever muster.

Popping the entire second square of toast in your hungry mouth, you hop down onto the hardwood floor and make your way towards the door. You turn back for a few seconds, before deciding to leave your trusty fedora on the bedside. Taking things too seriously does not work very well in the laid-back berg you’ve taken yourself too and the hat serves as a reminder of that. Your eyepatch is still stuck firmly over your left eye, ensuring a complete and speedy recovery by the time you make your way back home.

Entering the serving lobby of SugarCube Corner, you spot the Cakes dashing around in a speedy, organized manner, getting their shop cleaned up after the lunch time rush. Your uncle is sweeping up the mess using a chomp-bit broom while your aunt picks up all the dirty dishes left on the patrons’ tables. Curiously, the twins are nowhere in sight.

“Oh, Pound and Pumpkin? We tucked them in for their afternoon nap. Now, your uncle tells me you’re off to Sweet Apple Acres? It’s a good distance from here – would you like some bits for a carriage?”

Huh. It appears that Aunt Cupcake shares your mother’s eye for detail and head for planning. All that because you stopped in your tracks for a minute?

You refuse her offer, stating that you know the way and that you are used to hoofing much longer distances. She quickly places a small saddle pack on you, saying “Oh, no need to be modest, dear. Take the bits and these bran muffins with you, along with some water. I wouldn’t want you going hungry for having too much fun, now would I? Now, run along – your Uncle and I have this place under control.”

After equipping you, she goes right back to clearing tables and rearranging wayward chairs. Every few seconds or so, she either walks back over to check the contents of your saddlebags or to give you little snippets of advice, such as “Don’t talk to shady ponies” and “Don’t stay out too late after dark.” You are unable to make it more than a few steps towards the door before she gives you multiple once-overs.

Noticing your plight, Uncle Carrot grabs you by the scruff and helps you up over the lower half of the split-door. He mouths “She worries,” gives you a wink and goes back to work.

=================================================================================

Sweet Apple Acres is not hard to find. Just like Miss Rarity said, a dirt path east of the boutique led right to the sprawling farm. The faint scent of apples hangs in the air as you survey the fast fields beyond the white picket fence. Some fields appear recently tilled and plowed while others are lined with thick trees, bearing the delicious red fruits. From the entrance where you stand, marked by a tall vine-wrapped, wooden sign bearing a hollow apple cut-out, you can see several, green hills rising in the distance, dotted with spots of healthy reds and greens. A single word passes your lips after you’ve reviewed the scene before you:

“Wow.”

Not that the way over was any less boring, of course. Another quick walk through Ponyville really emphasized just how much color the town had; Manehattan is beautiful, sure – but you can’t help admiring the vibrant hues of the small cottages and villas here. How would your sister put it? Rustic?

Regardless, it is all very charming.

As you trot into the farm proper, you take better note of some structures built onto the grounds. A small well stands immediately next to the entrance, its rope-drawn bucket swaying slightly. A tall, predominantly red barn stands to your right, its purple shingled roof and white strutted doors looming over the ground around it. A rather beaten down plow is parked next to the left wall. On the opposite side of the road are numerous smaller storehouses, all sporting a dark brown color akin to lacquered-wood. Despite all of these buildings, the place appears deserted. Nopony whatsoever seems to have noticed you…

“Well, hey there, young’un!”

“GAH!”

The accented voice causes you to swirl around, right into the wrinkled face of an old, light-green mare. What she lacks in a horn or a pair of wings, she makes up for in the most number of accessories you’ve seen on anypony in Ponyville thus far – she’s wearing a yellow and red-dotted hoofkerchief around her neck and is using a large silver walker. Your mouth refuses to work as she starts to push and prod you with a hoof, maintaining a very wide smile; incidentally, her current facial expression reveals two rows of eerily pearlescent white teeth.

“Well, ain’t you a jumpy city-slicker! No cutie mark an’ exploring by yerself? And with a medipatch on ya so soon. D’ya get into a scrap or something? Nnope, that won’t do, that won’t do,” she exclaims as she spins you around on your hooves for a better view of your entire body. She turns her head towards the red barn and shouts “Big Macintosh! Take five an’ help me get this scrappy little young’un into the house!”
A few seconds of silence hang in the air. No sound can be heard aside from the echo of the old mare’s distinctive twang. “Uh, Miss? I only came here to…”

Your attempt to start conversation is cut off as the ground begins to lightly rumble in short bursts. Looking down, you see small bits of gravel levitate in time with the tremors as well as a large shadow begin to encompass you and your new acquaintance.

Looking back up, you see that the old mare is now wearing a more measured, closed-lipped smile, but she is still looking in the direction of the barn. Turning your head, you are met with a large, red wall.

How did the barn suddenly get this close?! And for that matter, why is it breathing?!?

Tilting your gaze up, you are met with a stallion’s deadpan stare, a piece of hay dangling from his mouth punctuating his imposing stare. His short orange mane is cut right above his green eyes, eyes that look oddly familiar. Around his massive neck sits a heavy wooden yoke, complete with two gray stirrups. His height is easily greater than yours and the old mare’s combined.

“Hoowee, you’ve been workin’ up a sweat, Macintosh,” the old mare jokes. “Still, you smell better than the smog on this here colt. Take him inside and fix ‘em up some grub, ya hear? I’ll bring your sisters on over so’s we can get to know our little big city guest.” She then starts to trudge away. Slowly.

Really, really slowly. You swear, you can make out the sounds of her joints creaking. Her pace allows you a good sight of her cutie mark: a pie; apple, if you had to guess.

“The smog on my coat?” you ask the great red stallion before you. He flares his nostrils slightly before taking two quick whiffs about you. The force of his inhale causes your mane to follow as if you are standing near an upward draft.

He scratches his chin thoughtfully before looking at you and answering in a pronounced bass: “Eeyup.”

Macintosh plods ahead of you and signals you to follow with a quick turn of his head. As you make your way down the path, it becomes increasingly evident that the draft horse in front of you is the source of the rhythmic tremors you had felt earlier. Thank Celestia he seemed docile enough; he could easily turn you into Big Apple pie if he so wanted. His cutie mark, a green apple half, stands brightly against his crimson coat; a reminder of all the work and hours he must have put into this farm to gain such bulk.

A few short minutes of walking leads you to your destination. Despite your size, you had seen the top of the large, again, predominantly red, housing in front of you. Two stories high with a small tower forming its peak, it seems your red guide has led you a step closer to your destination. Before you can finish the thought, your chaperone intones in the same baritone.

“That was Granny Smith. I’m Big Macintosh. And this here,” he interrupts himself to swing his frond of hay to the other side, “is the Apple family’s main house. Come on in and get yerself settled fer brunch.”

“Mr. Macintosh?,” you ask a little shakily. “Not that I don’t… uh, appreciate all the attention, but I just came by to…”

“It’s just Big Macintosh, young’un, or Big Mac, if ya prefer. I wouldn’t argue – once Granny Smith gets an idea into her head, you’ll be hard-pressed to stop her seein’ it through.”

His expression remains steady and stoic, as does his twang-laced voice. He isn’t really arguing with you per se, but he seems awfully persuasive. Something about his eyes still bugs you, however.

“Alright. Er… thanks, Big Mac. I hope I’m not being too much of a drag here.”

He regards you before walking onto the porch and holding the front door open with a massive foreleg.

“Nnope.”

=================================================================================

Charming. Cozy. Homely. Safe.

You could go on if you knew more words like the four above. The Apple family’s main house, while not trendy or steeped in futuristic amenities, easily counts as one of the comfortable places you’ve ever set hoof in. The hardwood floors, the simple wallpaper, the pictures set in quirky frames, and all manner of frontier pony knickknacks combined make this house feel like it was built by family for family.

It’s all very flattering, to be invited here by Granny Smith, the apple family matriarch herself. What little information you now have was communicated to you in short statements and phrases by Big Macintosh, eldest of three Apple siblings.

A few minutes later, you and the red barn-sized stallion are joined by an orange mare and an energetic brown-and-white shepherd dog, with Granny Smith in tow.

“Sorry fer the wait, Scrappy. I know how y’all in the city are always goin’ on and on’ about needin’ to be someplace else, but my dadgum hip was actin’ up again,” Granny Smith says through her uncharacteristically healthy teeth.

Before you can say anything, you are once again given a series of once-overs, head to hoof, snout to flank, and mane to tail by the orange mare. She shares Granny Smith’s orange orbs and steely stare, as well as Macintosh’s freckles; her head is covered by a distinctive cowpony hat similar to what your pop wears when distracting the rowdier bulls at the rodeo.

It isn’t a ten gallon, you think. It’s flatter, with a noticeable notch in the front of its round brim.

“Eyein’ mah Stetson there, scrappy?,” asks the orange mare. “It’s got some tall tales attached to it, just so ya know. Name’s Applejack. And you are?”

Calmed by her friendliness, you introduce yourself and hold up a hoof; this turns out to be a bad move as you are subjected to a rather spirited and powerful hoofshake, the likes of which leave you quaking in place even as it finishes.

After her spirited greeting, she goes on saying “Manehattan, eh? Ah haven’t been there in a dog’s age! So, how’s the ‘Big Apple’ been treatin’ ya?” Her voice is laced with the same powerful twang as that of Granny Smith’s. Her eyes gleam with a hint of cleverness and familiarity, the latter of which seems strange to you. Hadn’t she just met you? Maybe you reminded of her of somepony else.

Well, there’s no way around it, so you decide to answer her question. “It’s doing alright, I guess. It could use some cleaning up in some places and the noise can get crazy, but it’s home for me,” you conclude, beaming broadly. If anything, your stay in Ponyville has made you think very fondly of your hometown and its eccentric members, some more than others.

This scenario plays out for the next half hour over some freshly baked apple strudel and some glasses of apple juice. The Apple family, it seems, is very, very fond of their own produce. It crosses your mind once, how they had yet to develop some aversion to the red fruit, but a few mouthfuls of the treats served to quash these thoughts.

As evidenced by their earlier treatment of you, the farm horses are a very welcoming lot. Most of the talking is done by Applejack. She tells stories of how she had once dreamed of living in Manehattan, how she had quickly grown homesick and ended up coming back after a few days’ stay. “Aunt n’ Uncle Orange were sad to see little ol’ me go, but they let me anyway. Said it was something that we’d all regret if I had forced m’self tah stay.”

Granny Smith is second to her granddaughter in terms of talkativeness. Every now and again, she’d spin a yarn about how she’d once been to other big cities (Manehattan, Baltimare, Phillydelphia) and how she had noticed how “Everypony, big n’ small, foal n’ stallion, they were always buzzin’ all over th’ place.” She states that in her younger years, ponies rarely ever settled down in one place, but they were of little comparison to today’s generation.
In direct contrast to the two mares and even to himself earlier on, Big Macintosh hardly said a word. The occasional affirmative (“Eeyup”) and negative (“Nnope”) were only ever uttered when solicited. If he had any stories of his own, he kept them under tight wraps. Normally, you’d suspect he was hiding something; given his half-lidded eyes and relaxed demeanor however, even you think it’s unlikely. If you ever come back to Ponyville some time, you think it will be a good idea to chat with Macintosh some time; if asking doesn’t do the trick, the puppy-dog stare ought to…

Wait.

“Oh, Celestia,” you think. Your mind starts to race. His eyes were the same as Babs.

It strikes you at that very moment – you are talking to the Apple family, Babs’ relatives.

There’s a sudden drop in temperature. The humidity becomes suffocating.

Were they always staring at you this intently?

“Ah think ah see a bored young’un when I see one,” chuckled Applejack. “Welp, ah can see that the older folks ain’t yer speed. Lemme take ya out back for some more appropriate company.” Popping her Stetson back over her head, she walks over to the front door and gestures you to come over. Still slightly dumbfounded, you meekly make your way over to the younger Apple sibling.

After stepping out over the porch and walking away from earshot, the orange mare stops in her tracks and fixes her gaze at you. “It never really came up, but Ah gotta ask: what’s a little colt doin’ so far away from home? And don’t you feed me some line like ya did with th’ Cakes. Ah can tell.”

“What? How did…? Who?” you sputter out.

“Ah know. Ah can tell. And you just did.”

Oh, she’s good.

Despite the discomfort you feel as Applejack squints and listens intently, you manage to fib one last time: you are able to keep out the details of the last day. “I just need to know what happened to my friend.”

Time dilates as the orange mare’s lips form a straight, unmoving line. She lowers the brim of her hat over her eyes, mulling over your mostly-honest story. Slowly, she raises her eyes to look into yours…

…and smiles a genuine smile. Her eyes brighten again to that familiar glint as she nods you to a thicket-obscured path.

“Alright, partner – Ah can tell when you mean what you said. Now, as promised, yoou’ll find better company over yonder. They should be back by now.”

“U… thank you, Miss Applejack,” you reply shakily. “Who should be back by now?”

Unfortunately, your guide is now gone, back through the lush greens that once completely covered the way to the area you’re standing in.

Turning back around, your eyes take in a quaint, picnic-area like scene. The sky is completely unobstructed here; the vivid blue making the place all the more relaxing. A fairly large tree stands tall in the center; unlike the Acres, this one bears no fruit - instead, it supports a rather sizeable tree-house. Its wooden walls bear the look of a hoof-made project, as does its rather diminutive, yellow-painted fence. Higher still, past the canopy of the great tree, you can see the end of a telescope pointed out towards Ponyville.

Before you can make your way up the wooden ramp for a closer look at the treehouse, you are interrupted by a familiar sound. It’s a repeated whirring that you often hear in and around your hometown. You couldn’t quite put a hoof on it, but it’s something that’s so ingrained into your memories that the city would be incredibly alien without it.

“Is that… a motor? I didn’t see any tractors anywhere near here…” you wonder aloud. Ponyville’s cabs were horse-drawn, so it couldn’t be a motorized carriage. Even then, you are standing outside of Ponyville itself – what could be making that sound?

“LOOK OUT!” cries a panicked filly’s voice, followed by a higher-pitched wail and a very Apple-sounding “Whoa Nelly, Scootaloo!”

Your body is sent tumbling smack-dab into the tree-stump you had been looking at a few seconds ago. Whatever it was that hit you, it hit ridiculously hard; it was also apparently female and had three heads, looking over you as the green field began to blur.

=================================================================================

No dreams accompany you when you finally regain consciousness. You can remember Applejack leading you to the back, the open area with the tree-house, the voices, and the forceful blow that knocked you into next week. Just like this morning however, you find it especially difficult to breathe. “Oh Princess, I hope I didn’t break anything…”

Cracking open a cautious eye, you survey your new surroundings – you are lying sideways in a relatively large room with four unpainted wooden walls. Light is pouring in from above you (probably a window), allowing your eyesight to adjust quickly; similarly, another window is built into the opposite wall. Some red-violet curtains adorn this opening, making the outside brighter in contrast. A crudely drawn map is nailed to the wall on the right, next to what looks to be the only way in or out (the foot of the door is adorned by a dull, fuzzy welcome mat); a green ladder is placed near the door, leading upwards into an unseen room above. Immediately to your left stands a small, wooden podium, with a rope-suspended, unlit lantern about a foot farther away hanging above… a bulls-eye? Near your head is a squat green table, its stubby legs causing it to hover very closely over the floor; close enough for a colt or filly to eat off of it with no need for a chair.

Taking a sharp inhale, you sit up and quickly discover the reason for your difficult breathing – your entire barrel has been snugly wrapped in white bandages. A thick bow, level with your belly, completes your sorry new appearance.

“What the…? Oh, phooey to this!” you say as you clamp down on the offending adornment. A quick tug proves to be your bondage’s undoing. Feeling the tyrannical grasp loosen from around you, you feel better fit to stand up in this new place. The upper border of the walls seems to be painted with hearts and swirls to make the place appear more welcoming.

No sooner have you decided to peer out the window, you hear a shrill “Hey, girls! He’s up! He’s up!” Turning to the source of the sound, you are greeted by the company of a marshmallow-colored unicorn filly with a two-toned purple and pink curly mane. She’s beaming, as if glad to see that you weren’t any worse for the wear. “Phew! I was starting to think I was gonna spend the rest of my life in jail like Scootaloo said.” She seems cordial enough, but her trail of thought betrayed a little ditziness in the filly.

“So what’s your name? And how’d you even find this place?” she asks you quizzically. Her green eyes give you a quick scan, less intense than that of the Apples some time before. She goes over to the map on the wall and pulls it aside, revealing what appears to be a roll call sheet. Crayon drawings of three fillies comprise the entire list, next to blanks filled with check marks for each pony. She ticks a cross mark next to the drawing resembling her.

Before you can answer, you are joined by two other fillies – a yellow, red-maned earth pony coming in through the door holding a white case emblazoned with a red cross and an orange, purple-maned pegasus descending from the ladder you spied before. Both give a quick glare at their unicorn friend, before speaking up.

“What in the hay are you thinking, Sweetie Belle? This guy could be a spy for all we know! I mean, look – he even managed to take off all his bandages! Probably trying to escape and tell on us!”

“Now, now, Scootaloo – simmer down. Remember, we kinda used him as a brake fer yer scooter. Not that Ah trust this feller any more than I can throw ‘em,” says the earth pony after setting down the first-aid kit in front of you. Her large pink hair-bow tells you immediately who had trussed you up in the bandages you woke up in. “Seein’s how yer up n’ about, how’s about tellin’ us why you were snoopin’ ‘round these parts? Maybe we’ll tell you our names if yer honest with us.” She’s giving you the same look that Granny Smith did when she first dragged you over for brunch, albeit in a poor attempt to look menacing.

You introduce yourselves to the fillies, telling them about your hometown and the length of your stay. When telling them about the past few days, their faces light up at certain parts: The pegasus, Scootaloo, smirks proudly when you mention your arrival at the train station; the unicorn Sweetie Belle beams widely when you mention that it was Rarity who had told you to come here for clues; the earth pony, Apple Bloom, swings from happy to mortified when you tell them how you found this hidden place.

“Ah can’t believe Applejack would lead a strange colt to our clubhouse! Sheesh, you’d think family’d respect privacy more…”

“Wait an apple-bucking second here, mister,” pipes up Scootaloo. She isn’t as confrontational as she was a few minutes ago, but curiosity laces her voice. “You never once mentioned what you’ve been looking for. If Applejack let you up here, then your story checks out, but I’m not letting you down from here until you’ve spilled the beans.”

“I agree. If Rarity pointed you over here, you must have a pretty good reason. What made you come all the way out here from Manehattan? And all by yourself?” Sweetie Belle is now leaning in closely, her eyes trained on you. Apple Bloom follows suit, leaning in wordlessly.

With no other option, you pull out your trump card: “I’m a friend of Babs and I’m here to help.”

If you brought your camera, you would have taken pictures. The looks on these fillies is priceless! Their eyes wide open, shining even and their mouths going slowly from slack-jawed disbelief to the most energetic smiles you have ever been privileged to see.

“Oh mah gosh, she did it! She actually did it!” Apple Bloom speaks up first, hopping in place. Sweetie Belle is tiptoeing in place, eyes closed and horn sparkling with green light. “She’s SO awesome! Doing it so soon!”

Scootaloo’s reaction is the most intense – she manages to pull off a complete backflip using the buzzing of her miniature wings. “Babs Seed rocks! You should have told us sooner!”

Apple Bloom regains her composure first and beckons her friends over to the podium. Scootaloo raises her hood to signal you to wait before going up the ladder again. Sweetie takes her place on Apple Bloom’s right.

Around five minutes later, Scootaloo hovers down from the second level, adorned in a familiar crimson cape. She has two red bundles scooped up in her hooves – bundles she promptly throws over to the awaiting Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle. The pegasus filly then runs past you and takes her place on Apple Bloom’s left.
“We didn’t expect a delegate so soon! We’d have made a more official welcome,” says the yellow filly as she twists about and struggles to put on her cape. “Shoulda known we’d have more members already,” says Scootaloo sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck. Sweetie Belle is having slightly better luck with her cape, having put it on much sooner than Apple Bloom. “I knew there was a reason a blank flank would visit us!,” she says. Despite the lack of venom in her voice, you still cringe internally at the mention of the often-used slur back at school.

The three fillies give a wide smile before proclaiming in unison: “WELCOME TO THE PONYVILLE BRANCH OF THE CUTIE MARK CRUSADERS!”

=================================================================================

Things get decidedly friendlier after your initial tussle with the Crusaders. Despite already revealing their names to you by accident earlier on, the fillies reintroduce themselves with gusto. You learn that Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle look up a great deal to their older sisters, both of whom you’ve met before, while Scootaloo is the proud founder of the Rainbow Dash Fan Club (the fact that she’s actually good friends with her idol is nothing to scoff at either). The three have been close for around three years and decided to start this endeavor (Sweetie calls it their “patented cutie-mark acquisition program”).

Babs was officially inducted some days ago (in a ceremony that Scootaloo describes as “needing some more work and a dictionary.”) and had promised to start the Manehattan branch of the Crusaders – the latter being something you and most of Grand Central can attest to. You tell them about the last three days you spent in Manehattan, thinking of how proud they would be when they heard about Babs’ work. You leave out certain things, like your disappointment with your summer plans and Lemon Drops and Top Brass making the last day end on a sour note. The fillies maintain rapt attention throughout your stories, sometimes giggling and whispering to each other as you went on.

All three apologize profusely for knocking you over (what you learn was) 20 minutes ago - they had apparently been out doing their respective chores in advance to free up the rest of the day. Sweetie Belle speaks up, or rather, squeaks out: “Hey, I know! You should join us this afternoon – like a goodwill collaboration or something!” Scootaloo perks up, agreeing with her friend. “Yeah, looks like you can handle it.”

Apple Bloom reassures you with “Big Mac didn’t see nothin’ wrong with ya. We covered you up just in case, is all.” When asked about the first aid kit, she replies “We MAY have wanted to try our hooves at being Cutie Mark Crusaders nurses… again.”

HOW they careened into you with such force is revealed when the three lead you back outside the clubhouse “to see how the originals do it.”

You are greeted by a little blue, wooden scooter attached via small wooden clasp to a red cart. Scootaloo takes her position up front, beating her wings furiously to feel accustomed once more. Sweetie Belle helps you up into the cart and takes her place in front of you. “Don’t be embarrassed – just hold on tight.” Before you can protest, Apple Bloom locks her front hooves around you like a makeshift seatbelt. “You’d best listen, city slicker. When Scootaloo scoots, there ain’t nothin’ much that can match.”

“’Cept for Rainbow, maybe,” says Scootaloo, now donning her matching purple helmet. This makes you beg the question – “What about us? Don’t we get helmets?”

No one answers the question. As the environment comes toward you full throttle, you think that maybe, just maybe, your question was left behind at the club grounds.

The speed is so intense; every muscle in your body tenses up and forces you to clamp your hooves tight around Sweetie. Amazingly enough, the fillies in front and behind you are laughing ecstatically. Is THIS what turned Babs so daring to begin with?

Before long, you arrive at a small stone cottage farther along the outskirts of Ponyville. Disengaging your grip on the filly in front of you, you twist and drop belly first onto the hard dirt below. You can’t care less about Sweetie and Apple Bloom’s worried looks nor Scootaloo’s poorly hidden snickering – the ground is safe and that’s all that counts.

“All right there, newbie? Sorry – kinda wanted to show off a bit. I’ll take it down a peg for the rest of the day, I promise.” Looking up, you are met with a pair of concerned, purple eyes. Despite her brashness and bravado, Scootaloo wasn’t a bully; her concern for a stranger, a boy no less, proved that.

After a few wobbly minutes, you are brought up to speed: the Crusaders had been asked to look after the birds of a pony named Fluttershy who was away on royal business with Pinkie Pie and Twilight Sparkle. “Something about a spell scroll in the dragonlands. We wanted to go, but Fluttershy stared us down. Said we’d be safer here,” said Apple Bloom. Her demeanor reflected her respect and fear for this Fluttershy pony.

“Okay. This should be easy. What’s so hard about a little bird watching?”

=================================================================================

“Well, that was a bust,” says the unicorn filly glumly. “Who knew chickens could jump so high up?”

“I’ll say. I’ll be picking the pine needles out of my mane for weeks!,” laughs Scootaloo. True to her word, her short mane is absolutely riddled in green fronds. Her coat is now matted in tree sap, as well as her feathers. Oddly enough, she seems to be taking it in complete stride.

Apple Bloom looks over to you and notices your silence. “You doin’ okay there, Slick?” she asks, addressing you with your new nickname. “Yeah, Cutie Mark Crusadin’s tough work, but it’s all about the fun. We’d understand if y’all want a break though – this turned out to be more intense than we were expectin’.”

For the past odd hour or so, you had gone from arguing with a spirited white rabbit over the location of a stash of bird seed to being helped by an incredibly benign bear to catch some uppity hens that had been led away by a basilisk. Thank the princesses, no one got seriously hurt.

“And you do this kind of stuff all the time after school?” you ask weakly.

“Not strictly. We usually steer clear of the Everfree, but there’s always a small chance of surprises messing up the schedule,” answers Sweetie. Her rather pampered appearance and trusting personality actually helped in this madcap quest – she talked to a bear, for harmony’s sake!

You are tired, shaken, and incredibly surprised by what just happened. More than anything though? You feel alive.

Exhilarated.

You feel invincible.

Cracking a winning smile, you say: “What’s next, fellow Crusaders?”

The three fillies leading the way smile back at you. “Oh, you’ll see. We’ve got th’ whole afternoon planned till dusk,” Apple Bloom states triumphantly. As they cheer out their club name, you find yourself joining along: “CUTIE MARK CRUSADERS COLLABORATORS! YAY!”

=================================================================================

“This is gonna fly! I! Can! Feel it!” proclaims the excited pegasus filly as you and the other two fillies continue to snap and lock pieces into place. She is wearing an ill-fitting black spandex outfit, supposedly for reducing drag on the aspiring pony.

“Ah still say we gotta be careful, Scoots. This’n ‘F&F Fun Flyer’ has somethin’ about it Ah can’t put my hoof on.” Apple Bloom spent an inordinately long amount of time mulling over the instructions while Scootaloo was drawing out a flight plan. She kept on eyeing the apple symbol on the box’s corner with heavy suspicion.

“Relax, AB – it’s why we’re doing this over the river. And Sweetie’s been training day and night with her levitation to fish me out if I end up belly-flopping.”

“I appreciate the faith, girls – I really, really do, but…” Sweetie’s voice is cracking with nervousness. If the day has been any indication, the unicorn has yet to master anything beyond an illumination spell.

“Don’t worry, Sweetie – we have Slick to help you and AB with the pulley if you’re not up for it!” Scootaloo turns to you and gives you a confident smile. You smile back in response. The plan is fairly sound, in your opinion. This final activity may pale in comparison to what the day has thrown at you, but it was no less ambitious.

After a campaign of Cutie Mark Crusaders base-jumpers (Spike helped bring all four of you up to the top of the library and subsequently to the disapproving care of Nurse Tenderheart), nursing aides, stained glass crafters, treasure hiders, gold miners, fly fishers, puzzle solvers, maze makers, lightning collectors (your mane is still standing on end from that), and even monster truck builders, the day had finally wound down to permit one last activity. Tired from the ever-present but slight disappointment of not getting cutie marks for the day’s efforts, the peppy pegasus brings forth a suggestion. She is working on finally overcoming her gravitational constraints and is turning to you, Apple Bloom, and Sweetie Belle for some insurance.

Some days back, Scootaloo had mail-ordered the ‘F&F Flyer,’ an item promising “quick and easy flight for everypony.” Its box, instructions, and even its wing decals boasted of “alicorn-like flying prowess.” It came with several harnesses, a good amount of molded canvas and aluminum frames to support the colossal construct. Oddly enough, it also came with another F&F item – the Pega-Pulley, a sort of fail-safe if the former product ever went awry. Unlike its bundled company, the pulley looked more familiar, resembling a rudimentary truck winch. It had instructions for two models – one for an adult pony to sit in and one for a “junior operator” model which requires two smaller ponies. Seeing as how you are now one Crusader extra, Apple Bloom manages to tinker the designs together, creating a three-pony Pega-Pulley. It’s fairly surprising seeing Apple Bloom exercise such technical know-how. “Applejack and Big Mac have me help clean the equipment sometimes. Ah pick up a lotta things when oiling up the sprues n’ sprockets.”

Scootaloo firmly believes that with some extra hooves and some able-bodied help, she’ll finally be able to soar like her idol far sooner than biology permits. “Rainbow’s gonna be so surprised so me make a rainboom right behind hers!,” she almost squeals. Seeing how much this means to her, you and the Crusaders get to work.

The contraption appears sound – a clear dome fits over Scootaloo’s back, over her wings that are still afforded some mobility. Two metallic coils rise atop the dome and spark whenever your friend buzzes her appendages. To her sides are six batlike canvas wings, supported by aluminum and brass struts; these false wings move in relative time to her wing beats. Finally, each wing has a thick iron loop at the base, hooked to cables lined through the recently assembled Pega-Pulley. The cables appear durable enough and are threaded deftly into the wooden machine.

Taking your seat in the center between Sweetie and Apple Bloom, you signal Scootaloo with the go-ahead. The filly takes a starting position resembling those stunt flyers you’ve seen on the TV. She leans forward like a cat and begins to beat her wings furiously, the whirring dulled by the dome on her back. The coils start to emit a steady green energy and begin bleeding life into the molded canvas. Slowly but surely, her new wings begin to flap in tandem with each other, powered by her own, small ones.

By the time all of her wings were in motion, Scootaloo’s breathing had become more labored – the effort to power her new wings is taking a toll on the little filly. Sweetie notices too, looking over and nudging Apple Bloom behind your back. Before anypony can say anything though, Scootaloo lurches forward…

And flies approximately five or ten feet skyward, F&F Flyer AND Pega-Pulley in tow.

Author's Note

I know, I know - I have quite the nerve ending it at a cliffhanger again. Sorry about that.
In any case, please enjoy my latest offering to thee.

BONUS: Since we never got that episode where Fluttershy gets turned into a dragon, I worked it into this universe that we are now in. Twilight, Pinkie, and Fluttershy are MIA since they're in another "episode," happening at the same time as this one.

Any ideas what F&F stands for? Sound off in the comments!

RATE, COMMENT, AND CRITICIZE!

Halfway to the truth

Celestia’s sun hangs low in the afternoon sky, painting the heavens a rich orange. Its peaceful, regal presence provides a stark contrast to you and the Cutie Mark Crusaders. Its tranquil descent mirrors your panicked rise to the heavens; its slow progress, your rapid climb.

As gravity retakes you, Apple Bloom, Sweetie Belle, and Scootaloo, only one thought manages to makes itself apparent to you:

Oh, dear sweet Princess, my brother’s right: I DO scream like a filly!

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!”

==================================================================

“Ah gotta tell ya, Slick – Ah haven’t heard anypony hit them high notes since Sweetie over here!,” said the yellow filly, punctuating her jab with a physical one to your ribs. You and Sweetie answer back with a loud raspberry, while Scootaloo does her best to choke back her glee.

“Hardy har har, Miss ‘Oh, let’s use the whole entire Pega-Pulley set-up!’ And if I remember right, you were right up there screaming with me!,” you counter, albeit jokingly. As strange as it seems, it feels completely normal to spew barbs at these fillies. They aren’t sensitive or emotional. There’s no hoof-dipping with these girls – for everything they did, they jumped in head first.

It makes you feel jealous, really. Their spirit, their drive – it puts yours to shame. The last pony you met who had the same initiative… was Babs.

Sweet, shy Babs who could hardly even talk to other ponies until she came back from Ponyville.

Your heart soars at the thought: you finally found what had changed your friend for the better. Now, if only it could explain why she ran from you…

Did she feel afraid that you wouldn’t accept her? Did she think you couldn’t look past her new personality?

No, that doesn’t make ANY sense. You did your best for three entire days to help her with her crusading, even before you had met up with these three. A small voice in the back of your mind pipes up too.

You care too much for that to be true.

What could it have been?

Your thoughts are shattered by a loud “Ha ha haaaaaa!” followed by a pained yelp from Scootaloo. Apparently, your little journey into lala-land made you miss out on an apparently hilarious retort from Apple Bloom. So hilarious, in fact, that it made Scootaloo forget that she had suffered minor bruising to her ribs from her “flight.”

It still surprises, how fast Ponyville medics came to your aid. Four high-pitched screams of pure fear are easy to miss in a crowded city – in a quaint village, not so much. Nurse Tender Heart’s sympathy was already well-spent by the time you had made your inglorious return to Ponyville General. Her demeanor had steadily become icier with each return to the hospital by you and the Crusaders. “You poor little things” slowly but surely changed into a poorly masked, surly “Oh Celestia, you four again?!”

Since you weren’t in too terrible a condition and were a third of the size of a full grown pony, the hospital staff decided to keep all of you in the recovery room. Scootaloo had taken the brunt of the impact, so she got to stay on the larger patient’s bed. Remembering your mother’s words (“And always act like a gentlecolt!,” she would advise and threaten whenever you went to any social function), you agreed to lounge on the chair and give reign of the guest bed to the other two crusaders.

Aside from some fresh bandages and some cozy towels wrapped round their heads, the Crusaders looked none the worse for wear. Scootaloo, despite being told to rest and having a rigid splint on her right side, chatted merrily with her cohorts. Despite the complete failure of the Flim & Flam Fun Flyer, she was in amazingly high spirits.

“Who knew that it was built for pranking foals? It looked so convincing!,” said the orange filly. Her voice contained both disappointment and wonder. “Man, I was THIS close to finally getting off the ground!” She motions her forehooves together, creating a tiny gap in front of her muzzle to illustrate.

Apple Bloom sounds less enthusiastic. “Ah jus’ KNEW there was somethin’ fishy about the whole thing. Can’t believe I missed ‘F&F.”” Sweetie just sat up on the bed, dangling her hooves off to the side. She looks rather gloomy. “Aww, it isn’t your fault, Apple Bloom. None of us knew any better. Besides, we used MY magic, remember?”

“Sweetie, no. Don’t even go there. I doubt even an five-star mage could have gotten that thing to fly!,” you interject. Something about Sweetie blaming herself made your heart sting. It doesn’t feel right, to have a friend hate themselves over something they couldn’t have seen coming.

All four of you sit in silence for some time, the Crusaders attention turned to you because of your outburst. The air starts to feel heavier as all three fillies eye you with curiosity and worry…

“What’s a five-star mage?,” asks the white unicorn filly. The sadness in her voice is gone, replaced completely by mild wonder.

“Oh,” you fidget slightly. “It’s just something from a game I used to play. Err… sorry for bringing it up all of a sudden.”

“Yeah. Besides, a five-star mage is already called a ‘warlock.’ Duh.”

All heads turn to Scootaloo of all ponies.

“What? A filly can’t enjoy ‘Cribs and Conjury’ in her off time? I DO have other friends, y’know.” She smirks, despite having a vibrant blush across her cheeks.

It starts out as a snicker.

Then a giggle.

Followed by full-blown laughter.

Something about the thought of Scootaloo of all ponies knowing about a relatively obscure game just tips off all four of you to how fun and silly the day has been. Sure, there were no new cutie marks in sight, but it just felt good to be able to hang out with friends like these. It feels as natural as family.

Not to mention all four of you had been pranked hard by two grown stallions with nothing but some glitter and fancy packaging (without even being there). Whoever this Flim and Flam were, they made you begrudgingly admit their talent for bamboozling ponies. At least you didn’t get too banged up for it.

==================================================================

As it turns out, Scootaloo’s injuries are minor enough for a healing spell to immediately address. After a somewhat disheartened talk from Nurse Tender Heart (who sounded more annoyed by having to repeat herself than by your continued ignorance of her), you head off for a round of milkshakes back at Sugarcube Corner. As you exit the hospital lobby, you and the three fillies waste no time in discussing how to collaborate on more crusading through letters and mail. You all talk miles a minute, thinking of new schemes and possible cutie marks you could earn. Your reverie is disrupted by a girlish sneer from a few feet down the road.

“Puh-lease. You didn’t even notice when I swiped your lame F&F Flyer’s real instruction guide. What hope could you possibly have of doing anything that requires half a brain?” You squint and spot the source of the mocking voice – a pale pink coated Earth pony with a white, purple-streaked mane. She’s wearing a frail little crown on her head, similar to the symbol on her flanks.

It looks like some things never change. Gender aside, it looks like you’ve found Ponyville’s own version of Top Brass.

“Diamond Tiara,” greets Sweetie Belle, her voice stern despite its high-pitch. “Where’s Silver Spoon? Did she finally get sick of you too?”

“Ha ha, very funny, blank-flank.” The term makes you wince, as do Apple Bloom and Sweetie Belle. “My galpal is staying over in Manehattan for the weekend. She says she’ll bring back enough culture for the both of us AND this backwater town.”

She smiles, satisfied at the insult she’s thrown, and looks over at you. Her smile becomes a more sinister smirk. “I see you’ve been trying to earn a cutie mark in catching cooties. What, you couldn’t even manage that? You are just so sad.”

You look to your friends, attempting to read them. Apple Bloom is frowning, pawing at the ground intently, probably thinking of something to say. Scootaloo is seething where she stands, her body ready to pounce and give this Diamond Tiara what for. Only Sweetie Belle maintains eye contact, her body relatively still. A smile slowly crawls over her face as she tilts her head towards you, saying (or more accurately, squeaking) “So sad that THIS Manehattanite decided to hang out with us instead of you? Looks like we have more class than somepony who’s cutie mark is all about class!”

The pink menace freezes, her mouth slightly ajar. A few seconds pass by before she leaves in a huff, heading farther down the road without even bothering to give you a second glance. “Whatever. That colt looks like another reject anyway.” She turns her head towards Apple Bloom. “Just like that hillbilly’s cousin.” She proceeds to walk out of sight, her snout held up.

“So THAT’s why we fell for that scam! One of these days, I’m gonna pop her right in the kisser,” says your pegasus companion menacingly, her wings allowing her to hover and pantomime a fierce uppercut.

“Now, don’t get too worked up none, Scoots. Diamond Tiara always did have a habit of mouthin’ off ‘bout stuff she don’t know about. It was mean, sure – but we’re all fine anyways. Just another harmless prank.” Apple Bloom’s response, although surprisingly level-headed , is still laced with resentment. “Ah’m really sorry ‘bout what she said, Slick. Mah sister says she doesn’t really mean it… Even though I think she really does,” she adds, a small smile now gracing her muzzle.

“Ah, it’s no sweat. I’m surprised how well Sweetie managed to stand up to her though,” you reply, first to the yellow filly and turning your attention to the white unicorn. To your surprise, she’s still holding the same pose, her eyes appearing glazed over. A quick nudge from Scootaloo undoes her frozen state. “Did… did it work? I was trying to “get into the zone,” like my sister told me to. Guess I kinda spaced out.”

“Well, I don’t know about you girls, bit I REALLY need a milkshake right about now.” You need to shift the mood again. The stars aren’t out yet, but it feels like such a waste to have the day draw to a close like it did. “So, Apple Bloom, I take it that Tiara filly and Babs have met too, huh?”

This question turns out to be one of the worst things you could have asked.

Although at first they are hesitant, the Cutie Mark Crusaders begin to tell you such stories about “Bad Seed.”

==================================================================

Making your way to Aunt and Uncle Cake’s establishment becomes an endurance test. You keep doubling back and stubbing your hooves on rocks and sticks as the story progresses from bad to worse.

Every new detail is terrifying. Destruction of property, incessant name calling, stalking, threats of physical violence, theft of property… Babs, who are you now?

You don’t even say goodbye to the Crusaders as you head up to the guest room, leaving your untouched milkshake at the table. You hardly notice the glib pink mare who hurls confetti and sings some oddball song into your ear. She seems to get the message quickly enough – she settles for just watching you flop onto bed. She doesn’t speak another word.

Not that it would have mattered much.

All you hear is a dull static buzz.

Your heart hurts.

Your eyes begin to burn the moment your head hits the mattress.

You feel…

Betrayed.

Pink noir

“And I know for absolute certain... that everything is gonna be...!”

A high-pitched mare's singing is the first thing you wake up to. It's filled with vibrance and joy and all sorts of emotion you really don't want to feel right now.

“Fine!” you bark out, rolling your way off the guest bed. The covers get tangled in your hooves, causing you to flop down on the blue hardwood floors with the grace of a boulder.

The dull static is coming back again. The familiar burn of old tears stings your eyes. This day is going to be awful.

“Hey, that's pretty good! I was gonna say 'great,' but what you said fits better into the rhyming scheme! Thanks, Patch!”

Your erstwhile room-mate seems to have regained her insatiable need to talk your ear off since last night. She's hopping giddily in place, as if just waiting for something exciting to suddenly happen.

“Oh, right – forgot to introduce myself! I'm Pinkie Pie and this is my room and I hope you got that cupcake I left for you in the closet since I wasn't around to throw you a proper party that last time cuz me and the girls has to deal with an old curse involving dragons!” She finishes the statement breathlessly, a huge grin adorning her muzzle.

You grumble back in response, tearing off the medicated bandage over your left eye. Striking up conversation with this goof isn't appealing in the least, you think to yourself. You'd rather just wait until the next day when you could get away from here and back to your city.

Back to the way things were?

Not likely.

In the span of just one night, all your love had gone from the thought of ever resuming your daily grind. Memories once held fondly lost their shimmer, dulled by the idea that your closest friend had been nothing but a monster as well.

“Not my friend...” you say under your breath. Picking yourself up from the floor, you mechanically trot downstairs to eat breakfast. While you can feel your stomach rumble, you don't feel hungry.

Aside from frustration and the slow in and out of your own breathing, you don't feel much of anything.

You hardly notice the pink mare skip after you, giggling and humming some made-up tune playing in her skull.

“Stupid Pinkie. Stupid Sugarcube Corner. Stupid relatives. Stupid crusading. Stupid Ponyville.” you think to yourself in silence. Everything you'd accomplished in the last few days is now completely wasted. The steps creak under the weight of your hooves (though oddly enough, they do no such thing in response to the full grown mare behind you), propelling you towards the kitchen space behind the counter.

“Hello, dear! Did you rest well? Carrot and I let you sleep in after yesterday – you looked so tired after...” Your aunt cuts herself short after looking at the stoic expression on your face. “Dearie, is everything all right?” Her voice is laced with concern and motherly love.

You'd have felt guilty if it weren't for yesterday.

“I'm fine, Auntie Cee. I think I'll take breakfast to go. Do we have anything?”

“Oh, um... of course, dear. There are some bagels in the refrigerator there, next to...”

You don't let her finish. You grab the paper bag of baked goods in your mouth and storm off. Before making it out the back door, you are blocked by a pink hoof.

Looking up with an icy glare, you are met with two blue orbs, sporting a similar look. Pinkie meets your gaze with an equally cold reception.

“Apologize.”

Her voice is stern, absolutely free from all the glee it used to have. Her eyebrows have knit together in a rather impressive scowl.

Your lips part slightly, before you drop the bag of food on the floor and barrel your way past her outstretched hoof.

You aren't hungry anyway.

All you are right now is angry.

Everything around you seems to be poking fun at your current outlook on life. The sun is shining, birds are singing, ponies are waving at each other and saying their “how-do-you-do's.” It makes you sick inside.

With all of its old-timey charm and provincial appeal, Ponyville was no different from Manehattan after all.

Still dog-eat-dog. Nopony really cared. Every favor was meant to be cashed in later on.

Even miles away from the Big Apple, ponies never really changed.

Part of your brain is now racing with thoughts of your last few days here. Was Spike expecting you to put a good word in for him? Did Miss Rarity expect you to wear whatever it is she was making for free advertisement? Did Applejack introduce you to the Crusaders just to get them off her back? Were Apple Bloom, Sweetie, and Scootaloo just using you as another body to test their cutie mark schemes on?

You don't have answers for any of those questions; you're too ashamed that you fell for it completely. “Stupid Ponyville.”

Walking the streets of the little village does little to soothe your mood. Seeing other ponies be happy isn't as innocent as it was when you arrived; they were either oblivious to them being used or brown-nosing with practiced conduct. Their smiling faces look earnest enough, but... something feels wrong. Ponyville has shown you an ugliness you can't look away from and dang it, it must be hiding something ugly in turn.

Right?

“Stupid Ponyville.”

Eventually, your legs drop you off in a small lot containing a welcome sight: arcade machines. You smile despite yourself, thinking the nostalgia can help you hide from the world a little longer.

You dig your hoof into your right saddlebag... until you remember walking out of your temporary lodgings with nothing but the fur on your back. “Ah, ponyfeathers...”

You settle for just watching the other fillies and colts already engaged in front of the magical boxes. A pair of unicorn colts, shouting at each other while playing a single-player campaign of Smash-It Stallion (“You jump, I fix! That was the plan, dude!” screamed the chubbier of the two to his seemingly absent-minded partner), a red-maned earth pony filly (giggling madly while mowing down pixelated aliens), the Cutie Mark Crusaders trying to open a machine...

It takes about two seconds before your brain registers that last scenario.

You run as fast as you can to the three enterprising fillies, each with a different tool in their respective mouths (Sweetie Belle with a bizarrely ornate saw being the most terrifying). “What in the name of all things good are you three DOING?!” you bawl out, worried about the safety of the machine they had decided to violate.

“Hey, it's Slick! You looked a little down yesterday. You feelin' alright there, partner?” Apple Bloom is the first to acknowledge your wild-eyed and breathless intrusion. She drops the wrench from her mouth to talk to you before approaching and placing a hoof on your shoulder.

“Never mind me – what are you trying to achieve by destroying this piece of art?!” you ask, your voice starting to get a little shrill.

“Don't have a cow, Slick.” Scootaloo, now free of the hammer in her mouth, speaks up. “Mr. 2600 out front said we could do whatever we wanted to this thing. Said it was time for it to 'be put out to pasture,' whatever that means.”

Sweetie spits out the saw, narrowly missing her own front hooves, chirping in “Yeah. No harm done. It's for our cutie marks in arcading!”

“I'm pretty sure that's not a word, Sweets.”

“What are you – a dictionary?”

“We're not talking about this again!”

“Girls, please. Well, Slick?” Apple Bloom turns the group's attention back to you. After your little heated outburst, you can feel the frown starting to creep into you face again.

“I'm... fine.” you reply in a somber tone. “Just a little... stuck on something.” Your reply does not cause the three to drop their studying gaze on you in the slightest. Their eyes betray concern for you but they don't have any words to give.

You decide to break the silence with a question. One you must be out of your mind asking out of the blue again.

“Why did you forgive her?”

“Beg yer pardon?” Apple Bloom replied, her attention no longer on the project at hand.

“Babs... Bad Seed.” The nickname feels gross on your tongue, but you can't rightly feel any reason why she shouldn't be called that. “After the all she put you through... why? You make her sound like a monster...”

Sweetie walks closer to you, her head bowed down. “Well, she was...” You scoff, causing Sweetie to double back “But! But then we learned she was having the same troubles back at home.”

Scootaloo is the next to pitch in. “Yeah, I remember being really mad at her too. I really wanted to get back at her for everything and all, but... well, in the end, it wouldn't have fixed anything. She was just scared.”

“An' besides, she's family. Family needs to stick together, Slick.”

For the second time that day, you grumble in response. “So, you just let her get away with it? You LET her win?”

“Win?” the yellow filly asks, tilting her head quizzically, making her bow follow suit. “Ah ain't sure Ah follow.”

“She USED you!” you scream out, all of the anger you've had pent up since the night before finally being put into words. “You aren't friends! Not to her! You don't matter! You...!” Your voice catches in your throat, a thick lump forming when you try to swallow.

Blinking hard, you feel the sting of your left eye again after three days since you were clocked by Lemon Drops. The aches and pains of yesterday's crusading came back full force, slowly bleeding their way into your chest.

“I... never mattered...!” you choke out before turning tail and leaving three very confused fillies in your wake.

The next few hours are spent in total silence, both from the little voice in your head and from any or all ponies who you met along the away. It seems the old adage is true: even strangers can tell when something is wrong. Everypony chooses to simply walk past or at least just offer a cursory glance before going there merry way. Sometimes, you'd spot a lone Crusader walking along the dirt paths; you dutifully hide in corners and behind buildings until they go away. After your last little breakdown, you'd rather not talk to any of them so soon. It would just dredge up more confusion on your end.

The sun is still fairly high up in the sky when you decide to just spend the day back with the Cakes. Pinkie Pie may still be mad at you, but it's not like she can change anything. Maybe you can hide under the covers until it's time to go home.

Pushing open the doors at the front of the establishment, you catch the eye of Uncle Carrot who is manning the register. Instead of giving you his usual smile, he's looking at you questioningly. He's no doubt been told by Aunt Cupcake and Pinkie about earlier this morning. “Hey, champ – you hungry? I heard you didn't get a bite to eat before your trip...”

You pay him no mind, tilting your head down to avoid eye contact. After what happened earlier today, you know talking to anypony would just turn out badly.

“Champ?”

“I'm going upstairs.”

You don't wait for a reply. You take the small staircase upstairs back into Pinkie's room. At least this time, she'd be working, letting you have the whole room to yourse-

*BLAM*

Your internal monologue is cut short by the wooden door to your room refusing to open, causing you to plant your face firmly against its smooth grain. Rubbing the top of your head, you look up to see something completely unexpected.

The door leading to Pinkie's room is no longer the vibrant pink with a heart motif – it now looks like a gray office door. The heart-shaped peephole is gone, replaced by a non-descript glass window. The glass is smokey, barring anypony from seeing the goings-on inside; its face bearing the title “PDA” on it in chunky, black letters. On the knob (which didn't used to be there) hangs your thinking hat with a little note sticking to it. Picking up the article of clothing, you place it on your head and read the note scribbled on... gray paper?

“Play along.”

Seeing as you have no place else to go and a least eight more hours before you can call it a day, you take a deep breath and turn the handle.

You rub your eyes in shock.

The entire space has been transformed. The cream walls, the blue floors, the confetti and streamers – all of it is gone. In its place is a much smaller office space, stacks of papers and folders strewn all over the carpeted floor. Three imposing file cabinets, full to bursting with even more paper, hug the far wall behind a black desk. At the desk are two chairs: a small wooden one in front and a tall leather seat at the rear, the latter's back turned towards you, hiding its currently seated client. Blinded windows are the only means of seeing the outside from where you now stand. Another door, this one without a glass plane, stands to your left.

Aside from the sudden shift in volume, you can't help being taken aback by the sudden lack of color. Gone is the vivacious wallpaper and gaily painted floors. Everything... everything is now cast in a muted sepia tone. Even the light streaming in through the tiny slits of the windows appears oddly muffled.

“Sit.”

You hear a mare's voice from behind the chair; the sound is soon followed by a trail of smoke coming from the owner of the command. She sounds familiar.

“What're ya, deaf or somethin'? I said sit down.”

You extend a hoof to grab the wooden seat in front of you. Much to your surprise, even your coat appears to have taken on the hushed tones of the room. Instead of dwelling on this strange development, you comply with your only associate and take you spot.

The tall leather chair swivels with an audible squeak to face you. It reveals your room-mate Pinkie Pie, also rendered brown, mane and all, with a thin white stick protruding from her frowning lips. The smoking mare is clad in a while polo short and brown pants with black suspenders. On top of her head rests a brown bowler hat. The most peculiar thing about her outfit is a small necktie loosely affixed to her collar – unlike everything else, this piece of clothing is an eye-catching pink, seemingly the only thing in the immediate area to have any sort of life in it.

Pinkie's eyes travel up and down your body, giving you a silent inspection from head to hoof. She sneers at you, tilting her cigarette up, before cracking a wry smile. “Well, well, if it isn't Private Eye.”

Your confusion reaches a new peak at the new moniker. “Pinkie, I don't know what your game is, but...”

Before you can admonish her, Pinkie is already leaning over the table, her left hoof pressing deeply into your chest. Her message is deliberate; restrained, but still burgeoning with rage: “The name's Pinkerton, scum. Talk to me out of turn again and I'll make sure you eat out of a straw for the rest of your natural life. Capisce?”

You nod slowly. This mare is officially off her rocker.

“This'll be a heck of a lot more pleasant if you just play along, so you'd better.” Pinkerton sinks back into her seat. “Play along, that is.” She eyes you for a response, one you provide in the form of a much faster nod and sitting straight up on your own chair.

“Good. Now let's start off easy: what brings a lowlife like you to these parts? Windy City's my gig.”

You wrack your brains for the proper answer, though it never comes. If you say something she doesn't like, you'll probably lose all of your teeth, baby AND permanent.

“I... came to learn about somepony...” you say shakily. Beads of sweat are beginning to form on your brow. Miraculously, your answer is satisfactory to the hostile pony, who cracks a small, sinister grin.

“Oh, doing homework for a client, huh?” she asks, though you suspect she already knows the answer, judging from the glint in her eye. “Must be some dame if you're risking your neck for her like this.”

“B-but I never...!” you sputter. How did she know? Can this mare read minds or something?

“Oh, you just did. Right now.” She punctuates her devious trick by chewing on her frail cigarette and puffing out a ring of smoke towards the roof. “'Sides, I sure as spittoon didn't give you that wicked shiner.”

“Tch.” you say outwardly. Just another dirty trick. Another way for a pony to use somepony else.

“Well, come on, then. Spill, kid.” Pinkerton leans back into her seat and pushes her hat onto her face to let the brim cover her eyes.

Deciding to follow the unhinged mare's direction, you start. “I came here to learn about an old friend... a great friend, actually. Well, at least that's what I thought. Until this place made me see how dumb I was.”

Your breathing gets more shallow as you add to your story. “Here I was, all excited to finally spend my time with her after so long, but then she comes back all weird and happy and wonderful... and having no time for me. After all we'd been through, she just brushes me aside for some new club she's joined.”

A lump forms in your throat. “At first, I got used to it, y'know? All that running around, being a saint to other colts and fillies. It felt nice. And it was amazing to see her smile so much.” Pinkerton pushes the brim of her hat up to eye you intently, shifting her cigarette to one side, as if what you're saying is unbelievable.

This frustrates you, causing you to lean your head back and talk to the light brown roof instead. “I guess that's not what you want to hear, is it, Pinkerton? Well, then how about me getting my butt kicked in by two jerks who can't ever seem to leave us alone? It's how I got THIS by the way!” you shout, shifting positions again so you can glare at her with your discolored eye. “Then I get mad and she runs off! So I lie to my parents that I need a break and come here to this backwater place so I can make heads or tails of what the feather is going on!”

You're practically shouting every word now, growing angrier with the mare who won't even make full eye contact with you. “Nice place, by the way – really had me going with all the chumminess! Ponies making all nice just to cash in later on. I got turned into a janitor, a ponyquin, a babysitter, AND a living missile thanks to everypony here! And all for what?!”

You notice that your already standing up on your seat, body shaking from the outburst of emotion. You lower your voice again, angry sobs mixing themselves into your last words: “All for somepony I thought was better.”

Sitting down, you take off your hat and throw it behind you. Everything happening up until now is something you'd left to older ponies. Grown-up stuff. But now? Everything felt heavy. Your eyes and mouth feel raw from the outpouring of all that emotion, but you don't feel any relief.

“Finished?”

“Like you actually care.” you spit back in anger. “You're a sick pony and I don't like you.”

Righting herself, the tough mare spun her chair in a full circle before facing you completely, her hat no longer obscuring her eyes. She's not sneering or frowning anymore. As a matter of fact, she looks... sad.

“So this friend of yours... you close?”

“Not close enough for her to tell me the truth about herself.”

“She never tried to tell you? Not even once?”

Your thoughts go back to your last day in Manehattan – Babs was trying to tell you something but was cut off by Top Brass and Lemon Drops.

The Crusaders weren't the only ponies I hung out with...

You feel your body tense up a little with the small revelation. “So she really was going to tell me...”

“How'd you two wind up together anyway? Bust a smuggling ring together or something?” Pinkerton's voice sounds more whimsical than it did just some minutes ago, but you could feel that she still had ulterior motives.

“N-no... I helped her with something for school.”
“Is that it? Come on, kid. Now's the time to 'fess up.” A hoof on your shoulder. It seems Pinkerton is no longer seated behind her desk.

“I helped her after she got bullied here for the first time.”

“She must've been scared.”

“Terrified, I think. They gave it to her really bad.” you muse. Flashes of a tormented Babs fill your mind, her mane long but heavily ruffled and stuck with lemon wedges and small pieces of paper. Come to think of it, the first thing she ever said to you was to leave her alone.

“Imagine that. She must've really appreciated what you did for her back then.”

You don't answer; however, a small smile makes its way to your muzzle.

“It must have been awful though... having that happen again here, without anypony she knows.”

What?

“It's a small place, kid. Everypony hear treats each other like family. You'll be hard-pressed to not know what goes on around here.” Looking over your shoulder, you see that Pinkerton is no longer wearing her hat. Instead, she seems to be trying on yours (albeit in vain). Her voice holds an entertained lilt when she tells you about how things work in Ponyville; it doesn't last though – she looks you in the eyes and says something that makes everything click.

“One of the first things to happen to her here was getting bullied. Just like back then. She didn't know anypony. The only fillies with her at the time were getting bullied too.”

Your insides freeze up. “What?” you ask the mare telling you the story.

“There will always be bad ponies out there, kid. When you don't have that many friends... when you feel alone... Well, sometimes we do things we're not proud of.”

You slump down in your seat, defeat crawling into your skin. “So that's it then. My friend didn't come back the same after all.”

“No, she didn't. By what your story tells me though, she seemed a lot happier. Say, did you know that Babs is related to the Apples?”

“Yeah. I guess.” The dejection makes everything plain uninteresting to you now. What was the point of all this again?

“I hear she left here with pretty good advice. She wanted to talk things out with her sister. And that she promised her friends to be a different pony. Somepony who wouldn't back down even if she was different.”

Your ears perk up at the last part. Some things are clicking together: Babs talking to her sister, her wanting to help other ponies get their cutie marks, her fearlessness, her newfound zeal.

As it turns out, you were right: Ponyville did change your friend. She wasn't some helpless filly you had to protect anymore.

I wish they'd get what they deserve!

Oh no.

“...no... what have I done?” Your eyes are starting to sting again, only not because of hurt or betrayal. Now it was out of shame.

“I made her think I hate her...”

Before you can complete the statement, you are embraced warmly. Pinkie Pie, now sans hard-boiled detective outfit, had scooped you up in a tight hug. “Ponies can change. Especially if they have friends to help them do it.” Her grip loosens on you. “I think you of all ponies ought to know that by now. You sure look like she changed you.”

The tears are coming out full force when you hug back, burying your tear-streaked face into Pinkie's mane. “You can still fix this when you go back. Tell her what she means to you. What she really means to you. Sound good, punk?” she adds with a little giggle at the end. Her small laugh proves infectious, lightening your heart somewhat.

“How did you know what this was all about?”

“The Crusaders came to Sugarcube Corner first, looking for you. They told me about how you went a little loco at them over at the playing fields. I was still sore at you for being a grumpy gus towards Mrs. Cake so I asked them why they wanted to help somepony like you and they told me about how you and Babs were friends. So I put two and two and you together and that's why we're here now!”

It boggles your mind, but the pink one makes sense. Your emotional state makes you spill out details more willingly – what better way to do that than to make you feel that this was a life or death deal?

“I'm sorry I called you sick.” you say weakly. “And I'll apologize to Auntie when this is over too.”

“And?”

“I'll talk to the crusaders about what I did back there. They deserve to know.”

“One of my closest friends always says that friendship is magic. It's all about believing in them – that they are better, even if they look like they're just being big old meanie pantses. You have to trust them, okay?”

You finally loosen your grip on Pinkie and look her in the eye.

“You are one smart mare, you know that?”

“One of my friends says I can take over the world with my brain!” she answers without missing a beat.

The sheer ridiculousness of where you are now, a sepia-toned detective office, hugging it out like schoolponies, proves too much. Both of you double over in healthy guffaws. You even see Pinkie's cigarette is anything but: it's just a lollipop with the same pink as her coat.

“Okay. I think I can fix this now.” you state after regaining your breath.

“Well, don't let me stop you, kid! You have some 'splainin' to do!”

Dropping back down and going out into the brightly colored confines of Sugarcube Corner, you have a renewed purpose in your journey.

You know what changed Babs.

It was the friends she made here, who understood and forgave her. She was afraid and acted out – she's not a bully any more than the Crusaders are.

And when you get back, you'll tell her exactly what you think of her.

You forget one thing though:

You never do ask Pinkie Pie how she did... well, everything.

It's probably for the best though. Your young mind may not be able to understand.

Author's Note

Since Season 4 gave us a more in-depth look at Manehattan, I was given a more powerful drive to finish up this latest chapter. Please enjoy what I've managed to put down so far.

All things come to a loose end

“Oh, I forgive you, dear!” Auntie Cupcake proclaims tenderly before lifting you up in a warm hug. “New place, new ponies – I can understand why things would confuse you a little.”

You smile and return the hug. “Thanks, Auntie. I’m happy you aren’t too mad at me.”

After your colorful exchange with Pinkie Pie, you were encouraged by the eccentric mare to go back downstairs and mend things with the Cakes. After apologizing for your last tantrum, they were more than willing to let bygones be bygones and arranged for the family dinner to have a seat extra just for you. To your surprise, your meeting with the “proprietor of the Pinkerton Detective Agency” had spent all of your daylight hours, leaving you nothing but the evening and the very next day to wrap things up in the sleepy little town.

While you feel all the more relaxed after letting your issues go, you still have the nagging feeling of what you have to do when you get back to the city. It’s not very likely that Babs will let you just walk up to her and hug it out. What are you even going to say?

The thought of tomorrow preoccupies you so badly that you reply honestly to Uncle Carrot’s question. He nearly drops the spoon he’s using to feed Pumpkin when you answer.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking here, sport, but do you mind if we pick your brain about what made you so cross? If there’s anything we can do, you can just tell us.” He does his best to crack a supportive smile at you while simultaneously making swishing and whooshing noises to make his infant daughter concede to a spoonful of pureed carrots.

Everypony at the table, even your cousins, become slack-jawed when you give your reply:

“It’s because of this girl…”

Before tucking you in, Pinkie Pie explains that the “brown icing on everything” would wear off after a few more days. You still have a hard time buying that everything you saw was nothing more than some incredibly well-painted cardboard backdrops, but a quick swipe from Pinkie’s hoof proves this to be true.

“But what about your tie? And the windows?,” you sputter out before she silences you with a quick kiss to the forehead and a tussle of the mane.

“Is that really what you want to be thinking about, Private Eye?” she asks with a knowing smirk gracing her obviously entertained face. “This is your last night here. Better to not sweat the small stuff.”

You quickly roll over to your side to avoid her twinkling gaze. This mare must be psychic.

For what it’s worth though, she is right. Thinking too much about these things will probably give you dreams again. That would just make everything even harder to process.

“One sheep, two sheep, three sheep,…” you begin, letting sleep overtake you.

The morning air is crisp, the birds are singing, and the mattress you are sleeping on gives you just enough of a bounce to meet the day head on. Even the sepia-toned rays of sunlight don’t stop you from making your bed and packing your things with all the excitation of a pony ready for the first day of summer.

You can still picture the gushing faces of the Cakes asking you for every last detail you can give them about Babs (“What’s her name?” “How old is she?” “What are feelings regarding rhubarb and chocolate pastries?”) all without missing a beat in feeding their kids. If it weren’t so embarrassing, it would actually be very cool.

“Morning, champ!” greets Uncle Carrot, depositing a tall plate of waffles on the kitchen counter. “All ready for ya!,” he adds, followed by a wink that makes you fidget in your seat slightly.

Yeah, still every bit as awkward as last night.

“And a fine morning to our little nephew as well!” Aunt Cupcake is in even higher spirits than her husband, giving you a particularly hard kiss on the cheek and a quick tussle of your mane. “I hope you aren’t too excited about going home. We are going to miss having you around here.” She adds an almost dreamy sigh to the end of her statement, punctuating it further by wiping her left eye with a hoof and mumbling “they grow up so fast…!”

You smile at her, a little weaker than you normally would considering last night’s almost endless question-and-answer, but you still mean it. Making short work of the waffles deposited in front of you, you hop down onto the floor and take in as much of SugarCube Corner as you can – this is the first and probably the last time you’ll get to see its walls with both eyes, after all.

“I’m gonna miss being here too, Auntie. And no, my train isn’t leaving until just before this evening. I still have time to settle things!” you announce.

After giving your relatives, drooling and bouncy foals included, tight hugs each, you make your way out of the large confection shop. Turning back, you gaze at its faux-sweet walls and decorations. It’s still pretty hard to believe that you even had relatives this far out; the icing on the cake is that they just so happened to live in a giant gingerbread house.

Ponyville is full of surprises. It’s a fact.

Your first order of business is obvious: you left three fillies hanging and they deserve to know what’s really been going on.

While not small by any means, Ponyville is still navigable and to even your small hooves, capable of being covered in a very short time without help from any carts or cabs. Sadly, this is complicated today by the bustling town center. Starting your day early has put you square in the middle of over a dozen merchant ponies setting up shop.

You suck in a big helping of air and brave the sprawling crowd, with their carts, stalls, and wares being put up for display.

Or more accurately, try to brave the crowd. No sooner are you five steps in, you are swept in by the river of pastel bodies, bustling about to start the day. Each turn you make is either denied, reversed, or redirected, with as little as an “oof!” and the occasional “What the-?” marking that the ponies you bumped into had indeed been bumped into.

After at least three detours, nine distractions, and probably half a run-around, you slump your tired body down against one of the stalls being set-up along the perimeter of the square. While not completely spent, you can imagine that navigating through all of this again would leave you at low point. Your resolve keeps you from giving up however, and you brace yourself for another pinball-like attempt to make it to the other side.

“I’m sorry about bumping into your stall, mister… uh… miss? I just a little messed around that’s all.” You don’t want to leave anypony else with a bad impression of you, especially since this is the last time you’ll be here for a good long while.

A minute passes by in complete silence of the salespony behind you. Your insides become tight; part of you is expecting the worst. Did you topple over a jar full of poison beetles and the pony behind you is now valiantly fighting for dear life?

A shadow covers your sitting spot, confirming that the stall’s owner was fine and was now looming over your very small frame.

“Eeyup,” he finally replies in a familiar bass.

You release a breath you don’t remember holding and look up at the massive crimson pony behind you. His eyes are half-lidded as he swings that small piece of hay in his mouth from right to left; he then turns around and starts placing some heavy-looking baskets full of apples on top of his makeshift store for the day.

Taking the opportunity, you shakily make your way behind the stall and approach the male Apple. “Uh, Mr. Macintosh?” you ask. You hope he can spare at least some time for a request of yours. He looks down to meet your gaze, prompting you to continue. “Uh, hi, Mr. Macintosh! Er…Big Mac, heh heh. I was just wondering if you’d seen your sister and her friends around? I need to talk to them.”

Without missing a beat, he lifts you up by the scruff of your neck, up over the adjacent fence behind his apple cart parked near the stall. He deposits you neatly on the ground before replacing his hay stalk and pointing you toward a fairly narrow path. “Treehouse,” he utters simply.

You offer him your thanks (he reciprocates with another “Eeyup” and turning to place more apple products in front) and sprint down the path. If you’re not wrong, talking to the Crusaders about Babs might take more than its own fair share of time.

You arrive at the clearing, seeing nothing new in the space before you, save for the hollowed out remains of an arcade game. Instead of feeling the pang of dread you had once, you smile and think instead of what the trio may have done with the insides of the complex box. Your attention is immediately wrenched up towards the treehouse proper, where a variety of loud bangs and flashes of color are emanating from the windows. At the foot of the ramp, you see Scootaloo’s two-wheeler on its side, as if discarded quickly.

It takes only three steps before you are able to make a better impression of what’s going on inside. Three fillies’ voices arguing over “this piece” or “my head” and the continuous banging and whirring noises tell you that the Cutie Mark Crusaders are trying to build something yet again; another creative means of getting the ever-elusive cutie mark.

You stop just short of the slightly ajar door and plan your next move. “What do I even say to these three? Hi, I’m sorry for acting like a total psycho yesterday?”

Inhaling a huge breath, you step inside, ready for what the hay might happen… when you’re swiftly given a greasy wrench by a filthy Sweetie Belle. “What?” you ask, before being roughly yanked further inside by Apple Bloom, sans bow and with a large pair of black goggles. She’s smiling very widely, grabbing the wrench out of your hooves and mumbling her thanks before getting to work on a foal-sized… doll?

It’s a hodge-podge of brass, wood, gears, and what highly resembles a washing machine window. The strangest thing happens when it sighs and voices out its current state of mind: “This is way more boring than you said it would be!”

You try and say something, only to be interrupted by Sweetie Belle giving of a huge grunt of effort. Turning around, you see the white unicorn has lifted a glass dome onto her head. Her balancing effort appears to take root, causing her to puff out her chest and state “Just hold still, Scoots! The magic is about to happen!”

Apple Bloom lifts her goggles and gives a quick spit to the side and exclaiming “Done and done! I knew we could get something outta all this junk! And not for a single penny!”

She smiles at her two friends and finally looks you in the eye. “Slick? Didn’t see ya come in! Must’ve been those fog glasses. Anyways, hey! Nice to have ya back!”

Sweetie stays in place but does her best to offer up a hoof for you to shake. “I thought I gave the wrench to Apple Bloom. Explains why she’s still on that side of the room. Welcome back!”

Behind you, an irate voice intones: “Yeah, sure, welcome back. Come on, girls – let’s do this! Sweetie Belle, fire it up!”

The addressed filly complies, scrunching her eyes shut and fueling the contraption in her head with a jolt of green magic. A steady hum fills the treehouse as tendrils of magic begin to connect to you, Apple Bloom’s “fog glasses,” and Scootaloo’s scary-looking outfit. You look around for something to hide behind, but you are held in place by curiosity. What IS all this?

The humming grows louder and louder, while Sweetie Belle keeps pouring magic into her helmet. She’s mumbling words under her breath; you notice her two friends are now doing the same. Straining your ears, you can make out just one phrase: “Cutie marks.”

The humming stops…

Then suddenly starts up again as a high-pitched squeal. The green tendrils get sucked into Scootaloo’s suit, which she promptly jumps out of using an opening running along its back. She huddles up with you and the other Crusaders as the now empty pony-mech turns its headless body to the side, displaying its black, square flanks to all of you.

“Oooohh, I can’t wait!”
“Come on, come on… jus’ a few seconds!”
“This is gonna be wicked!”

The three fillies are hugging each other (and by extension, you) rather snugly, their eyes affixed to what you finally recognize as a cannibalized arcade game screen on a foal-shaped stand. The squeal stops and the screen flickers on to reveal…

A white, brown, and yellow alicorn cartoon, running in place to a stilted, if catchy tune.

“Al-ways *beep*
Want to *beep*
Be with you
*Beep*
*Beep*
And make believe with you
And live in harmony, harmony…!”

“OH COME ON!” reply the three exhausted fillies, who collapse onto the floor in a tired heap. Scootaloo gives a guttural sigh, pulling down on her lower eyelids to show her frustration.

You are the first to break the silence. “That sure is… uh… something. Neat.”

Sweetie Belle gives a non-committal sigh and a nod, followed by Apple Bloom following suit.

Five minutes pass by with not a single word shared among the three of you. Finally, Apple Bloom walks over to the pony-shaped device and gives it a quick jab to the neck, causing the whole thing to collapse. “Welp, that was a wash,” she states in defeat.

“It wasn’t so bad,” you say. “It… sorta worked.” A quick pause. “What was it supposed to do again?”

“It was gonna show us what our cutie marks were gonna be” says the little orange pegasus. “We used pieces of the F&F Flyer and that old game box to build something called an astro-pope.”

“Astral scope” corrects Sweetie. “We found it in an old book we borrowed from Spike.”

Five more minutes of total silence.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it, buster. This was a longshot and we knew it. It looks cool, at least.” Scootaloo, no longer bored out of her manners, is beginning to act more warmly again.

“No,” you say. “I meant about yesterday. About… me. I said some awful things and I wanted to clear things up before I left.”

“You’re leaving?! But… but… you just got here!” protests Sweetie. Her voice is tired but forceful, reflecting both her will and her fatigue.

“I know and I’m sorry about that too. I was never going to be here forever, y’know? And I think I have a lot to answer for when I go back to Manehattan. That’s… that’s later today.” You add the last part with more shame than you’d like to admit.

The three fillies slowly clamber up to their hooves and quickly acquire some chairs from the debris littering the floor. Apple Bloom sits herself down and smiles. “Cutie Mark Crusaders are always there for each other, Slick. Lay it on us. We won’t bite.” She adds with a joking wink. Scootaloo and Sweetie Belle offer tired smiles to get you to loosen your lips sooner.

“Remember what I said about why I was here? I might have… left one day...”
After that, you properly end your story: from Top Brass and Lemon Drops messing with you again, to losing contact with Babs after your screaming fit. The Cutie Mark Crusaders show varying expressions of understanding and comprehension. Apple Bloom does her best to maintain a neutral expression, though you suspect her head’s starting to hurt from knitting her brows so much; Sweetie Belle’s face swings between fascination to sorrow to hopeful; Scootaloo expresses her thoughts more verbally, calling you “the dumbest colt I’ve ever been friends with.”

The yellow earth filly smiles and offers you a handkerchief she fetches from the nearby footstool. “Feel better, city slicker?”

You didn’t even notice the tears flowing. You accept and blow hard into the fabric, mumbling your thanks after. “I screwed up there and I almost did the same here.”

“Nah. You jus’ got worked up over a friend is all.”

“I think that you think she’s more though,” comes a slightly excited squeak. “Shut up!” you answer with a laugh. “It’s not like that!”

“Yeah-huh. Just don’t infect her with your cooties of anything.” Scootaloo jabs your arm, but offers you a cheeky smile too. “She’ll listen. We all know it.”

And with that, the Cutie Mark Crusaders conclude their “goodwill collaboration” with their Manehattan branch with a big group hug. It’s not something you usually do with your buddies back home, but it’s something you can get used to.

You may have only been in Ponyville for four days but your goodbye still hurts. You also have a little bit of an entourage to see you off.

Rarity and Sweetie Belle are the first to give you words of encouragement and thanks, along with a lightly blushing baby dragon. “Thanks again for all the help, dude. I hope you liked Ponyville,” he smiles before waddling back to the platform towards a purple unicorn and a perched, snoozing Owlowysious. She must be the senior librarian, you think. Making eye contact, she gives a curt wave and a bright smile.

“Here you are, darling!” chirps the elder white unicorn, levitating a white package into your saddlebags. “I must insist that you open this in the company of your… friend.” She adds just a little hint of something or another to how she says that last part. “I assure you, she will adore it. Do give her our best!” Sweetie Belle gives you a quick squeeze around the neck before echoing her sister’s words. “Ooohh, I wish I could be there to see how you two tie the knot… err… patch things up. Yeah. That’s what I meant!”

Applejack and Apple Bloom are next, with a basket full of apple tarts. “Give some to yer kin and to Babs’s too. Ah sure as sugar hope you got what you came for, sonny.” Applejack pats you on the head, with Apple Bloom putting two or three letters into the basket. “And give these to Babs, will ya? After you straighten things out I mean. We’re gonna have a reunion soon – those’re invites.” The yellow filly beams widely and dances in place for a short moment, obviously eager to see Babs in the flesh again.

Scootaloo swings an arm over your shoulder and gives her best too. “Give that big city of yours the ol’ one-two, Slick. Show’em what the original CMC’s made out of ya.” In a more hushed tone, she adds “And pump the brakes on the mushy stuff, alright? I’m a filly and even I think way over the top.” She punctuates this with a noogie to rival the ones your brother gives you.

Lastly, Aunt and Uncle Carrot and their foals bid you their goodbyes, letting some tears flow in the process. “I’ll be fine, Uncle Carrot, Auntie Cee. Thank you for everything. I promise I’ll write when I get back home.”

Uncle Carrot is too choked up to answer, so his wife does it for him. “We are going to miss you, little one! Come back any time and we’ll always be happy to have you around. Good luck on the… you-know-what with you-know-who!” ending her statement with a cheesy wink, soon followed suit by a still speechless Uncle Carrot Cake.

Before you even have the chance to blush, you are tossed up into the air with a loud POP of confetti. You land in the arms of a very happy, if a little tearful, Pinkie Pie. “Sorry I couldn’t throw you a going-away party, kid. I’ll make it up to you when you come back.” Instead of waiting for you to answer, she throws you bodily into the just arriving bullet train set for the Big Apple. “Go sweep her off her hooves, Private Eye!”

Looking outside the window of the closing door, you finally take in the sight of all of these wonderful ponies who went out of their way to give you a home away from home. Rarity and Sweetie are both grinning, as are Applejack and Apple Bloom who wave at you spiritedly. Scootaloo has climbed onto the back of a cyan mare with a rainbow mane to get a better look at the train, and Spike is back near the front, prodding at his sleeping “junior junior librarian” to see you off. The Cakes are all smiles despite Pinkie’s very spirited display dwarfing their own. The pink mare in question is waving around a banner with a caricature of your face. Funnily enough, the banner is still in sepia tone.

Right as the train speeds up, you notice a familiar looking hat adorning Pinkie’s poofy mane.

“I guess it’s the least I could do.” You say it with a resigning laugh, making your way to your seat at the other car. The trip will be quick. You should arrive in Manehattan within two to three hours.

Instead of comfort, the first thing your return brings is dread. There are two ponies who meet you at the platform in the city – two ponies you could really do without seeing ever again. With a wicked smirk and a “friendly” arm around the shoulder, Lemon Drops guides you over to Top Brass. He pops out a piece of gum from his mouth, eyes it, and promptly starts chewing on it again. “I was going to give you a nice, new accessory, but I’m afraid the flavor hasn’t quite gone out yet. You’ll have to wait for your prize, shrimp.” His voice is nonchalant, as if ruining your day really is just nothing to him.

“We’re glad we caught ya, shrimpie,” Lemon Drops says with a firm squeeze. “We thought you might make a run for it, so’s we decided to chaperone your scrawny butt.”

“Why would I run away from a two-bit punk and his muscle?” You feel brave. You know there’s nothing Lemon Drops can do to you as long as you don’t give her the chance.

“Lotta lip comin’ from you today, shrimp. I didn’t hit your head on the dirt that hard, did I?” speaks the tiny tyrant, feigning guilt before breaking out into a fit of giggles. Top Brass repeats the motion with his gum, returning the sweet to his mouth, and addresses Lemon Drops: “Don’t rough him up, Lemon. At least not until he’s spoken to all of us.

As if to punctuate this ominous instruction, a second, smaller train pulls up to your platform. It is a muted gray with a square nose. A large, yellow label is tampographed on its side that reads “Lunar Correctional Facility for Wayward Colts.”

Your mouth feels dry. Your breathing becomes shallower. You can feel the blood pumping throughout your chest and your ears.

You had been so wrapped up in what you were planning to do that you forgot. Now, you wish you didn’t recognize him: his mane is buzzed short and he is wearing an orange vest bearing the letters of the correctional facility he was sent to; his eyes are still as small and beady as you remember and he appears to have grown even taller since last time you saw him face-to-face. He isn’t an overweight slob anymore; on the contrary, he looks like a slightly smaller version of his father.

Talk about bad cop.
Talk about bad timing.

Your mind nearly shuts down until it’s jolted by a quick punch to the back of your head by Lemon Drops. “You remember D-Cell, don’t ya?”

You do now.
And something tells you you won’t soon forget.

Cutie Mark Crusaders

“So… what comes next?”

This time, you manage to look into her eyes – expectant, practically begging you to answer.

Everything that’s happened has been building up to this point – and you honestly have no idea what to say.

Grand Central station is an invariably busy place. Ponies of all shapes, sizes, races, and businesses come and go from this one spot in all of Manehattan. Maybe it’s the size, the grandeur, or maybe just the right to brag about how they were in “the” Grand Central Station. These days, there are faster ways to travel: hot air balloons, dirigibles, ocean liners – heck, one day, there might even be teleporters like in those shows you’re so fond of. But right here and now, everypony is here.

And minding their own business.

That’s what city life is all about, really – minding your own day, not butting heads, or in general, just staying out of everypony else’s life, because the big picture is just too big here.

As you feel Lemon Drops loosen her grip on your shoulder, you feel the city shrug at what is probably the last time you’ll ever set hoof in Grand Central as a whole pony. Top Brass pushes his chewing gum into the other side of his mouth and sneers in that sleazy way that shows he thinks he’s won. His slicked back mane and big words could never hide that he was and still is a huge bully – more so than his two goons.

The acidic-yellow filly trots away from you over to her partner-in-crime. “I wouldn’t run if I were you,” she intones cheekily. “And believe me, shrimpy, nopony who’s anypony ain’t itchin’ to be yous.”

You swallow hard but plant your hooves all the same, your fear-addled brain going into overdrive to figure a way out. She’s right – this is where things go belly-up for you, but only if you don’t act. The problem is, nopony within the immediate surrounding could care less. Thanks to your rushed exit from Ponyville, you never did get to call your parents for a safer pick-up inside the station.

Top Brass looks over at D-Cell and gives him a hearty slap on the back. “Welcome back, my big-boned chum. We are SO eager to be in your company again. I’m sure you know our old acquaintance!” His eyes, closed in mock joy, open and give you a malicious glare. “Judging by your new physique, I assume you have some… overdue well-wishes for him? Why don’t we go out and find a nice, quiet place for the two of you to do some catching up?”

Smart move, you begrudgingly admit. He knows how you managed to escape D-Cell’s tantrums the last time. He wants you to get creamed without any pesky cameras around. In that case, all you have to do is to stay here and not get dragged out by the pony death machine in front of you. It’s impossible, but you’re very short on options right now.

The smaller, irritatingly confident brown colt turns and quips over his shoulder. “I hear there’s a nice, warm spot behind the buildings a few blocks from here. I’m sure we would all love to hear what you’ve been through, D-Cell. Shall we hop to it, then?”

“Let’s.”

For a good few seconds, your mouth threatens to rip wide open, your lungs and diaphragm cramp and tickle at the same time. The voice is in a confusing state between high-pitched and low, like a lone note from a mangled bassoon. It warbles in a comedic attempt to communicate single-minded determination; with just the one syllable, the speaking pony makes the prospect of getting your bones rearranged sound like the first knock-knock joke ever told.

It isn’t the now similarly-straining Top Brass, who has spun around in his own disbelief.
It isn’t Lemon Drops, slack-jawed, with her right brow arched so high on her face, it’s threatening to disappear.
And it certainly isn’t you.

It’s D-Cell, wearing a grim look on his face, apparently aware of the bubble he just burst. His eyes are cast down on the marble floor, his body held in what you can assume is a hard-bodied posture that has been beaten into him by his correction officers.

You don’t dare utter a single hiccup of laughter out of fear. Despite what his voice now sounds like, the pony still facing your direction is still an intimidating sight. He’s never been the kind to talk you or anypony Top Brass targeted to death. You notice now that his orange outfit is ill-fitted, threatening to rip at the seams from all his new, terrifying bulk. The quick bout of comedy is quickly forgotten when he makes the first few steps towards you.

You swallow a very audible gulp of fear. Your legs are shaking. In just a few more minutes, he’ll probably just chuck you straight out through the roof into Zebrica and pound you there.

D-Cell approaches you, stops… and turns around to glare at his fellow bullies. He stomps down his left hoof and declares in a more threatening, albeit still shakey, voice. “This ends tonight. You aren’t going to make me hurt anypony.”

Lemon Drops breaks the silence, shouting “Are you friggin’ serious?!” She scampers over to D-Cell and grabs his shirt collar firmly. “Don’t ya remember what that little geek DID to you? They put ya away for two years cuz he squealed!” Her pupils have shrunk to pinpricks and her lips are straining to cover her exposed teeth. “HE put you away! HE took you away from your home! HE did this to you!” she finishes, letting go of the larger pony and gesturing to his mane and outfit.

D-Cell responds coolly, “No, Lemon Drops. I did this to myself.” He’s concentrating on keeping his voice from cracking again. “I deserved what I got and I learned my lesson.” He eyes Top Brass; you imagine them trading the meanest, gnarliest stink-eyes on the face of all Equestria. The larger colt goes on, saying “Beating on ponies for being small, for being different, for being anything… it won’ fix anything. It won’t give us friends, it won’t win us any favors or honors.” He walks around Lemon Drops and stops directly in front of Top Brass. “It won’t make our fathers love us.”

Before anypony can say anything, Top Brass shrieks and lunges at his old friend, oblivious to the ponies milling around. He rages and howls and screams, throwing desperate punches at the larger colt. “You big, stupid, stupidface! I made you! You can’t talk to me like that!” His tirade devolves from simple, angry words to shouts and flying hooves. Even Lemon Drops stays closer to your side, looking absolutely horrified at what is happening.

His angry outburst barely fazes the larger colt, who waits about three minutes before using a single shove to lay his angry opponent squarely on his backside. “This isn’t the way, Top. When puberty hit me in Lunar, I got the short end of the stick from everypony. I finally felt what it was like to be the other guy – the loser. I’m not going to be a bully anymore. And as long as I’m here, neither will you.”

All the confidence and swagger Top Brass had earlier is gone. He angrily spits out his gum at D-Cell’s hooves before turning tail and walking away quickly. Lemon Drops is also devoid of all surliness. Normally, she exits with a barb about your mane or your friends and follows her friend suit; now, she appears conflicted as to whether or not she should pursue Top Brass. She looks at D-Cell and even you with wide eyes, confused and asking for help. You slowly shake your head ‘no’ and she nods. She walks away and vanishes with the crowd.

D-Cell turns and gives you a curt nod before making his way off the platform. Snapping back into reality, you dig into your saddlebags for an apple-tart and call out the larger pony’s name before tossing him a confection. Without missing a beat, he catches it and swallows the whole thing with no ceremony. He mumbles his thanks and continues to walk into the medley of pastel colors.

Turning to the main exit, you hear your name being called. “By the way, it’s Detention Cell. And thanks for helping set me straight.” After that, your old “punch buddy” finally parts ways with you to head off to only Luna knows where.

And it’s only been a couple of hours since you came back.

The rest of the night is rather uneventful, all things considered. Your parents pick you up roughly ten minutes after you step out of the station and give you a good earful about calling them when you got back. It looks like you had gotten so wrapped up in tying up loose ends in Ponyville that you neglected to phone ahead. Your mother is definitely the more vocal between the two of them, but both are equally glad that you got home in one whole piece. If Top Brass and his former cronies had gotten in the way, you were more than likely to be grounded for at least two forevers and a half (if you’d gotten the math right).

The cab ride back is full of bumps and the occasional swerve, but you and your parents make it home mostly unscathed and just in time for dinner. Brussel sprouts and artichokes, while not your go-to meal, don’t stop you from making short work of what’s on your plate. “Golly, sport – you just got back. Slow down and chew your food.” Since it’s your father commenting on your ravenous eating, you decide to tone it down significantly, opting instead to answer your kin and let them catch up with your escapades. Unlike the day before, you have a much better handle on your own feelings, allowing you to measure out your words before you blab your head off again.

Your mother starts: “So, dear – did you make any friends while staying over at your Aunt and Uncle’s?” Her voice is sweet and more importantly, familiar to you. You feel a smile grace your features and reply happily, naming almost everypony you can think of, one after another, including nearly everything that happened between you and them. It’s only been a few days, but the memories are still fresh and exciting; what’s better is that without your worries about Babs, you feel much lighter about the entire stay.

Your father speaks up, “That is a lot of mares and fillies you mentioned, son.” His somber voice and straight face put a chill through your little spine. He’s usually the one to joke about these sorts of things but he’s so subdued, so unsettlingly serious that it makes even your mother look at him with alarmed wonder. He puts a heavy hoof on your tiny shoulder and looks you dead in the eye.

“What would Babs think?”

And with that, what’s left of dinner gets pelted at your dad, courtesy of yourself and your chuckling mother.

After all the first days of school you’ve been through, you think you’d have a better handle on it by now. There’s always that one new teacher who looks too happy for his own good, the older teacher who thinks you should have a quiz or a ton of homework ten minutes in, a student who has some sort of accident that either gets him labeled for the whole year or gets him really popular with some ponies, and lastly, the ever popular “What I Did Last Summer” paper. Despite the repetition, you always have a lingering sense of dread on the first day – the small chance of doing something embarrassing that would follow you around for the rest of the year, possibly even forever. There’s just something awfully scary about not knowing something that might happen, even in the middle of a polished routine.

On this particular first day, however, you find yourself glancing at the door more often than usual. Nearly every ten minutes, you feel compelled to shoot a quick look at the door leading into the classroom. Mister Chickenscratch is far too distracted by his own story about lollipops and glass-blowers to pay you any mind, so there’s at least that. As the day stretches on, even beyond lunch break and into the final bell ring, you can’t help looking at that empty door.

Babs Seed didn’t come to class today.

Hauling your heavier than usual saddlebags, you stand in front of the school building and look at the small gaggle of ponies making their way home. Trailing a few metres behind them, you spot a strangely isolated Lemon Drops. With last night’s bout of drama, you can only suspect that she’s still having a hard time seeing what she did. It’s only a fleeting glance, but you notice she has some dark circles around her eyes. While not particularly high on your to-do list, you make a small reminder to try and talk to the troubled filly once you get the chance. You’re still not very fond of her, but you of all ponies know now what a huge thing it is to have another pony be willing to just listen.

You don’t see hide nor hair of your elusive friend, so you consider just getting as far away from school as possible; unfortunately, a mere three steps in and your stomach decides to very loudly tell you it needs to be filled up. Preferably with something sweet and cold.

Ice cream it is.

The walk to the ice cream parlor is about the same length as the one going to your house, but the payoff is way more attractive in the former. Suffering the added weight of Rarity’s gift and your new books, you press on until you are greeted by the familiar glassy façade of Rootbeer Float’s. Since it’s the first time in a long while you’ve been here, you take in the sight of the whole building. It has polished silver pillars decorating the front and a big neon light sign telling you the place’s name in bright red cursive lettering. A stylized soda pony is built framing the doorway, its mechanical hoof waving back and forth while a painted speech bubble tells everypony to “Savor some sweets!” The afternoon sun bounces off the building, giving it a beautiful warm hue. It’s big, bold, and makes your mouth water a little. While its look is nowhere near as inspired Sugarcube Corner’s, it still has great memories for you and most ponies your age who live in and around its radiant glow.

Making your way inside the establishment, you are surprised to see the one and only Babs Seed, sitting alone at an isolated table at the far end, near a window. She’s looking emptily at a tall, melted milkshake parked in front of her nose. The long silver handle of a spoon is pointing up and out of her pouting lips. Her eyes are half-lidded and apparently not truly focusing on anything as a small foal manages to lodge, laugh at, and retrieve a paper airplane out of her cropped mane.

Your legs wobble like jelly, forcing you to redouble your efforts to just stand up straight. You try and tame your scruffy mane and double – no, make that triple – check your breath, and valiantly lick out any pieces of food that might have stayed stuck in your chompers since lunch. You mentally smack yourself for gorging on garlic puffs and pesto at the time. It’s now or never.

Babs hardly even notices you approach her table. You nonchalantly cough into your hoof to get her attention, but it doesn’t work. You try and cough a few more times, but all that does is get you a wad of tissues from a passing staff member. Without any other means at your disposal, you set your bags down and prepare yourself to do the unimaginable.

Hoisting yourself up to the seat opposite hers, you prop up a single elbow and ask her a la Con Mane“Is this seat taken?” You pray that you sound cool and sophisticated, not meek and unsure.

“Wha-?” Babs is shaken out of her trance and gives you a look that can only be described as petrified. “I-I have to… I have to go!” She tries to clamber off her seat, but it seems like her legs have fallen asleep on her. “Ah, dang pins n’ needles…!” she grunts through gritted teeth. Taking the opportunity, you lean forward and put a hoof on her shoulder. “It’s okay, Babs! Please – I just need to talk to you!” She looks at your hoof and then at you like you just grew a second head. You plead with her again. “I just want to talk.”

Babs relents, but refuses to look you in the eye. She keeps her line of sight fixed at the window, apparently preferring to watch other ponies mill about. After a solid five minutes of complete and utter silence, she mutters a simple apology and begins to sob. You keep your hoof on top of hers and shush her gently. This doesn’t seem to do the trick, as her tears continue to flow, followed by more words. “I h-heard from your parents. Th-that you went to Ponyville. And now y-you know… what I did… and I n-never told you…”

“I understand if you don’t want to see me anymore… It’s what I de-“

You cut her off by gently squeezing her hoof, causing her to turn her head in your direction. “Now why would I want to do a crazy thing like that?” you ask with complete honesty. “When I went to Ponyville, all I heard about was how good you were.” She raises her eyes to meet yours and they’re every bit as amazing as they were in your dream. Her tears don’t stop flowing and she asks in befuddlement, “What’re you t-talking about? I was a bully…”

You let go off her and answer, “No, you were scared and alone. Babs, you knew too well what it’s like to have that kind of problem back here – and it was happening all over again and you wanted to change that.” She bows her head down in shame, prompting you to continue. “But you did change! You made friends, real ones that taught you a better way. In the end, you stood up for them, like how you’ve been standing up for other ponies since you got here.”

Her sobbing is much slower now. She’s relaxed enough to put both hooves on the table. “S-so… you’re not mad?”

Feeling a little stifled by the mood, you try and make a quip. “You know, you don’t look too good when your face is all messed up like that.” This earns you a giggle and a solid hook to the arm from Babs, who smiles appreciatively. “Jerk. You calling me ugly?”

The combination of her question and her smile causes your brain to seize up, making you say something that’s downright stupid:

“What? No, no – I think you’re really cute!”

Her features freeze up and she pulls both hooves down under the table. “Ya big dummy…”

Hoping to ease the tension, you grab Miss Rarity’s parcel from your saddlebag and push it towards Babs. “From Ponyville,’ you say quickly. She eyes it carefully before undoing the carefully set knot. Both of you look down at the contents and can only sit in awe at what you see.

Two expertly crafted vests – a matching set for two ponies of your age. Their crimson colors only serve to make a familiar logo sewed into the sides pop all the more. Babs pulls out a small piece of parchment from the package and reads it aloud: “For the Manehattan branch of the Cutie Mark Crusaders. May you find what you are looking for… together.” She speaks the last word slowly and looks at you with a curious intensity that paralyzes you. Now it’s your turn to turn your head and look at the ponies going to and fro on the streets outside.

You hear her call your name. You try to ignore her, on account of all the butterflies doing somersaults in your gut. Princesses, it’s so much worse when you’re alone with her!

She touches your hoof with her own before asking:

“So… what comes next?”

This time, you manage to look into her eyes – expectant, practically begging you to answer.

You breathe to calm your nerves and think of an answer. The moment feels so different from usual, like you’re supposed to say something profound – like you were talking to an entire crowd and everypony knew your name.

No, that’s inaccurate.
You were sitting alone at an ice cream parlor with this filly.
This filly you had fallen head over hooves for. You can finally admit it to yourself.

“As long as it’s with you, I can do anything.”

A blushing face. Another quick jab to the arm, followed by the sound of hooves clattering on the tiled floor. Babs is all smiles now, blushing from what you just said.

“I like the sound o’ that.”

She rears up on her hind legs and plants a small kiss on your cheek. She says her goodbyes and leaves, promising to meet you tomorrow at school.

You watch her run and skip out the door and follow her with her eyes through the window you’re seated next to.

“Now that… is an adventure I can’t wait for.”

Technology and its inadequacies

“Before the end of this day… one shall stand…”

“And one shall fall… YOU! OPTIMUS PRIME!”

Man, it always gave you chills when you watched that scene. “I love the Decepticolts so much,” you silently say to yourself as you stood mesmerized by the tiny screen strapped to your hoof.

Technology is such a godsend – it lets you catch up on homework, talk to your friends over great distances, and even lets you indulge in your hobbies. The former was forgotten at this time, seeing as how you did them last Saturday. The latter two were the reason you stood here at Grand Central station in your hometown of Manehattan; or rather, the absence of one of those two.

Manehattan was pretty much how most everypony assumes it is – large, a little grimy here and there, and full of ponies who would just as soon hit you as they would look at you. Okay, technically that last part you kept saying because it gave the impression that you were a tough-as-nails Bronx colt – it was just that, well… big city living takes a toll on casual social interactions. Truth be told, most any “friendly meet-ups” only ever occurred out of necessity; that is, in school and at the workplace. Your parents always had stories about their friends – friends that they had met and kept starting from school and had entered the same line of work with them.

Grand Central Station was just as vast as the last time you had been here. Your brother offered to take you there via shortcut but you politely declined – the last time he tried to teleport you, your whole coat smelled of singed artichoke for weeks. Your sister could have flown you over, but you still remember what happened to Constable Weenie after she tried to remove him from that treetop he had grown enamored with.

Having such a diverse pony pedigree was enough to drive you crazy at times; for one thing, you could never be sure how family reunions would go. Would it be here at home, all the way over to the Fillypines, or even up above in Cloudsdale? Another personal setback was the uncertainty of your cutie mark. Your brother gained his after listening to Lamb of God for 15 hours straight; your sister, after repainting her entire room with nothing but her old grade school art supplies. Your parents didn’t really give much of a hint either: a rodeo clown and a doctor aren’t exactly what you’d call compatible (and yet here you are).

Now where were you? Oh, right – Grand Central Station. Spacious, made from marble, and full of the hustle and bustle of ponies moving to and fro. You had made it to the arrival platform after asking around from the local security guards and were now awaiting the 3rd arriving train: the one containing passengers from… “ ‘The Friendship Express?’ Really? What kind of town names their stuff like that? And ponies call me immature…”

Watching the Autobucks and Decepticolts battle it out helped ease the knot forming in your gut as you waited for the Friendship Express (nnope – still sounds iffy) to come in. Fictional violence always did calm the nerves; for some reason though, it wasn’t enough this time.

You didn’t think she’d actually take up that country vacation so soon; it kind of put a damper on your summer plans together. Then again, Top Brass and Lemon Drops had taken it particularly far this year – following her all the way home, calling her “crybaby,” teasing her even as she ran to her big sister…

“Sheesh, some ponies…”

Flicking quickly through your music player’screen, you settle on your hastily written plan to catch up on two weeks lost time. “Laser Tag at Carni’s Corner, followed by a visit to the newly opened theme park by Hasbrony, and then some camping over at the park.” It was foolproof – all the adventure and discovery you could have had since she was gone, condensed into 3 days. You couldn’t help feeling strange over your last proposal – you just felt that you needed to spend some quality time with her; Celestia knows how little you hung out after Top Brass started calling you “Queen Crybaby’s Loyal Retainer.”

All the hustle and bustle around you wasn’t enough to stop your train of thought; you barely notice the signs above your head announcing the trains’ imminent arrival. Tuning back to your show, you were immensely shocked when Megatron’s fusion cannon blasted your own face with a rush of air.

“DIE, AUTOBUCK!”

“WHOA!” you scream as you stumble back… across the yellow line that you were supposed to be staying behind in the first place. Ponies were either looking over suspiciously in contempt or just barely keeping their snickers from being heard. You wonder what a cutie mark in spacing out looks like as you attempt to shrink out of existence.

Your embarrassment was short-lived as the doors whoosh open to accommodate the outflowing of ponies. Some were wearing business suits, some in those garish Hawaiian polo shirts, and most were naked (naturally, you think) as they all traipsed out in that organized, robotic manner that all big city folk are wont to do. Yes, even the vacation crowd looked to be sobering up and sombering down for life in the Big Apple.

Ponies, you suppose, rarely ever change. Your dad never did stop clowning around even when it was time to settle down; he also never did stop loving Mom. Mom kept on caring for him and the entire family, whether it was tucking you into bed or nagging you about staying out too late. Your siblings continued to butt heads even as they graduated from their respective schools and went on to find their own ways, they also made it a point to scare you out of wit’s end with their stories of puberty.

Your height makes it difficult to scan the crowds for your friend. You rear up on you hind legs and use your front hooves as a makeshift visor. Her mane color was easy enough to spot – if it weren’t being subdued by a deluge of other colors.

“Come on, come on – where are you?”

“Ya look pretty silly there, ‘Super Spy’”

“GAH!”

The stumbling really has to stop, you mentally chastise yourself as you pick yourself back up from your pratfall. Craning your neck behind you, you make eye contact with a pair of bright green orbs. Eeyup – it’s her all right. She looks to be in high spirits, practically glowing, and… wearing a red cape?

“Hey, Seed. Welcome back to the Big Apple.”

Author's Note

The first of my... well, first attempt at any kind of fiction.
I'll add more to this head mythos with each passing chapter; this is just a warm-up for the rest. Sorry about the piecemeal exposition - 1000 words, as it turns out, is a tall order to fill.

Please rate and comment!