Fishing for Answers

I blink.

“Oh no! It’s the dragon turtle!” Sweetie exclaims in alarm, leaving me sitting there on my belly, on the packed dirt shoulder of the trail by the lake, just.... Did they just... what was that thing?!

I look down at my hooves, and put them—here, and there, and—and struggle to my feet. Hooves. My hooves.

“What dragon turtle?!” I exclaim back to Sweetie in the same alarmed tone. “Don’t those things eat dragons?!”

“What? No!” Sweetie says distractedly, “We’re not supposed to disturb him! It looks like they made him really mad!”

“Why is there a gigantic monster turtle in your lake?!” I demand agitatedly. I can’t even walk practically—how am I even gonna get help?

“He’s not usually awake,” Sweetie explains hastily, in as worried a tone as I feel. I’m practically dancing on my hooves here. I don’t know what to do!

“Go for the shore!” she shouts impotently, as the two... the three pass by again. Scootaloo is really powering it to keep ahead of that thing. It’s a hulking monster of a turtle, with green, heavy looking sharp cornered plates comprising his shell, and a wrinkled head emerging from the water looking ready to snap a filly in two.

“W-we gotta get to the—b-boat house,” I say in a panic, “And get... get help and...” I lift a hoof and stepping forward, “And–and hold on let me—” okay, 3,1... 3... what comes after 1? Oh yes it alternates. Okay, just... just walk, walk, keep going yes—

“Oh good, they made it!” Sweetie exclaims, bringing my attention to the boathouse in front of me. There, not too far in the distance I can see Scootaloo, and I can see her upturned wagon, smacked up against the side of the boat house, but not Apple Bloom. That’s rectified in seconds when the wagon moves, and Apple Bloom pushes it off of her, the pink bowed filly rolling to her feet and looking over towards the water.

I myself stumble, looking towards the water, and then just stop, standing there watching. Off the shore in the distance, there’s a hulking green form breaking the water, looking steadily towards the shoreline. It turns away and glides off.

It doesn’t take me much longer to get back to the boat house. The boat floating out in front of it is gone. It doesn’t look like the blue pony is there anymore.

“What is wrong with that thing?!” I can hear Apple Bloom say angrily as I slowly approach. I manage to announce myself by overgripping, and falling on my face. Again. Ow...

“Sweetie Belle, are you okay?” Scootaloo says, helping me back to my hooves.

“Am I okay?” I demand at her with wide eyes. “Are you okay!? That thing almost ate you!”

Scootaloo stares at me, blinking. Then her mouth twists up and she starts trying not to laugh. She fails.

I look at her, confused. What did I... oh.

“It’s an herbivore, isn’t it,” I say with some disaffection, and no doubt a somewhat cross expression.

“Sorry haha, sorry Sweetie,” Scootaloo says, wiping her eyes trying to retain some composure, “I just... your amnesia isn’t funny; it’s just... I shouldn’t be haha, i-it could have hurt us lots heh heh, but heh.”

“It’s fine,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Are you okay? Are you okay too, Apple Bloom?”

“Ahm fahn,” Apple Bloom says crossly. “I just wanna know what his problem is.”

“Yeah, he wasn’t even in his home, he was just like, right there on the trail waiting for somepony,” Scootaloo grumbles. “I didn’t even think the wagon could go on the water!”

She starts trotting around the wagon, looking it over, and I wobble over to Apple Bloom, feeling oddly like I could really use a hug right now. But it’s not me that needs it! “What happened?” I ask her. “What were you doing when ...he started chasing you?”

“Oh, of course you think we did it,” Apple Bloom says, puffing her chest up huffily. “Well not this time! No sir, we were just mindin’ our own business an’ he comes up outta nowhere and chases us into the lake! He was just bein’ mean! It don’t make no sense.”

“Is it mating season for d-dragon turtles?” I ask, choking a bit as my hoof jerks off the ground, and I realize what I just said.

“Is that where he tries to get a special somepony?” Apple Bloom asks, tilting an ear and cocking her head slightly. “Ah don’t rightly know,” she admits curiously, to my frozen silence. “Isn’t that sorta thing in springtime? That’s what Happy Harold said.”

“Happy who?” I ask at last, with a puzzled look.

“Happy Harold the Lonely Bear,” Apple Bloom explains with a smart smile. “It’s a story! Not mah favorite, but it shows how he goes about gettin’ himself ah special somepony!”

I shouldn’t ask but, “...how does he do it?”

“You’ll just have to read it again when you get a chance,” Apple Bloom says with a friendly elbow/knee in my shoulder. “It’s real funny!”

“Oh, thank goodness!” Scootaloo exclaims behind us. Looking over my shoulder, I can see the orange filly’s got her wagon righted and up on its wheels. Dripping still, but right side up. “I would literally die if I had to get it fixed again!” Scootaloo says in relief, pushing it with a forehoof to roll it back and forth experimentally. “Miss Wheely would kill me!”

“I don’t think so,” I offer, “It wasn’t your fault, right?”

“Oh now it matters if it’s our fault?” Apple Bloom accosts me, with a derisive snort.

“No it, uhm, I mean... um...” I stammer. Was I wrong in saying that? What was I trying to say anyway? “I just meant you had to... do it—I mean...” I huff a sigh and take a moment to gather my thoughts.

“If you have to be dangerous, then it’s okay,” I tell them, “What if something’s chasing you? I hope it breaks, if it keeps that turtle from catching you! It’s different from when you’re just doing it because you want to!”

Apple Bloom smiles then, smacking my flank and saying, “Ah’m just messin’ with ya. Ah’m gonna go tell on that mean old turtle to mah sister! An’ she’ll go talk to Fluttershy!” She ends her statement with a vengefully confident stomp on the ground.

“Oh, so Fluttershy takes care of the... turtle?” I inquire curiously.

Apple Bloom shakes her head. “No, but she’s a caretaker of the animals, an’ mah sister knows her. And Fluttershy’ll know whoever manages this lake,” Apple Bloom lists off the ponies as she goes, holding up a hoof as if to count on it.

“That... makes sense,” I say conservatively, the twitching of my tail betraying that bit of frustration. Just how much do I know about this world? I don’t know if I can risk trying to find out more. I watched these ponies, in their show that I was so enamoured with, for so many years, and it still barely seems to skim the surface of what’s here, and what’s real.

Oh god this is all real.

Yeah I know I know. Instead of having another existential crisis, I let Apple Bloom walk with me over to the wagon. Can’t believe she’s concerned about me, when all I did was wander around and enjoy the scenery, while she and Scootaloo had a near... uhm... severe beating? I still don’t know what that turtle could have done to them. But considering what I’ve seen of turtles feeding on Youtube, I simply can’t imagine that horrible gory death wasn’t involved. I don’t doubt my friends were telling the truth. I just... physically can’t imagine it.

My broken imagination aside, we’re all pretty much done after that encounter. Like, done. We’ve actually been out here for a while, long enough for the sun to be low in the sky. So we clamber into the wagon, and Scootaloo takes us on the road home.

“Wait!” I shout out bringing Scootaloo to a sudden halt.

She blinks at me in surprise. “I forgot my brush,” I tell her sheepishly. “I think I left it out where I was sitting on the trail.”

She rolls her eyes, but a half smile graces the orange pegasus’s face, and she turns the scooter wagon assembly in a slow circle, travelling down along the lake before I spot where I was sitting.

“Where did you last see it?” Apple Bloom asks.

“Oh, I see it,” I say clambering out of the wagon.

“Where?” she repeats, “Don’t worry ah’ll get it for ya!”

“No, I want to get it,” I say engrossedly, landing my hind hooves on the ground, and sliding them back until I can get my front ones down. “I can totally get it,” I assure her, turning with difficulty, and finally counting the few steps it takes to get where I was sitting. There, the brush is lying right where I dropped it to chase after the others and their monster turtle. Which is... totally not here anymore, right? They did say it ambushed them, and chased them into the water, right?

I nervously stuff the brush into my tail, and lift it up in the air, my rear end following its rise, and my forelegs planting firmly. “Sorry,” I say to them sympathetically, still standing there by Scootaloo’s wagon as they are. “I just wanted to um... do it myself. A-anyway,” I wobble, then step, trying to remember the walk cycle, getting all my feet planted in the right order, until I bump into the wagon. From there, it’s a simple matter to climb over the edge, and wiggle my little unicorn tush into the body of the wagon.

“Alright, ready you two?” Scootaloo says boldly, putting a hoof on her head to steady her helmet. No objections, so she grips the scooter and with a buzzing roar, engages her wings to cart us around, and accelerate down the trail, turning away from the boathouse, and taking us back through the rolling hills we came from.

I suppose I can’t be as critical of Scootaloo’s wings being so noisy. They really are powerful, and there are a lot worse ways that we could be travelling around. Plus, she’s pulling both of us, herself! That takes so much effort, it kind of makes me feel bad, even though I can’t say Scootaloo doesn’t love the exercise. Scootaloo doesn’t comment or complain, her body flexing regularly as she pushes the scooter forward, with her—wait.

Wait, what?

Now that I look at it, Scootaloo’s riding her scooter just like a human would. Which is to say, she’s pushing it forward with regular pumps from her right hind leg on the ground, as we go up the hill. But she’s already getting propulsion from her wings! Does she need extra power for the hill? I don’t get it.

Moving to the front of the wagon, I ask curiously, “Scootaloo, why are you pushing with your leg?”

“Sweetie Belle!” comes Apple Bloom’s horrified admonishment behind me.

“What?” I squawk, turning to an aghast looking Apple Bloom with my heart in my chest. “Is that bad? What did I say?”

“I-it’s not bad it’s nothing, really,” comes Scootaloo’s unsteady voice behind me. I turn to face forward again, and Scootaloo’s still watching the road impassively in front of her, just pushing herself along as we approach the top of this ridge of hills. She looks so... I mean, I didn’t mean to upset her! What do I say?

“Okay, if it’s nothing,” I say in a frantic hesitancy, “I r–really don’t mind though. I was just curious. Your wings look really powerful.” Right, a compliment. That’ll do it.

“Yeah...” Scootaloo remarks in a disgruntled tone, “‘look’...”

Or not.

I don’t know what to tell her, so I just look down at my hooves and slide back with Apple Bloom in the wagon. She doesn’t look like she knows what to tell me. Scootaloo in the meantime simply continues on carrying us over the crest of the hill.

I am so lucky I have someone... somepony like Scootaloo to take me around places. Sure I’m getting better at walking, but she’s making it so easy. Just looking at her buzzing along in front of us fills me with... a certain fondness. She’s a filly who shows her compassion through her actions, and by her actions Scootaloo seems to have a metric ton of compassion to show. I just... slide a little closer to Apple Bloom since Scootaloo’s not available. I’m not... trying to be perverted. I just feel really... like being close to them right now. I think I’m even getting used to the noise of Scootaloo’s wings. It’s considerably dampened by this magic helmet I’ve got on, too.

Exhausted and happy, the three of us are scootering along in the somewhat tarnished orange late afternoon light. And, as the saying goes, idle minds are the devil’s playground, I find myself thinking back to the matter with the fish earlier. This is a great opportunity; I can’t just pass up telling them. I probably should ask them when we’re alone, but maybe I’m feeling a teensy bit of a little evil. It’s just such a... unique experience. If even a rare, few ponies in Ponyville eat fish on a regular basis, then you’re not gonna run into many grown mares who are ignorant enough to eat it unknowingly. So these two might be the only ones I ever get to totally surprise by what they ate, and I kind of want to see that. It’s the old sneak ‘em something tasty so they try something new trick.

Now, on the other hoofsie, this might be totally normal, and I’m making a big deal over nothing. But if so, then nobod—nopony will mind me just casually mentioning it. And if not, then I’ll find out pretty quickly. When we start to approach the town proper, Apple Bloom decides to run alongside the wagon instead of just sitting there. That filly sure does love running. We reach a bunch of lumpy hamlets on the town’s edge, looking not unlike Fluttershy’s cottage, if not nearly as elaborate. Many already have smoke coming from their chimneys. So with Scootaloo carting along me and the wagon, and Apple Bloom running alongside, I say clearly enough for both of them to hear, but not the ponies around us, “Boy that sure was tasty, when that boat pony let us eat those skewers of fish.”

I get my answer right away, when Sweetie Belle loudly and dramatically exclaims “Oh no!”

I don’t have to worry about her being revealed though, because Apple Bloom just went immediately face first into the road, mid-gallop, a little yellow and red pony tumbleweed barrelling right into Scootaloo, while Scootaloo jerks away from steering abruptly to stare at me wide eyed. She then goes flying with Apple Bloom, leaving the scooter adrift, as with complaints and grunts, those two come to a halt in each other’s embrace, but barely noticing it from the surprise on their faces. And with me all the while, staring quietly and seriously from the scooter/wagon assembly as it comes slowly to a halt beside them, I—no, who am I kidding I’m laughing my head off.

“That was—that?!” Apple Bloom exclaims in surprise, while I slap the side of the wagon trying to catch my breath. Scootaloo would probably repeat Apple Bloom’s words, but she is too busy trying to comb her tongue or something. I would comfort them in their hour of need, but I’m too busy helplessly pounding the side of the wagon, and sending out the bright peals of my laughter that draw the gazes of what few ponies are walking the town around us.

Yeah I definitely should have told them before we reached town. This is downright embarassing. It’s not all that bad though. Everypony looks at our mishmash of reactions briefly, until they see it’s just the CMC, clearly getting into more, innocent, non-meat-related shenanigans again. Then any curious ponies simply turn and continue continue on their way.

“You knew!” Scootaloo meanwhile shouts, throwing me on my back and getting right in my face, while I find myself laid there on my back in the wagon bed. She presses up with outrage in her eyes, and all I can think to do is blush hotly at the warm feeling of her against me. I–I shouldn’t be thinking about... that.

“Just a guess?” I say up to her, with my hooves curled, and an unrepentant if shaky smile. “Maybe they were ...mushrooms?”

Behind Scootaloo, Apple Bloom moans, “Mah sister is gonna kill me,” sitting there on her haunches in the dirt, ears drooping morosely, with her head in her hooves.

“She... what?” I remark a bit worriedly, pushing at Scootaloo to sit up. I’m starting to feel like Apple Bloom isn’t just speaking in a tone of surprise, but rather in the deep throated horror of somepony who just got in way over her head. Uh oh.

“I love mushrooms, and they do not taste like that” Scootaloo seethes at me, in utter disgust, sticking out her tongue again.

“Well I guess then, you love mushrooms, and you also love fis—” I say spitefully before Scootaloo sticks both hooves in my mouth.

“Sssssh!” she hisses desperately.

Oh no... oh no no no. I didn’t actually think it was forbidden.

“What’re we gonna do?” Apple Bloom says quietly, staring at me with haunted eyes.

I nod frantically to Scootaloo with what I hope is a look of sympathy, waving my hoof in the direction of the panicky Apple Bloom.

Scootaloo glares and releases me, if only to hop over a pace to Apple Bloom’s little situation there.

“I–it’s not forbidden is it?” I whisper, peering over the edge of the wagon at them in stark astonishment. “I–I didn’t think it was that bad. It’s just a strange... food, right?”

Not even answering me, Scootaloo consoles Apple Bloom, saying to the morose filly, “Look we just... we won’t tell her, and everything will be,” only to have Apple Bloom glare, and interrupt her with,

“You know what mah sister is?”

“Just tell her,” I hiss out. “Just tell her exactly what happened and it’ll be okay. I–I hope it will, at least.”

“Ah caint do that!” Apple Bloom blurts at me, “She’ll—!”

“She’ll what?” I snap at her. “Get mad at you for something you didn’t mean to do, but told her about right away? She’ll be mad at the boat pony for giving you it and not telling you. And the boat pony probably did tell you; just she had an accent. Just say you went to the lake, and when A-Applejack asks if you went to the boat house, say you did, and when she asks if you saw the boat pony, say you’re scared she maybe gave you fish.”

“You said you knew it was fish!” Scootaloo accuses me, crossly.

I shake my head at her, “No! I don’t know if it was um... that thing.” No hooves shoved in my mouth again, thank you very much. “It just tasted like it, so it probably was.”

“Why didn’t you say anything??” Apple Bloom exclaims at me in pure vexation.

“You were already eating it!” I protest, sitting up. “And I already had fish, so I didn’t think it was bad. And it was already cooked, so it’s not like it did any more harm. And it was kinda funny...”

“Ah caint believe this,” Apple Bloom huffs angrily at me, straightening her bow and stomping away in just a tizzy.

“Wait, when did you have fish?” Scootaloo asks me, goggle eyed.

“Sssh,” I say calmly to Scootaloo. “What if somepony hears you say that word?” She blushes brightly at that, even her forehooves holding her torso up more stiffly in apprehension. I can’t even describe how adorable it is. But it’s wrong to think so, because I’ve gotta get serious here.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” I tell the two in this complete failure of a prank. I climb carefully out of the wagon—faceplant, but I totally meant to do that. I climb to my hooves and waddle close to them, so that I can whisper. “I should have said earlier,” I say in a thin, girlish whisper, “I didn’t think it was that bad because...” a bit more closer to Scootaloo and Apple Bloom, I say quietly, “I had fish yesterday!”

“Whaat?” Apple Bloom says, forgetting the tears in the corners of her eyes to look at me incredulously.

“M-my father served it...” I explain, “I didn’t think it was... like... evil or anything!”

“How is murderin’ not evil?” Apple Bloom whispers back venomously.

I try saying, “They um... I was hungry?”

No, that’s terrible.

“I can’t explain it now,” I whisper to them. “Just... we should get somewhere alone so we can talk without you know... whispering.”

“Oh yeah!” Apple Bloom says in realization, “We could go work on the clubhouse, that’s way far away from any ponies!”

“I’m tired though,” Scootaloo whines very deservedly. “Can’t we talk about this later?”

I look at the sun, worryingly close to the horizon. “I don’t know exactly what time it is,” I chirp out more audibly, “But it does look really late. Let’s just...”

“We still got an hour,” Apple Bloom says, staring daggers at me. “Ah ain’t lettin’ ya get off that easy. You been killin’ fish, an’ they don’t get better from that!”

“Fish that die just respawn, right?” I offer hopefully.

“Re...spawn?” Apple Bloom asks unsurely.

“Yeah, when they die they go back into being new baby fish or something, and get another try at being born,” I suggest. “Or maybe they go to fish heaven, but all you ate was their bodies.”

“Oh, like reincarnation,” Scootaloo speaks up in realization. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

“It’s still really evil—wrong...like, to send somepony—ah mean somefishy back to square one,” Apple Bloom objects.

I shrug unrepentently. “It’s either do it to fish, or do it to wheat,” I say. “Gotta eat somehow.”

“Yeah, but wheat don’t think!” Apple Bloom says frustratedly.

“Do fish?” I quickly retort.

“You bet they do!” Apple Bloom says imperiously, then a little more uncertainly, “Ah think? Maybe? I mean, ah never done talked to a fish before. Fluttershy’d probably know.”

“Well—let’s talk to her then. I really, really don’t want you to think I’m e-evil,” I say squirming anxiously. “I don’t even like meat that much anymo—anyway. Hay is probably almost always less wasteful than fish, so I don’t mind eating it and n-never having fish again. But I don’t know that, so we have to ask somepony.

“...and that’s why you have to tell your sister,” I say to Apple Bloom. “Because you’ll keep wondering, and then you’ll slip, and she really will be mad at you for hiding it from her for so long. If you don’t hide it and she’s still mad, then... then she has some problems and you can try to help her deal with them, but nothing is wrong with you.”

I don’t know what to say to the filly, who still seems on the verge of angry tears. “Just please, let’s go home and have ...dinner,” I plead with her “I um... we can meet at the clubhouse the very first thing tomorrow, and talk about this I promise, but I don’t um... it might take me a while to get to the clubhouse tomorrow, but I promise it’ll be okay.”

“How about I sleep over at your house, Sweetie Belle?” Scootaloo suggests intently. “Then you can tell me how the heck it is a good thing to eat... that thing! And when you wake up, we can both go to the clubhouse, really fast!!”

“Oh, um... you can I guess?” I say feeling really nervous about that. “Um, I could ask, I mean I—”

“And that’ll keep you from squirmin’ out of your promise,” Apple Bloom says with righteous caution, not taking her eyes off of me for a minute.

“Don’t worry about it,” Scootaloo says waving a dismissive hoof. She seems a... lot less upset than Apple Bloom is. “Your parents are totally cool,” Scootaloo says, “And if I just went and slept at some other pony’s, then I can’t go to sleep with you!”

“Oh, uhm... uhmmm...” I can’t get out of this, can I? Do I even want to get out of it? “That’d be great then,” I say very reluctantly. Scootaloo’s not hitting on me. She’s mad at me. I’m just a bit... interpreting everything wrong. It’s not like my imagination is still full of the raw fury, of that pegasus who was not moments ago crouched over me, right in my face. I–I’m not blushing, well... hardly blushing!

“Something wrong at your house?” Scootaloo asks pointedly. “They’re not mad at us, are they? I didn’t mean to make you uh, you know, forget stuff.”

“Oh, no they’re not mad at that,” I assure her, “I’m just a little um... shy...” that didn’t sound nearly as innocent as I wanted it to sound. I add more boisterously, “I’m sure it’ll be lots of fun, once we’re all there and stuff,” trying to justify it to myself more than her.

“Okay Sweetie, then let’s go!” Scootaloo urges, getting on her scooter, and then... getting off her scooter and gesturing from me to the wagon emphatically.

“I guess, see you tomorrow Apple Bloom?” I ask the pink bowed, frowning, redhead friend of mine.

“Ah guess,” Apple Bloom repeats in absence of amusement. “I really hope you’re right about tellin’ mah sister.”

“I do too,” I remark unsurely, climbing up on the scooter. “I really do think it’s the best thing to tell her though. I’m sorry I didn’t... say anything.”

“Nothin’ you can do about it now,” Apple Bloom sighs. “Anyways, ah’ll see you two at the clubhouse, keep in mind ah got mah mornin’ chores though.”

“An hour past dawn like usual,” Scootaloo answers easily, then jumps on the scooter, her body heaving powerfully, tugging forward the wagon underneath me. “Later, Apple Bloom!” she calls out, her wings engaging, and the scooter creeping forward at an accelerating rate.

Apple Bloom runs with us for a while, but again we split off at the cliff right by my house, with my earth pony friend running along the tree line, and Scootaloo guiding the scooter skillfully down the switchback and up to the door of my house.

And now I’m really in trouble. What if I don’t get any time alone to talk to Sweetie Belle? What if I have to... to do that thing that brings Sweetie Belle back? I’m not gonna corrupt Scootaloo too, am I? Just because she sleeps over? What if my parents say no?! What if—wait, what was that last one?

“Oh there ya are, Sweetie Belle,” mom says in relief, after I climb out of the wagon, and amble over through the doorway, my hooves going clipclop on the threshold. “About time you showed up! How was the lake? Oh, and you brought your little friend!”

“Hi Mrs. Belle!” Scootaloo says brightly. The orange filly doesn’t say anything else, but stands there stiffly beside me. I start to look back at Scootaloo, when she elbows me sharply. Oh she wants me to—oh.

“Oh!” I exclaim reflexively, looking up at my moth—at Sweetie’s mom. “Can Scootaloo spend the night?” I ask. “She wanted to um... do something... and spend the night.”

“Aaaand it’s totally okay if you serve,” Scootaloo says, in total denial of the quaver in her voice, “F-fuh—you know, m-meat.”

Mom looks calculatingly impassive at that, but her face breaks quickly, and she says in a very emotional voice, “Oh, I figured this was gonna come along, one of these days. Oh Sweetie, we shoulda warned you! That isn’t what you talk about to your friends. Of course, you had amnesia, so you’da forgotten all about it!” The larger blue mare sighs heavily, her head, and big purple/pink tail drooping.

It takes me a moment to figure out what she means, but I blink, protesting,

“Wait, no! I didn’t tell her!”

Wait.

“I mean, yes,” I correct myself, putting a hoof on mom’s chest, “I did tell her, but it wasn’t because I forgot. It was because of something else.” I hope that made sense.

“Hey, listen Scootaloo,” mom tells my orange friend levelly, apparantly ignoring my babbling, “Don’t you worry, there isn’t nothing wrong with us. It’s just a thing that ponies do sometimes on the coast. There ain’t as much soil there, and there’s lots more fish. Sugar bear was just givin’ her a treat from home, well, from our old home. You know, to help her memory? She didn’t... she didn’t kill anything, and it’s really not that bad... look, I–I’m bad at this soata thing.”

“It’s not just that though,” I protest, sticking my head in between mom and Scootaloo, to look my mom pleadingly in the eye. “We... we were at the lake, there was a pony, and...”

“She made me eat fish!” Scootaloo shouts, rearing her forelegs up over my head from behind, to directly address my mother. Before I can even react, Scootaloo’s hooves tighten on my hair and she adds, “Not Sweetie Belle, I mean. The crazy boat pony did! She was cooking fish!”

Thankfully, I don’t need to step backwards, just to pull my head back from between them. I haven’t figured out how to step backwards yet. I really should get working on that. Wait, was I stretching my neck out just now? Ugh, not a good time.

“Scootaloo didn’t know,” I say to mom urgently, “And she doesn’t know if it’s safe, and... and I don’t remember if it’s safe, and ponies here think that it’s evil, or something! But the boat pony had an ...accent?”

“She can’t talk right!” Scootaloo agrees, “She was trying to tell us it was fish, but we just ate it without knowing! A-and it tasted... um... I–I mean, it t-tasted sort of not so um...”

“Sugar bear, throw in another yam!” mom yells over her own back.

“Now Scootaloo,” she continues, getting right back in her face, “There are all sorts of ponies in the world, and well, no I mean we’re all the same sort of pony, but sometimes ponies do things a little different. Hondo and I have been trying to stick with inland ways, but you know, it’s not like we’re pushing it on anypony else, and...”

She sighs heavily. “All I’m sayin’ is for some ponies, it’s perfectly normal to eat a little bit of fish. Hardly ever bird, and never red meat, but fish? There’s just so much of ‘em! We ain’t gonna grow sharp teeth or nothing, and neither are you. It was just a mistake, and you don’t have to eat fish if you don’t want.”

“But, are you having fish today?” Scootaloo asks slowly, processing mom’s words with reluctance and rocking on her... hooves. “I wouldn’t mind, I mean, if you had to have it, just a little bit.”

I look between the two, at an apparant stalemate of confusion, and sigh. I just tell mom, “Scootaloo is trying to say that she likes fish.”

“Yeah!” Scootaloo agrees brightly. Then her face contorts in adorable consternation, and she adds, “I don’t—I mean, I’m not that kind of pony. It just wasn’t bad, and I could eat it.”

A loud whinny of a laugh escapes my mom. Her mom. Mom stands up straight again, smiling roundly at Scootaloo. “Fresh outta fish, sorry!” she says, “It’s actually really rayre to catch around here. Plus if it’s the pony I’m thinkin’ of, she carts those fish in from the coast. Blue as a blueberry, right, with a funny nose patch? I ain’t seen her even try to come into town before. You probably wouldn’t be as impressed with some plain old catfish Hondo snagged.”

I touch a hoof to my chin thoughtfully, saying, “It did taste better than dad’s—” and now I stepped in it again. “I–I mean it wasn’t better,” I correct myself, looking up at mom and gulping, “It had a um... stronger taste, that was probably just because it was dried and smoked. But his was good too!”

Mom raises an eyebrow at me.

“Well, you two fillies are gonna find one thing for sure,” mom says, backing up a step to stand tall before us. “Ponyville yams’ll beat the tail offa any fish you find here!” she declares eagerly. “You just wait until daddy bear gets through with ‘em. I don’t want neither of you to worry, ‘cause the truth about Ponyville is that the real reason fish ain’t so welcome around here, is because the vegetables are all so much tastier!”

“How long until they cook?” Scootaloo asks hopefully, apparantly completely distracted by the prospect of food. “I am starving!”

“Wait’ll you start smellin’ ‘em,” mom says with half a grin. “Then you’ll really have an appetite! How about you two just go play in Sweetie’s room, while honey and I fix up dinner?”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask, before she can shuffle us off to wait for yet another thing I can’t help with at all. Mom’s smile broadens, and she pats my curls flat with a hoof.

“So gooda you to ask, Sweetie,” she tells me, “Tell you what, I’ll call you down when it’s almost ready, and you two can set the table!”

...wow. I can’t remember the last time anyone ever asked me to—yeah, yeah my life sucked, old news. “O-oh, that’d be great,” I say a little nervously despite myself. “We’ll just go um... Scootaloo can give me a tour, of my room!”

“What?” Scootaloo interjects in confusion, “But it’s your room!”

“But,” I emphasize to my friend with a half smile of my own. “I have amnesia, so now you know my room even better than I do!”

“You two have fun, I’ll be helping in the kitchen,” mom says, rearing up to turn around, and trotting happily into the other room, where the smell of sweet, salted yams is already starting to emanate.

“A tour would be cool, I guess,” Scootaloo answers me belatedly, toeing the floor. “Maybe I can jog your memory?”

“Well, I just think it’d be fun,” I say, a bit less than happy about her reluctance. But I’m really curious now, what Scootaloo thinks about my... about Sweetie Belle’s room. Together, we ascend the stairs, which is to say Scootaloo goes up a flight, and then waits for me to figure out how to make it up the rest of the way. But at least I almost walked over to the stairs, without having to think about it too much! Six flights of stairs later, and we’re facing the door to my room again.

Almost definitely smugly, I rear my hooves up to the doorknob, and depress it until the latch clicks, then pull the door open with my other hoof, wobbling as I try to balance with the swinging door. “A-after you,” I say distracted by the effort. With Scootaloo in, I follow with relative ease.

I take some time once we’re in my room, to put the brush that I... forgot to give away back onto my dresser. There’s another brush already there too, eheh. I look at Scootaloo expectantly, and she stands there one hoof on my flower shaped rug, saying,

“Okay, so, I don’t mind doing that thing you said, but I dunno what to show you. It’s just your room, right?”

It occurs to me that Sweetie Belle herself would probably make a better tour guide. But to hell with that. I don’t want to just play all by myself! “What has Sweetie—what have I shown you?” I ask Scootaloo, “Pretend like you’re talking to a new Sweetie Belle, who never saw any of it before, and you’re a time traveller or something.”

Scootaloo just looks at me blankly.

“Did I show you my toy chest?” I suggest, finally seeing some relief and understanding dawn in Scootaloo’s warm, violet eyes.

She trots right over there, and says, “Yeah, you got some cool stuff in here. Kinda boring, but it suits you. Like this bunny here is just a bunny,” she says, pulling out a pink plush rabbit, cradling it in her hooves. “You said his name is Mister Frumplekins,” Scootaloo tells the bunny, “Because he makes your bed messy when you leave him in it.”

“Really?” I say a little confusedly. “What does that name have to do with a messy bed?”

I think I can hear the real Sweetie groaning under her breath. I don’t dare ask Scootaloo if she heard her though. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea... it must be terribly frustrating for Sweetie. I should find some time alone to talk to her.

“I don’t get it either,” Scootaloo says casually, giving the bunny a squeeze in her hooves. “He sure is soft though. Not nearly as soft as you, though!” Any embarassment I would feel at that compliment is concealed when Scootaloo immediately tosses me the bunny, and I expertly catch it with my face.

“Oops!” I hear Scootaloo say, my vision too obscured to see my friend getting up from sitting on the floor.

“No, no it’s okay,” I assure her, sitting back on my haunches, so I can take the cute, soft, cuddly plush in my arms. “I’m just a little slow. I have to figure out my hooves, still.” I notice this bunny has a surprisingly serious face on his whiskered muzzle. There are two other plushies in the chest I can see, a brown bear with a tiny little smile, and a duck, for some reason. A big yellow duck.

“Lame, lame, lame,” Scootaloo mumbles half to herself lifting those other plushies out of the toy chest, along with a round, squat teapot, lavender in color, that reminds me of something, but I can’t quite place it. It’s not porcelain, thankfully, but I’m not sure it’s plastic either, or that ponies even have plastic.

“What’s this?” Scootaloo asks, pulling out a... is that an abacus?

Scootaloo wordlessly puts it in my hooves, and I look at it puzzled. “It’s an abacus,” Sweetie whispers to me, ever so quietly.

“Ssh!” I say to her, then blush and add to Scootaloo, “sssure is an abacus, yup.”

“Oh, right!” Scootaloo says. “It doesn’t look like mine, but I see it now!” She then takes it back and examines it herself.

She starts clicking beads around with her nose.

“Um,” I point out bravely, not getting much response. It’s clearly an abacus, painted in pink and purple, with polished brown wood beads on metal poles across its inside. But it’s an abacus like none I’ve ever seen before. Instead of columns of 5 and 2 beads, or 4 and 1, it’s columns of 3 and 3. Do ponies count in... base 9?!

I edge closer to Scootaloo, looking at the abacus in fascination. She seems to know how to use it, the bottom part of it at least. “See?” she announces quickly enough to startle me. “This means one hundred!”

|*** |*** |
|*** |*** |
|* **|** *|
|*** |** *|

All the beads are shifted to the left, except the bottom two rows. In the bottom row, one of the right column’s beads is to the right, and in the next row up, one bead in the right column is to the right, with two in the left column shifted over to the right.

It occurs to me that I’ve never actually even seen an abacus in person before, much less used one.

“Oh, is that so,” I say noncommitally.

“Here, you try counting,” Scootaloo says, sliding the abacus over to me.

“I’m not sure... um...” I say, looking at the thing. I touch it with a hoof, easy enough to hook a bead and slide it. But what’s the order of magnitude, and should they be on the left or right?

“Sheesh, you really did forget everything!” Scootaloo says, butting in to tug the abacus more towards her with her mouth, and tilting her head slightly to rattle all the beads back to the left side. “Watch me!” she says eagerly, putting down the abacus and leaning her head forward towards it, but then looking up at me and pulling back, using the edge of her hoof to move beads.

“You start with them all on the left,” she explains. “That’s zero. And then you move the left ones to the right. See? One, two, three.” She moves a single bead on the bottom left with each increment, until all three beads in that section are to the right.

“And then you—” Scootaloo pushes all three of those beads back to the left, and pushes one in the bottom right section to the right. “Carry it over, just like Miss Cheerilee said!” Scootaloo concludes. “See, the beads in the right one are worth four, and the beads in the left one are worth one. So when you go from three to four, the left ones go back, and you get one in the fours!”

She continues to explain in that... somewhat confusing manner, and it’s actually really easy to pick up what she’s saying. I didn’t know abacuses were this simple! It’s just like, base 3 or... no wait, base four because you can go from 0 to 3, and that’s 4 numerals. Then Scootaloo gets to 9, and says, “ten, eleven, twelve. See? Three fours is twelve.” Sure enough, three of the “fours” or the right column are slid to the right, while all the ones in the “ones” column are slid to the left.

“And then, thirteen,” I say eagerly, sticking a hoof forward to move a one’s column to the right.

“Yeah, you got it!” Scootaloo says encouragingly. And I do get it! For a while at least.

“Fourteen, fifteen,” I say, completing the entire bottom row, with all the beads to the right. “And then I carry over here, right?”

“Yeah, that’s the... other fours... two fours column,” Scootaloo says stumbling over her words a bit. “I dunno what it’s called, but everything on the bottom plus one, goes to just one on the row above.”

So I slide all the bottom beads in both columns to the left, and one on the second row to the right, saying, “Sixteen.” And then I can go back to the bottom row, and start counting up from there again. “Seventeen, eighteen,” I tick off, before Scootaloo interrupts me and says with a bemused laugh,

“Sweetie, what are you doing?”

I look at her from the side of my face. “...counting?” I suggest cluelessly.

Scootaloo shakes her head, “No, that’s not how you do it. There’s no eight-teen. The teens stop at five!”

“...huh?”

“Okay, watch me,” Scootaloo says, shifting the beads to reset it to 15. “Okay, this is fifteen, right? It’s the last one, and then a new row.”

“Okay...” I say skeptically.

“And now we have one,” she says, adding 1 to the second row. “And zero down here,” she then says, moving all the beads on the bottom row to the left. “So that’s one-zero. Not uh... what did you call it again?”

“I–I don’t... remember?” I stutter at her in wide eyed confusion. “Isn’t one-zero the same as ten?”

“No, ten comes after nine, remember?” Scootaloo whines. “Miss Cheerilee is going to be so disappointed if you forgot this!”

“I haven’t even seen Miss Cheerilee yet,” I say feeling a bit flustered. “Don’t I have school or something?”

Scootaloo gives me a look. What?

“It’s summer,” she says flatly. Oh.

“Oh, right,” I say, blushing deservedly. “I knew that. I guess we’ll see her after... summer is over.”

“Yeah, plenty of time to figure that junk out,” Scootaloo says, sliding the abacus away with a rear hoof, despite my quiet urgent,

“Wait, no I—”

“Let’s see what else you have in here!” Scootaloo declares cheerfully, clambering up on the lip of the toy chest and rifling around inside.

With a sigh, I settle back on my haunches again watching the purple haired filly dig through my stuff, and grab the plush rabbit for good measure, because I’m just not feeling confident with myself. I get the impression that one good solid explanation could clear up that weird number thing. It’s something weird about ponies, I just know it. But, Scootaloo’s busy rejecting more of my toys, saying, “Nope. Nope. Hmm, nope,” as she lifts up a ball and cup, a brass compass that actually looks pretty cool, a bucket full of building blocks...

“Oh, here we go!” Scootaloo exclaims, pulling out a square box with two large buttons on one side, and a round circle on the other. “You love playing with this!”

“What is it?” I ask in disbelief, staring at it with wide eyes.

“It’s a uh... a song recorder!” Scootaloo announces. “It uses a thing, and you can push the button to record a song, and then when you push the other button it plays it back!”

It’s a tape recorder. I’m looking at a tape recorder in Scootaloo’s hooves, straight out of the 1980’s, faux wood panelling and everything.

“C-can I see it?” I ask, the plush bunny just sort of falling out of my hooves. Scootaloo holds it out to me, and I take it... slide it across the ground to peer at it closely. Remember when I said the teapot didn’t look like plastic? This looks like plastic, though the front panel looks more like polished wood. I can even see the slot where the tape is inserted. It looks just like an ordinary, average, battery powered, electronic tape recorder, with magnetic storage, and no technology could have been produced, without factories and heavy industry.

“How do I open it?” I ask, feeling very uneasy about this, my left hoof resting lightly on one of the buttons, but not depressing it. There are only two buttons, one for play and one for record. How do you rewind, or eject? I mean, sure the buttons are big enough for my hooves, but—

“I think you push both of them?” Scootaloo suggests. “I don’t remember if you took it out before or not. It’s really neat though! Press play I wanna hear what you were singing last!”

“I don’t want to push record,” I say nervously, “Play is on the... left?”

“Right,” Scootaloo nods.

“Left it is, then,” I agree, pushing the—

“No, it’s the right one!” Scootaloo corrects me. Oh. Blushing sheepishly, I carefully push the right button. It’s a bit stiff, but bracing the recorder with my other forehoof, it depresses with a click. It’s tinny sounding, but Sweetie Belle’s beautiful voice starts to fill the room. The voice that I’ve been refusing to sing in, because I’m an idiot. Well, I can enjoy it this way without having to be the one singing at least. I don’t hear Sweetie singing with any accompaniment, just by herself as far as I can tell.

When you’re feeling sad, I’m there for you

When I’m feeling sad you’re there for me

It’s beautiful, but she does sound sort of sad as she sings. I don’t quite understand, but Scootaloo seems happy enough, swaying along with her words.

Whenever I need you, you need me too

I’m the best for you that I can be

Oh no she’s sounding even sadder. I don’t know if we should be listening to this. Even Scootaloo cracks an eye open, when Sweetie’s voice breaks, in the lonely silence.

You never forget me, or tell me go away

I never ruin your life, and I can always stay

“How do I turn it off?!” I whisper to Scootaloo frantically. Why am I whispering?

“Push the play button again!” she whispers back. Why are we whispering? I don’t want to hear this!

I never want a sister more better than you

Big Sister Best Friend—

The recording stops.

“Hey, are you two ready for some dinner?” dad announces loudly, sticking his head in the open door. “We’re all ready for yahuh? What the fritter’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” I say reflexively, which probably isn’t so convincing from the tears in my eyes. I wipe them away with a forehoof, which totally makes it more convincing.

“It sure doesn’t seem like nothing!” he declares, pushing the door open wider. Crapcrapcrapcrap!

“Yeah, Sweetie!” Scootaloo agrees loudly, hugging around me from behind with one arm. “You don’t have to get so dramatic, just because you’re so happy to see me!”

Why is she—Scootaloo jabs me in the side with her other hoof. Does she want me to... oh.

“I’m just really glad you’re staying over,” I tell her emphatically, trying not to glance at my father. “It’s so nice having good friends like you!”

“Whatever, you two,” he says with a light laugh, turning around. “Just come down soon if you really wanna help set the table.”

The door closes behind him.

After his hoofsteps diminish down the stairs, Scootaloo pulls abruptly away from me, saying, “S-s-sorry Sweetie, I didn’t know that was private. You uh, don’t remember last week, do you?”

“Yeah,” I agree numbly, looking at the tape recorder. “I didn’t know I was that upset.”

“Me—” Scootaloo looks away, blushing. “Me neither,” she says in a dissatisfied tone. “You sure were complaining a lot, but you weren’t like, sad sad.”

What was my—I mean—what was Sweetie’s week really like? She didn’t make it the whole week, I guess. This was the episode, right? The Sisterhooves Social? Did... did whatever I am somehow screw up the episode?

I look at Scootaloo. Her round, orange face looks... um... awkwardly nervous. “Thanks for the save,” I tell her, sheepishly. “I don’t know what my dad would do if he heard this.”

“The ‘save’?” Scootaloo repeats, tilting her head.

“Oh, it means the act of saving me from, um, embarassment,” I clarify hastily.

“I know, no problem,” Scootaloo snickers, standing on her hooves and shaking her whole body out. I... kind of want to do that. “You know, you’re really cool when you let yourself be cool,” Scootaloo adds in a semi-respectful tone.

“I’ll try not to deny my coolness,” I say, with a skeptical eyebrow. “Anyway, let’s go eat.”

“Aren’t you gonna delete that?” Scootaloo suggests, pointing a hoof toward the tape recorder between us.

“I don’t know,” I demure, “I should, but... how often does something like that happen? I don’t know if I want to forget it.”

“It was kind of weird, that you changed your mind in just one day,” Scootaloo admits, walking towards the door to my room.

“Changed my mind?” I say, working myself into standing up too.

“About the trip,” Scootaloo said in a cautious tone. “You weren’t gonna go, and... then you did. You were like ‘Rarity? She would probably say “Oh, dearest sister, don’t do anything fun or help anypony,”’”

I’d like to ask more, but I’m too stunned by Scootaloo imitating me imitating Rarity. Scootaloo walks up the door, and snags the doorknob, pulling it open, and slipping smoothly out of my room. “C’mon, slowpoke!” I hear her voice come from out there. I close my mouth, and check my hooves underneath me. (There are still four of them.) I swish my tail experimentally, just to make sure my balance is good. Also because tails are awesome. Then I lift foot... um... foot 1. Right, just... fall forward and walk. 1,3 2,4, and walk, walk, walk...

In this fashion as with all my motility, I shuffle out of my room, and follow Scootaloo down the stairs. There on the ground floor, we find ourselves with varying degrees of reliability. I take an empty plate in my mouth, and put it on my ...butt. And Scootaloo takes 3 plates, and 2 cups. She doesn’t even come close to breaking them though, and efficiently mouths them from her purple tailed derriere onto the dining table next to the kitchen. With no chairs, it’s a lot easier to set places. Scootaloo helps me arrange them in a vague square, on the round table, and that’s it.

The smell is to die for. I’ve never liked yams, but at this point I’d eat a whole barrel of them. And obviously they smell so much better than yams used to smell. They’re the centerpiece of the meal, big fat orange tubers, together with zucchini slices and tomato, warm brown rolls of that hearty hay bread that ponies like to eat, and sliced apples with a bright red skin.

It’s nice to have Scootaloo here, really, because my hesitance at eating with my face is soothed by her eagerness to chow down. She being a pegasus has no imperative to use her horn, and very little table manners, taking big bites out of everything with the most delighted expression on her face as she chews. Makes me look good in comparison.

“Close your mouth when you chew, Scootaloo!” mom says in an annoyed tone, “You’re gonna get spit on the rest of our food!”

“Mrmhfy,” Scootaloo says, blushing and chewing a little slower with her mouth closed. So much for making me look good. It’s okay though, because as we both grab food with our teeth and lift the drinking cups with our mouths, there’s a certain commonality between me and Scootaloo, that I don’t feel with other ponies. I just seriously appreciate having a filly my age to play with.

...Sweetie’s age, not my age. I am so fucked up.