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// X// Story: What You Can't Tell Anypony Else, or Rumble's Reluctance// by The Elusive Badgerpony//------------------------------//

One would have to wonder why a heavy soul like Social Services was given his position.

Princess Celestia herself had appointed him. He didn’t know what exactly qualified him for it, though perhaps his cutie mark- the all-seeing eye of pegasus myth- probably had a little bit to do with it. His old name was forgotten, his new one of Social Services seared into his brain like so many things, oh, so many things of times now past that he preferred not to dwell upon. Sometimes he would, though, tried as he did to bury them.

Well, not sometimes. A lot of times. Social Services’ memory was a scarred battlefield, traumatic experiences of both himself and others trenches and craters blasted into gray matter. He was already a pony with much to sit down on before Princess Celestia thrust him haphazardly into the persona of Social Services. There were others like him, others christened Social Services and sent to help those in need, but even they could agree, that this particular Social Services, the one in Ponyville, had already been served quite the meal, and the supposedly idyllic little town had only served to heap more onto his plate.

A prime example would be what he was dealing with then and there, sitting in the waiting room of Canterlot General.

Something very much like this had happened a few months ago. Nasty business, but in Social Services’ line of work, nasty business was generally just business. This one didn’t really have the variable of the DNA test that made Social Services very, very angry and punch Mister Spoon right in his sniveling little bastard rapist face. Rather, Miss Hooves, soon to be Miss Turner, and Mister Turner had sat inside of Dinky’s room, the mare gently stroking the fitfully sleeping little filly’s head, and the stallion gently holding his sobbing mare. At least this time, the parents seemed to actually give a rat’s ass.

Social Services, meanwhile, stayed outside of the room, looking in through the corner of the window, dwelling on things, something that he knew he wasn’t supposed to do. Yes, last time was bad, but the very first time was the very, very worst, and he had felt so very, very sorry about it. He didn’t do anything wrong, per se, but he hadn’t done anything right. He panicked, he was scared. Anypony would have done as he did, or more accurately, wouldn’t have done anything as he did, anything before it was far, far too late.

He pulled in a deep breath. He didn’t like dwelling on things. It was better to distract himself with the present.

Letting out said breath, he proceeded towards the door, his eyes closed, trying to quash the dwelling with the present. Dinky Doo Hooves had been attacked, that was the terminology he was deciding upon. Physically, she wasn’t as bad as Social Services had seen, but the damage to her psyche was evident. She refused to talk to anypony about what happened. Not even her mother, the most trustworthy mare in Ponyville, the one pony you could always rely upon to keep a secret or deliver a letter, albeit because she forgot it and not particularly on time, respectively, couldn’t get anything out of her. The name of her attacker, where he lived, with whom he lived with, all of it a muddled mess of too many potential suspects to count.

That was why he was here. Silver Spoon, as well as a long list of previous fillies and colts who refused to talk, eventually gave in to him. This most likely wasn’t going to be any different. He would go in, he would use his special talent and coax them, ever so gently, to speak up, another sick scumbag would be placed behind bars, and the day would be relatively saved, barring the years of therapy and the permanent damage to their emotional health.

Somehow, despite those things being footnotes, they were the things that made Social Services the most... Disappointed in his career choice.

But he didn’t like to dwell on these things, so he gently, quietly opened the door into Dinky Doo Hooves’ room, ready to do his duty yet again.

><><

As noted before, Miss Hooves, soon to be Miss Turner, and Mister Turner were sitting inside of Dinky’s room, the mare gently stroking the fitfully sleeping little filly’s head, and the stallion gently holding his sobbing mare. Something in Social Service’s stomach turned, fitfully and frightfully, but he swallowed it down, instead nodding to the pair and quietly taking a seat besides them. Not that the quiet was particularly necessary, but something told Social Services that it would be best to let Miss Hooves weep for a small while.

And weep she did, as she had when he had found them here, as she had when he had entered, as she probably had for hours, only stopping to sleep. Miss Hoove’s eyes were red, puffy, as if they were melting in their sockets, tears staining almost her entire face, a delta of sorrow carved across her coat. It was a display that caused Social Service a great feeling of discomfort, a desire to flee and run away. He didn’t need to be here.

Ah, but he did. Such was his namesake, such was his work.

He cleared his throat, instantly regretting it, the couple pausing their sorrow to look up at him, and suddenly Social Services felt very small.

“Erm.”

He pushed everything out of his brain, instead focusing on the present. No dwelling.

“Good evening. I... Hope I’m not intruding upon anything.”

It was a decent enough start. Mister Turner and soon-to-be Missus Turner didn’t respond, but kept their eyes on the social worker, as if begging him to go on.

“Right. I... Apologize. I have... I’ve been through something like this before. The first few days are always the worst, and... Well...”

Here he could either tell the truth, and tell them that it would never leave, it would always hang over their heads as if every single one of their middle names was Damocles, it would cripple them forever and further on, or he could tell them the old lie of “it gets better, you just have to give it time, for time heals all wounds”, just to make himself, and them by extension, feel better. Social Services mulled it over for a split second, and decided that the first option was too morbid.

“It gets better,” he said. “I know it doesn’t seem that way, but it does. Time heals all wounds.”

The dagger in his heart dug deeper, twisting, bleeding him out, the pair of perfect ponies before him now nodding, slowly, gently. He never felt good about telling the old lie, not ever, but it was something that had to be said. After all, maybe it was true. Social Services had only given it around twenty years. Maybe time did heal all wounds, for after all, time also made sure everypony ended up dead at some point. It sure ensured her death...

Focus, Social Services told himself he had to focus. Present. Current events. Dinky Doo. Go.

“I’d like to... Speak with your daughter. For a moment. Please.”

They nodded again. Always the nodding. It was most likely the shock that made them loath to verbal response. It would have seemed off to anypony, even Social Services, who had seen this sort of thing played out again and again and again, who had been that pony once, but he didn’t like to dwell on things and, once again, tried to forget and focus on the present.

“Erm... If you could leave us alone, that’d be grand,” Social Services hummed, his voice light, airey, nasal.

“No.”

Social Services raised an eyebrow, if only for a second. He had expected another nod, as convention was rarely broken by his fellow pony, but Miss Hooves, he quickly realized, was not the average pony. The sadness and the brokenness she had exhibited before was replaced by something... Different. Something Social Services had experienced before as well. There was a promise of vengeance in her eyes, those mismatched eyes that now became dangerous instead of cute, the deepening scowl on her face sending shivers down Social Services’ spine. It didn’t help that said scowl was directed at him, as if he was the cause of all this suffering...

“No,” she said again, as if Social Services hadn’t heard her the first time. There was a hint of challenge in her voice, and Social Services quickly swallowed down the heat that was rising from his throat. He could save that for later, this was a victim, not a perpetrator, this was his job...

“Miss,” he said, quietly, “I’m asking you politely. I know you’re scared, but be reasonable, I woul-”

“I’m not leaving my daughter,” Miss Hooves mumbled, her voice low, dangerous. “I’m not leaving her alone ever again.”

Social Services swallowed down the heat again, but before he could open his mouth to reply, Mister Turner had taken it upon himself to speak.

“Ditzy, maybe we-”

“I’m not leaving her alone!” Miss Hooves cried, her eyes almost straightening out to look into Mister Turners. It was more than enough to make him back off, his expression stoic, and yet the slightest bit fearful. The heat kept bubbling up into Social Services’ throat, and he was running out of spittle to swallow it down with. He settled with a small exhalation.

“Miss Hooves, please understand. Please. if you’re in here, she’ll clam up. She won’t talk about... It with you here, you see.”

Her face scrunched up, in part confusion and part fury. It would have been cute, if she wasn’t furious. But even that was slowly beginning to go away, much to Social Services’ relief, as he wouldn’t have to hold in his rage for much longer.

“Do you not... Well.... Trust me?” Social Services stammered.

“But... If I leave her alone...”

“She’ll be fine,” Social Services assured her, with the slightest tinge of aggravation. “If you don’t believe me, well... You’re welcome to... Watch. There’s a window outside. If you don’t like anything that I’m doing, you’re more than welcome to come inside and beat the stuffing out of me. Alright?”

Miss Ditzy Hooves didn’t respond. Instead, she simply nodded, dumbly, reluctantly getting out of her seat, trotting to the other side of the room, with Mister Turner on her heels.

“Alright,” she said, putting a hoof on the door. “Alright. If... If it’ll help us find him.”

Social Services merely nodded in her direction, already sitting down in the same chair Mister Turner had occupied not fifteen seconds ago. And Miss Hooves, soon to be Missus Turner, and Mister Turner left the room, leaving him alone with Dinky Doo Hooves, leaving him alone to dwell, leaving him to let the heat finally escape.

“Cunt,” Social Services muttered to the ground. “I’m trying to help, you stupid, rotten, limey-sucking cunt.”

><><

It wasn’t too loud, of course. It wouldn’t be pleasant or helpful to wake Dinky Doo up with his own bitterness. After all, Miss Hooves was also trying to help, though really, Miss Hooves wasn’t the professional here, the professional forced into his position because he had spent so much of his life dwelling on what had happened so long ago. Not so much a reward as it was an excuse to keep him from killing himself, but that alone was a reward, wasn’t it? Feed the Princesses self-righteous desire to insert themselves haphazardly into everypony’s lives, when some ponies simply wanted to fade away into the background, and eventually...

Focus. Present. Dinky Doo. It was a mantra that was slowly losing it’s edge, but Social Services stuck to it. A few minutes had passed since Dinky’s parents had left, and that entire time was spent... Dwelling. It wasn’t what he was supposed to do. Focus on the present, he told himself. Forget the past. You can’t change the past by thinking about it, can you? Focus on the present. Dinky Doo, thankfully, didn’t seem to have taken much damage physically. Some bruises, yes, and there was some... certain damage that would never be fixed, but physically she was fine. The real damage was her mentality; Social Services could see it in those rapidly fluttering eyelids, the way she would roll around in the hospital bed sometimes as if trying to wriggle out of some sort of trap, the dreamworld she had constructed a constant recreation of the horrors of that afternoon, so much like the horrors of dammit Social focus.

Gently, he prodded the little filly with a hoof, and she jolted into the waking world. The bitter, angry tone of before was completely changed, his voice now at the high, wavering tone of sympathy or pain.

“Dinky?”

She blinked a few times, and then, seeing Social Services, her eyes went wide.

“Oh no...”

“Dinky, it’s alright, I’m here to help.”

She sniffled. “It... It really happened? I-It wasn’t...”

The tearstained face, the golden eyes, now distant and forgetful, it was all a harsh reminder... Focus. Focus. Social Services took her hoof in his, looking down at the ground as if he could bore a hole into the floor of Canterlot General.

“Yes, Dinky. Yes, I’m afraid it... It did. You were...”

The weeping started before he could finish. The weeping was familiar, too, all of it a reminder, a reminder to focus on the present. Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, to steady his focus, Social Services brought up his other hoof and gave Dinky Doo Hooves’... Hoof... an supportive squeeze.

“It’s okay. It’s okay...”

“N-No, no, it’s not, I...”

He gave her hoof another squeeze. “Dinky, it’s okay, I’m here to help.”

“I don’t... I can’t...”

“Dinky,” he mumbled, giving her hoof another squeeze. Present, this was the pain of the present, he was here to help this time, not like it used to be, not like back then, he was here to help this time, focus on the present.

“Dinky... I know it hurts, but... Can you tell me about what happened?”

“No... I... No,” she sobbed. So much like... Focus.

“It hurts, I know, but you have to tell me, Dinky. I want to help you. I want to find the monster that did this-”

“H-He’s not a monster! He...”

Another squeeze. Another reminder to focus, keep focused, ever so focused, Dinky still crying, still sobbing, still ranting, keep focused.

She just wouldn’t stop crying. “H-H-He... He’s heard... He said something about... He... I... I don’t blame him, he... He’s m f-friend and...”

Focus.

“Dinky, not all older ponies can be your friend. Some adults just want to hurt you. One did. We need to know who, Dinky, so that he doesn’t hurt anypony else.”

She sniffed, trying to regain control, but to no avail. “He... He’s not...”

Social Services, perhaps unconsciously, started pulling Dinky closer. “Yes, Dinky, he’s not your friend. He’s a monster that just wants to destroy children. Do you want him destroying your friends?”

“But...”

He kept pulling. It was to keep his focus, he told himself, to keep thinking of the present, even if it wasn’t working, if he was thinking of her, of how he had tried to talk to her, how he had wanted to talk to her, but he was scared, so scared of getting involved, and now it was his job.

“Dinky, listen,” he said, pulling her in, her hoof now against his chest, Dinky’s sobbing stopped and replaced by shaky breaths that he matched. A hint of rational suggested he look outside.

Miss Hooves and Mister Turner were nowhere to be seen.

“Dinky, I’m going to tell you a story, okay? You’re going to listen to my story...”

He paused. Nothing but breathing. His breathing. Her breathing. Her breathing all those years ago, no more focus, for the story had to be told.

“There was a filly,” he almost whispered, his voice hoarse in her ear, “So very much like you, even a unicorn, and she was my only friend, my best friend in the whole, wide world, and she, just like you, lived just with her mommy, and had an older friend that visited her mommy, and one day, he just... I was there, I saw it, I watched it happen, I watched him pump the life from her-”

“Muh-Mister Services, I’m scared, I-”

“Shut it! You need to hear this!” Social Services hissed through gritted teeth, holding her hoof in a death grip, and Dinky Doo sobbed, but complied, keeping quiet. he continued, his voice low, the anger gone, left only with quavering sadness.

“I didn’t say anything. I didn’t say a word. Not even as I watched him move on to simply beating her with his hooves. Not when her blood... Her blood was all over the floor, but he didn’t care. These kinds of ponies don’t care, Dinky. For whatever reason, something is wrong with their heads that makes them do evil to fillies and colts the world over. Dinky, I want to keep him from hurting you, or anypony else, ever again.”

He let go of her, and she started shivering, ever so slightly.

“So you’re going to talk to me about what happened to you,” he said, his voice still low, but no longer hoarse. “I know it hurts, I know it’s painful to think about, but you need to help me help you, help colts and fillies the world over. Help her. Please.”

She sniffed. “He’s...”

Social Services leaned forward, listening in to her quiet speech.

“He’s... A colt. H-He’s... Only a little... Only a little older than me, I...”

Oh.

Social Services sat back, processing this new information, mulling it over in his head, trying to pull himself away from the past again, smacking himself upside the head. Stupid, so stupid...

“I... I’m scared. He ran away, he was... He was really scared. I don’t... I-I don’t think he knew what he was doing,” Dinky mumbled. She gathered up blankets in her forehooves, holding them close to her in a massive clump.

“What’s his name?”

Dinky Doo seemed to almost snap out of a sort of trance. “Hm?”

“His name.”

She pulled together a larger clump, her golden eyes filled with dried tears.

“You have to make me a promise.”

Social Services merely nodded, reaching his hoof forward to grasp hers again, but she pulled away her clump of blanket, keeping her hooves out of his range. It fell back, limp, and Social Services merely settled for a small nod.

“You won’t... You won’t hurt him?”

He nodded, dumbly, keeping the past locked up again. “I... I don’t think I can hurt a child, I... I need to know why he would... He would ravish you.”

Dinky Doo swallowed.

“You promise?”

Social Services nodded, his movements curt, his mind a maelstrom. It couldn’t be. Silver Spoon, his best friend, countless fillies and colts. They couldn’t be victims of each other. This could be a lie. But it couldn’t be, he saw her, he saw her eyes and how they shines with truth, her coat seeming faded and the childhood, the innocence, all of it drained from her, no more color. It was true. Every word from her formerly innocent mouth was true. Everything. It was something more to dwell upon, something to think about, and Social Services was afraid of it, and it was this fear that made him clam up.

“His name... His name is Rumble, and... And he’s my friend, and...”

><><

Social Services promptly had a little breakdown when he left Dinky Doo’s room, retreating to the bathroom and exploding into a puddle of tears.

Such was reality for him. Such was this, almost every time, no matter how many times it happened, no matter who it happened to, all the same, all the same pain. Most in his profession got used to it, but this Social Services, no, he couldn’t. It was impossible, it was always impossible. It was always the same pain, always the same anger at himself for his pain, the bathroom stall a rancid temple of his sorrows, and his anger, and the emotional tempest he had become.

Social Services sniffled. Just had to pull himself together. This happened all the time. It was painful, it was always painful, it always hurt, he always hurt, it never stopped, ever, Princess Celestia be damned, he felt awful. A pulse of anger flew through him. Yes, Princess Celestia be damned, so very, very damned.

Damn her. Damn her giving him this stupid job, damn her condemning him to a future of watching his mistake play out, again, and again, and again, and again. Damn it all. Damn her, damn every single pervert and jerkass he had ever had to deal with, damn it, damn it, damn it.

“Dammit!”

Social Services stepped back from the mirror, wondering where that spidering series of cracks had come from, and why his hoof tingled. He put two and two together, and shook his head. At least it wasn’t another pony. It rarely was, but when it was, it...

He swung and struck the glass again, grunting at the impact of hoof against shattering glass. It was satisfying, it was cathartic, and he wasn’t hurting anypony by doing it, was he? He swung again, and again, a small curse from every blow against the colt in the mirror, that bastard who had ran, who never told anypony, who had hated himself and continued to hate himself, for years and years, until the pity of the one pony everypony knew, the one tyrannical despot that had assigned him to this accursed job, damn it all, damn it all, damn it all.

Chunks and chinks of mirror started flying off, and Social Services sat backwards, panting, shivering, his hooves covered in small cuts, tiny spots of blood spitting onto the floor. Damn it all.

Damn it all. Damn his self-pitying, pathetic self. He had a job to do. He had a colt to find. He had to do something to help poor Dinky. He had to. For her. For her, who he left bleeding on the floor, because he was so scared, so scared, he couldn’t focus.

Focus. The present called for him.

><><

The school bell still rang into the spring air.

Social Services fumbled his way up the steps, fillies and colts stumbling around his hooves, some clearing a pathway for the troubled stallion, a few with faces of dawning recognition. He had been here before. He had talked about... Predators.

Only he wasn’t really looking for a predator. Social Services wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking for. Only who. Rumble. Rumble, Rumble, Rumble. Rumble, the ruffian who had ravaged Dinky, Rumble the clear mental case, Rumble. Rumble, colts like him, he had never dealt with before, they were always older. It was the rules of reality. Rumble couldn’t have. He wouldn’t have. Something very odd was going on here, and Social Services wouldn’t be doing his job not getting to the bottom of it.

He would have to ask Miss Cheerilee about him. That was what he was here for. Focus on the present, turn right down the hall. Enter the large, wooden room, the art and science projects dotting the walls, an intimate portrait of Miss Cheerilee’s career as a teacher. Her students adored her, the administration too, and even Social Services couldn’t help but feel his day brightened up slightly by her, and feel... Comfortable around her. Comfort in her guidance.

Turning his gaze to her. Sitting in her chair, pretending to grade papers. Spring break was in a few short weeks, after all, she didn’t need to worry so much. Social Services coughed, and she turned to him with a look of smothered apprehension.

“Oh! Hello, Social, I didn’t see you there!”

“Yeah,” Social Services said, quickly. “I... Just came in. I need to ask you a few questions, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Miss Cheerilee’s indomitable smile faltered slightly, but stayed on her face, a facade of what was going on behind the mask. “Whatever could the problem be? What’s...”

She sighed, putting her head in her hooves. “I... It’s Rumble and Scootaloo, isn’t it?”

Social Services raised an eyebrow. “Scootaloo?”

“Yes. And Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon. They... They haven’t shown up to class the past few days. I sent notes home, but no response yet. I... I don’t think they’re at home at all, Social. I don’t know what happened, just that they aren’t coming to school. It scares me.”

Social Services cleared his throat of his nervousness. “I’m... Sorry to hear about that. I actually came here to, erm, discuss... At least one of them.”

“Oh, Goddess,” Miss Cheerilee whimpered, putting a hoof over her mouth. “What happened? Is it... Oh Goddess, first Silver Spoon, then Dinky, and now...”

Social Services’ head bowed. So much pain. So much sorrow. Such was the job.

“Rumble was the one who attacked Dinky.”

Miss Cheerilee’s face was blank behind the hoof over her mouth. “Wh... What?”

Social Services mentally kicked himself even harder than he was before, but he didn’t repeat himself. He didn’t want to, or need to. The fewer times he said it, the more likely it was going to just go away. Not really, but it seemed that way. This was the sort of thing that could only be said once without feeling the pain of the sentence. Miss Cheerilee’s expression of abject shock was getting to him.

“You’re serious,” she said, her voice monotone and listless.

“I am. Miss Cheerilee, I don’t want to worry you, but I don’t have a choice. Four of your students are missing, and one of them is a known sex offender. He needs help, Miss Cheerilee, but he’s not going to get it if he’s running away. I have a feeling that if we find him, we’ll find the others.”

She was silent. Something in that silence bothered Social Services. The heat was coming again, synapses slowing, snapping backwards and forwards. He grit his teeth in his mouth and forced it back down, but it kept bubbling, and bubbling, and bubbling, up and up and up, never stopping, it never stopped, it would never stop, just anger, madness, frustration with this mare...

“They’re not missing,” Miss Cheerilee mumbled. “I just don’t know where-”

It fissured up, and it was too late to control it.

“They’re missing as long as you don’t know where they are!” Social Services snapped, stepping towards the schoolteacher. “Damn it, Miss, your job is to be at least partially responsible for the upbringing of these children! You’re responsible for them! If you don’t know where they are, and you refuse to take responsibility for their livelihood, maybe it’s best that you go back to getting fucked on camera!”

A stunned silence filled the air. Miss Cheerilee’s shocked expression had only deepened, her eyes tear-filled lavender pinpricks in the sea of maroon that made up her coat, the other forehoof joining it’s brother in covering her mouth. Stupid, should have kept it under control, stupid, stupid...

Social Services sighed, the last of the heat leaving his mouth. “I...”

He swallowed his apology. “I’m going to need their addresses, please.”

Miss Cheerilee gave a numb little bob of her head, not even a nod. “Well... O-Of course.”

Damn it all. Social Services had tried, he had tried, but self control was do or do not. Damn it all. Miss Cheerilee didn’t deserve it, she had enough on her palate, and Social Services had made things worse, so much worse, just like back then, when he refused to speak, when she died because he had made things worse with his silence, and now they were worse without it. The apology retched up again, and this time Social Services let it out.

“Miss Cheerilee, I... My comment was entirely uncalled for, I...”

“It’s fine. I’ve heard worse,” she said, her voice gentle and listless, as if she was scolding a colt who had stolen an apple.

“I... There’s no shame in what you did, Miss.”

“Easy for you to say.”

She finally turned, handing Social Services a piece of scrap paper, a series of street names and house numbers printed neatly upon it.

“Just find my children and hope we don’t have to talk about this again.”

><><

Rumble’s house had proven fruitless, Thunderlane a nervous, sobbing wreck like almost everypony in town seemed to be, being comforted by his twin lovers. At the very least he had that, Social Services supposed, but he still seemed so... Broken. He blamed himself for what happened, which Social Services was fine with, since after all, it wasn’t his job to blame anypony. The whole “your brother is a rapist” thing, naturally, wasn’t told to him, instead kept underneath wraps.

Leaving Rumble’s home had made Social Services feel hollow. Leaving the Rich household had turned him livid. Mister Rich was confident that his daughter was probably hiding out somewhere on his massive estate, and he seemed so flippant about it, seemed so quick to dismiss Diamond Tiara’s disappearance. And he wondered why Social Services wouldn’t allow him to adopt Silver Spoon! He wasn’t even fit to parent his own goddamn child!

He kicked an icy snowbank, the cold droplets of melting snow stinging and soothing the still-relatively-fresh cuts on the skin around his hooves. Anger was slowly draining, replaced by melancholy, agonizing melancholy, a sickness and a sadness with the world around him, mostly inspired by the last address on the list.

This last address... Was a source of much personal shame for him.

This was where he went to let go of everything, once a month, a checkup. It pained him to put she whom he checked upon in such a hellhole, it really did, but it was the only way. After what happened in the orphanage... This was better. For all parties involved. The aunt was trying, she really was, trying to clean up her act. Social Services couldn’t blame her for that. It was what he had been trying to do for years, and years, and years.

And she was trying to help Scootaloo. She was trying to be a good guardian for her. Social Services could feel it. She wanted to help Scootaloo, but she needed help herself, and nothing seemed to help her. She was trapped, like himself, in a constant battle of pain and sorrow and anger towards the world, towards everything. She wanted to help him, too. They were a pair of fucked-up ponies in a fucked-up world where fucked-up things happened.

The dilapidated little house at the edge of town came into view, and Social Services steeled himself. He wasn’t supposed to come today, she knew that. He was going to anyways. He reminded himself to try to not be angry, he reminded himself that she couldn’t help herself. He was here to find Scootaloo, not to get angry.

He pushed open the door. It wasn’t even closed.

The entire first floor stank of so many alcohols, Social Services couldn’t even bother to try and identify them. Old rock n’ roll music echoed from the living room. Stains covered everything, the walls, the carpets, everything, stains of not only alcohol, but piss and blood and other excrement, and the smell of it all, good Goddess, it wasn’t just the alcohol anymore. Social Services would be barely keen on letting an animal live here. The fact that a child did, one that he was supposed to protect, made the heat rise again, but he swallowed it, and instead felt guilt.

It wasn’t fair to Scootaloo.

It also wasn’t fair to send her back to where she was hurt first.

Social services shook his head, following the sound of droning singing, barely able to keep up with the music.

“No, we didn’ haaaf... Made ‘nuff to shurviiiive...”

There she was.

There had probably been a time, many years ago, that Scootaloo’s aunt had been a beautiful pony. She had the vestiges of beauty on her face, her features and form evident of a time when they were well toned, attractively plump. Now they were sagging, her mane in disarray, her coat covered in small patches of dry, rubbery fur spikes. She smelled awful, like a vomit wine cellar, fermented and terrible. She seemed pretty incoherent- Social Services had to poke her with a forehoof to get her attention, where she was drooling and droning on the couch.

Immediately, she shot up, trying to think through the haze.

“You’re not... S’posed to be heere...”

“But I am,” Social Services said quietly, swallowing again to rid the heat. “Where’s Scootaloo?”

“The fuggam I ‘posed to know?”

Social Services shut his eyes, tightly. “Of course.”

The heat, the intolerable heat, it kept rising and bubbling, and he felt so mad, yet so helpless, he didn’t have much of a choice, sending Scootaloo back to the orphanage would be worse than this, dear Goddess, what kind of world was it where this den of alcohol and neglect could possibly be a better place for a filly to live?!

Melancholy rose within him, and Social Services found himself suddenly blinded by tears, sitting down on the messy, crusty couch and sobbing. Damn it all. What a world they lived in, what a broken, broken world, not even a Goddess could fix this, damn it all...

“Sosh?”

Scootaloo’s aunt seemed to have the smallest hint of concern in her voice, slowly forcing herself to stumble off of the couch and in front of the pony that, for all intents and purposes, had every right to haul her ass to prison. He did have the royal power to do it, after all, but the thought was the furthest thing from his mind.

“Sosh, hon, ‘sokay...”

She leaned forward, her messy, smelly body inches from his, breathing heavily.

“Sosh... Wanna let make you feel better?”

Social Services was broken from his reverie of self-pity for just a moment. This moment was used to punch Scootaloo’s aunt right across the jaw, and she went down like a sack of potatoes. Old, crusty, decrepit, alcohol-smelling potatoes. Social Services’ face was fearful, his nostrils flared, his eyes seemingly red from the powerful rage that had overtaken him, from the heat that had bubbled from his throat and poured out, a tsunami through his body that made him swing his hoof with lightning speed, the crack of her jaw, and the thump of her unconscious, pathetic form on the floor. It was over as soon as it began, and Social Services was left breathing heavily, staring at his hoof, smelling the decrepit air, tasting the alcohol in it, the rock album still on the eight-track, still playing.

Now if youre feelin kinda low bout the dues you been payin’
Futures comin’ much too slow
And you wanna run but somehow you just keep on stayin’
Can’t decide on which way to go
Yeah, yeah, yeah

And for the second time that day, Social Services broke down crying.

><><

Scootaloo’s room was messy, but at the very least, it was better than the first floor.

The walls were covered in Wonderbolts posters, the smell of alcohol notably absent, the floor covered in paper and pencils and notebooks and everything a schoolfilly would use. However, Social Services noted the peeling paint, the rusty stains on the towels on the floor. Something had gone terrifically wrong here.

Something hard pressed against the bottom of his hoof, and Social Services brought it up. It was a molar, digging into his hoof as if still attached to it’s jaw. He jumped, shaking it off of his appendage, breathing heavily. Something was definitely off. Scootaloo’s aunt, useless a piece of shit she was, couldn’t possibly beat Scootaloo. It wasn’t in her type of drunk, at least, not as far as Social Services was concerned.

He stumbled over a little object, giving a shout, turning around and seeing what it was. A little notebook, wirebound, a small bit of string holding it shut. Journal, the title scribbled upon it’s front. Social Services picked it up, looking at it dumbly.

If Scootaloo had run away...

He opened up the tome, starting at the very last page with writing on it.

Rumble came over yesterday afternoon. He seemed really scared, coming up to my room, saying he loved me. I knew he did, of course, but hearing it from him, this wasn’t right. Something was up. And something was- He took Dinky for his own.

I don’t blame him. He didn’t know what he was doing. Just like me with him. He did what his body told him to do. That didn’t mean I wasn’t mad though, so I beat him up. Badly.

If Dinky knows, she’ll go to Social Services, and Social Services will take me away from my Rumble, and I can’t have that. It looks like I’m going to have to enact the plan sooner than I thought.

The entry ended, Social Services slowly flipping back, looking for references to a “plan” of some sort, trying not to think too hard about what he had just read, focusing on the present, find what you need to know. So Scootaloo had ravished Rumble who ravished Dinky... Stop. Focus.

I have a backup plan now, in case Rumble or I get found out. I know that other ponies won’t like our love or the way we express it, so it’s a good thing I found the Bitch crying behind the school today, the Sheep comforting her.

The Sheep was going away. Earlier today, I would have thanked Celestia that she was. One less problem I have to deal with. But the Bitch had a plan, an idea to run away into the Everfree. They found out I was listening in, and I told them. Rumble doesn’t know that I told them, but that’s okay. He doesn’t need to know. He’ll be fine not knowing.

The Bitch and the Sheep agreed to stock up extra supplies for us. They sympathized with us (I know! DT the Bitch sympathized with me!), they know what it’s like to be young and in love and nopony understands you, to have something you can’t tell anypony else but you want to so desperately, so, so desperately.

The planned D-Day for the plan to go in action is the day Silver Spoon has to leave. That’s about a month from now. They’re going to be ready to enact it sooner, though, in case something comes up. I just hope nothing does.

He flipped through the rest of the journal. All sorts of references to Rumble. Pictures. Hearts drawn around him. All the way back to August, when he had transferred in from Cloudsdale. This wasn’t the Scootaloo he knew. This obsessed little rapist wasn’t the Scootaloo he knew.

And yet here it was, staring him in the face, as if fate had brought him and this journal together.

Perhaps it had. Celestia was off the damning list for now.

><><

There was much to be done.

A search party to organize with the Princess Twilight Sparkle. The Mayor would be a great help too. Perhaps even the children could help them find Rumble. It wasn’t like he was dangerous, anyways.

Social Services wasn’t sure what was dangerous anymore.

As he stepped over the unconscious, pathetic mare in the living room and out of the den of sorrow, Social Services took a big breath of air, and in his mind, thanked Celestia for the springtime that was coming.

The pain would be over soon. It was just a matter of time.

His pain would be over soon, if only for a moment.