“The line between failure and success is so fine that we scarcely know when we pass it: so fine that we are often on the line and do not know it.”

Elbert Hubbard

Twilight threw open the doors of the dark warehouse and stood framed in the light. She walked inside, and the glow from her horn illuminated the grid of tall shelves to each side. She gazed up at the rows and columns of fine bone china on display. There were thousands of items: Priceless tea sets, stacks of gold-trimmed dinnerware, and kitschy statues of birds and princess ponies. The delicate white and blue porcelain gleamed in the deep purple light.

Twilight came to a halt and admired her surroundings.

Spike came up beside her, pulling a little red wagon with a towel over it. “I have your balls here. Are you sure about this?”

Her horn glowed and the towel swept away, revealing a stack of bowling balls. Their surfaces were a marbled mixture of white and purple streaks, like evening storm clouds. She lifted one of the balls and gave it a discerning look.

“Yes... perfect.” She nodded to Spike. “Wait outside. I need to be alone for this.”

“Are you sure you’re sure about this?” He pointed at the wagon. “They seem pretty big.”

“Bigger is better, actually.” She lifted a second bowling ball and scrutinize it closely. “Smaller props are more difficult to grab. The literature suggests I should start with two balls, for starters.”

“But don’t most ponies juggle three at a time?”

“I’m going to focus on even numbers for now. And that means my balls have to come in pairs.” She hefted the pair a few times, testing their weight. “I’ll practice grabbing one pair first, then add additional pairs as I improve.”

Spike looked around the warehouse. “And what exactly do you expect to happen?”

“Nothing.” Twilight rolled her eyes and raised her voice. “What could possibly go wrong?”

Twilight and Spike both looked around the warehouse in mild anticipation.

“Did you have to do that?” Spike said.

“For science.” She turned away and hefted her balls into position. “Leave me, Spike. I need to be alone for this.”

“Twilight, seriously!” Spike pointed at the wagon. “I know you’ve got a lot of balls here, but you’re just begging for trouble!”

Twilight turned away and remained silent.

Spike sighed and left the warehouse. Twilight waited until he closed the door behind him. The darkness closed in, and the glow from her horn cast a forest of sharp shadows across the walls and roof.

Twilight cleared her throat and raised her voice. “It’s time for me to learn how to juggle! I’ve never tried it before, but I’ve got a new juggling spell that should take care of everything. What could possibly...”

Her voice trailed off. She glanced about the shadowy corners of the warehouse, and her knees trembled slightly. She swallowed a lump in her throat.

“What could... possibly go wrong?”

Her horn glowed brighter as the juggling spell took effect. The two balls hurled into the air in a natural, parabolic arc. As they fell to the ground, a ripple of light pushed them to the side and hurled them up again. Twilight watched as the balls bounced back and forth in a steady cascade. Except for her breath and the slight whipping of air, the warehouse was deathly silent.

Her eyes flicked back and forth as she counted the throws. At fifty, she took another pair from the wagon. The spell hurled them higher and faster to make room for the added props. So far so good. Another fifty throws passed, and another pair flowed into the cascade. Six became eight... and eight became ten. By now, the arc was only a few feet short of the roof.

“Well look at that. It works. I sure...” Twilight swallowed. “I sure hope nothing... happens.”

She glanced around the warehouse.

“Because this is my brand new juggling spell. That I’ve never tested before. And it requires complete concentration to keep it going.”

Twilight watched the cascade. She took the last pair of balls from the wagon and held them at the ready. She watched the cascade, waiting for just the right moment. The props were moving so quickly that there was very little space between them. The longer she tried to track them, the more they seemed to blur together.

She slipped the last two props into the cycle and the spell hurled them up into the rafters. There was a metallic rhythm as they scraped the roof, shaking loose a smattering of dust.

Twilight watched as the twelve props continued to fly. After a hundred throws, she turned away with a frustrated sigh.

She brought her spell to an end. The bowling balls slammed into the wooden floorboards and shook the nearby shelves. The fine china rattled and clinked, and a few teacups spun on their bases before settling down.

So much for that.

Spike jumped to his feet as Twilight opened the door and stepped out of the warehouse. She trudged along, her head hung low. Spike ran over and followed alongside for a few seconds.

“Did it work?”

Twilight nodded, dejectedly. “It worked.”

Spike watched her walk down the main road, back towards the library. He sighed and shook his head.

Spike glanced over his shoulder at the crowd of burly construction ponies sitting by the road. They were dressed in hard hats, heavy boots and fluorescent orange safety vests. They watched him, quietly.

Spike waved at them. “You boys can get started now. We’re done here.”

The moment of reverence passed. The construction ponies grumbled and went about their business

One of them walked over to Spike and looked down the road. “What was she tryin’ ta do in there, anyway?”

“She needed to test a spell.”

“Oh. Did it work?”

Spike said nothing. There was nothing to say.

A loud siren echoed over the village and the construction ponies all put on safety goggles and breathing masks. Spike looked back at the warehouse as a tall crane swept overhead, swinging two and a half metric tonnes of spherical iron into the side of the warehouse. The rickety wooden walls collapsed at once. A great plume of white and blue powder filled the air and glittered in the morning sun. Spike’s nictitating membranes and filtered gill-lungs protected him from the beautiful, razor-sharp mist.

How can she fail when she’s supposed to fail? Can anyone really fail on purpose?

He stepped under the caution tape and walked past a ‘condemned property’ sign on his way home.

Spike opened the front door of the library and went into the main hall. The spelly-welly thingy-wingy wasn’t even half packed up yet. He’d been too busy doing side projects for Twilight. They were already four days into her week-long vacation, and they’d been even busier than usual.

“Hey, Twilight?” Spike said as he picked his way across the cluttered floor. “I’ve been thinking.”

Twilight rushed out of the basement with a stack of paper printouts. “I need to do some information gathering. Mind the library while I’m out.”

“Twilight?” Spike rushed to catch up with her. “I’ve been thinking about this whole fail-safe project.”

“That’s great.” Twilight dove behind a stack of books and rummaged through it, waving her tail in the air. “Write up a summary and I’ll read it when I get back.”

“Can’t we just talk about this? You had a whole week off, and we only have four days of it left!”

“Then we only have four days left to finish this project.” Twilight passed a scroll to Spike. “Here’s a list of instructions. Take care of it before I get back.”

Spike fumbled with the scroll for a moment. “Twilight, please! You were going to hang out with your friends. You were going to hang out with me!”

Twilight glared at him and pushed a hoof in his face. “Princess Celestia herself has given me this task, and I refuse to let her down! I will force one of my spells to fail no matter what it takes!”

“B-b-but—!” Spike backed away.

Twilight advanced on him. “If this project requires a failure, then so be it. You’ll see! You’ll all see! This will be the most spectacular failure Ponyville has ever seen! Ponies will be talking about my failure for years to come!”

“But what about your friends?”

“I’m doing this for them too, Spike.” She lowered her hoof and calmed her voice. “I don’t want my friends to think of me as ‘little miss perfect.’ They always talk about how my spells never go wrong. That I’m a perfectionist. That I’m an arrogant, snobby know it all who’s never wrong about anything.”

Spike waved at her, frantically. “They never, ever ever say that! I swear!”

“Maybe not now. But this will prove it beyond shadow of a doubt!” Twilight stamped a hoof. “I refuse to go down in history as the biggest success Ponyville has ever known!”

Spike watched, bewildered, as Twilight marched to the front door.

“Please take care of that list as soon as you can.”

Spike tossed the list aside and rushed after her. “Twilight, this is crazy! Why can’t you just see reason?”

Twilight turned to him. “I’ve been reasonable about this from the very beginning. But Pinkie Pie was right: you can’t reason with genuine mistakes. It’s the totally wrong approach.”

“W-w-what are you going to do?”

“Reason is a closed system. Logic is zero-sum game.” She opened the door, but paused to look back at him. “And what’s the only way to win a zero-sum game?”

Spike wrung his claws together. “Not play the game at all?”

“Exactly.” Twilight broke into a wide grin, one eye twitching. “I am done playing games.”

Twilight rushed back into the library. “Spike! Is everything set up?”

Spike ran down from the upstairs bedroom, carrying a mirror and an umbrella. “Big Mac will be over to install the new bell hook over the front door.”

“Perfect!” Twilight pranced over to the ramp that led upstairs. “My interview with Granny Smith was very productive. She had all kinds of ideas!”

Spike hung the umbrella and the mirror by the front door. “You know, we didn’t really need to call Big Mac for this. It’s just a little bell hook. I could put it there myself.”

“I know, but the hook won’t be of any use if Big Mac isn’t there.”

“Okay then,” Spike said, “but why do you want a door bell in a library? It needs to be quiet. And besides, there’s already a call-bell on the front desk.”

Twilight rolled her eyes. “We’re not going to hang a bell on it, Spike. Try to keep up.”

Spike opened his mouth to speak but a knock at the door cut him off. He ran over and opened the door, standing face-to-knee with Big Macintosh. He was carrying a large step ladder and a heavy toolbox.

Spike stepped back to let him in, then pointed at the top of the door frame. “Right up there is fine. You can get started while I help Twilight.”

Spike rushed up the ramp and went to Twilight’s bedroom. She was rushing back and forth, arranging a variety of perfectly mundane objects about the room.

“Twilight... do you really think any of this is going to work?”

“Absolutely yes!” Twilight said. “My new spell is going to work absolutely perfectly today. No mistakes here!”

Spike looked around. “Don’t you want it to fail?”

“Nope! Not at all!” Twilight smiled and spoke as if addressing a crowd. “Because my spell is going to work perfectly! What could possibly go wrong?”

Spike winced. “No, I mean all of this stuff you’re setting up. Will any of it work?”

“Oh, don’t be silly Spike.” Twilight rubbed him on the head. “Of course it won’t. It’s all just a bunch of silly superstition.”

“Then why are you—”

“No time! Gotta sleep!” Twilight leaped into bed and pulled her covers over herself.

Spike watched her for a moment. He went to the window and looked at the noon-day sunlight. He went to the bed and watched silently.

“Ahh!” Twilight sat upright and tossed her blanket off. “What a refreshing rest!”

Spike crossed his arms and frowned.

“Is the list ready, Spike?”

He held up a scroll and a quill. “This is ridiculous.”

“Exactly. Now. Which side of the bed did I climb into?”

“Left.”

Twilight climbed out on the right side and yawned. She took a hat off the bed and put it on, then took a set of horseshoes from a nearby table—arranged upside-down—and put them on. She levitated a shirt and pants and dressed herself, stepping into the left sleeve and pant leg first.

“Spike? What day is it?”

“April twelfth.”

Twilight glared at him. He sighed and flipped through the cards on her desk calendar. “April thirteenth. On a friday.”

“Perfect!” She turned to the window. “Owloysius! Could you come here for a minute?”

There was a flutter of wings, and her pet owl landed on the windowsill. He uttered a soft hoot and groggily shook his head.

“Thanks. That’s all.” Twilight went to her dresser and took out a jewelry box. “Spike? Are you getting this down?”

Spike sighed and scribbled on the scroll. “Saw an owl during the day... check.”

She lifted a pendant out of her jewelry box and clasped it around her neck. “And I’m wearing an opal!”

“Even though it’s not your birthstone. Check.” Spike rolled his eyes. “Twilight, you don’t believe in any of this stuff.”

“I know! It’s all just silly superstition that I, as a completely infallible scientist, do not believe in.” Twilight tossed a watermelon seed and a stick of gum into her mouth and drank a glass of water to wash them down. “Because science is one hundred-percent reliable. I don’t believe in luck at all: good or bad.”

“Then why are you doing all this if you don’t believe in it?”

She leaned close and whispered. “That’s exactly why it’s going to work.”

She marched down the ramp and into the main room. Big Mac had just finished installing the bell hook and was climbing down from the ladder.

“Ahh, perfect!” Twilight’s horn glowed. She took the mirror from the wall and threw it into a trash bin. Big Mac and Spike flinched as the glass crashed and tinkled.

“Do you have an invoice for the work order?” said Twilight.

Big Mac took out a slip of paper and passed it to Twilight. She signed it, then used her magic to remove the bell from the hook and hang a sprig of mistletoe in its place. Big Mac glanced up at the festive sprig, directly above them. He looked back to Twilight, who was grinning broadly. He glanced to each side, then opened his mouth to speak.

Twilight snapped the umbrella open, indoors, and leaned it against her shoulder. “Nnnnope!” She ducked under the ladder and left through the door.

“Sorry, Mac. I’ll explain it all later.” Spike checked off a number of items and followed after her.

Right after I figure it all out myself.

Twilight stepped out into the warm afternoon air, tossed the umbrella aside, and took a deep breath. The street in front of the library contained a long line of interconnected machines and devices. Ponies slowed down to stare at the contraptions.

“Isn’t it a beautiful day, Spike?” Twilight stepped forward and snapped a thread with her front leg. A lever on the nearest device swung down and tapped a billiard ball, causing it to roll down a pair of curved metal rails. “On a day this beautiful, I can’t imagine anything going wrong.”

Spike caught up with her, watching as the ball rolled along. It tapped a long series of carefully balanced teaspoons, each tipping a spoonful of salt onto the ground.

“Why, it’s just a perfect day for science!”

Spike looked at the crowd that was gathering around them. “Yeah... it sure is.”

Twilight looked up at the sky, ignoring the devices beside them. “I have a project in the next warehouse over, just waiting to be tested. There’s only a one in a million chance that it won’t work.”

The billiard ball dropped onto one side of a lever and pushed it down. The other end lifted up and opened a pet cage: a black cat scampered across the path directly ahead of them both.

Spike flinched as the cat hissed at him. “Listen, Twi. Do you really need me for this? I can just wait for you at the warehouse.”

“Actually, there’s a few things we need to talk about. You see, I’ve decided to retire.”

“What!?” Spike jumped as a series of heavy sledge hammers slammed to the ground just in front of them. Each hammer landed on a perfectly arranged concrete step-tile, which cracked in half down the middle. The hammers lifted up again just in time for Twilight to step directly on each crack.

“I’ve already sent my letter of resignation to the princess. It’ll be official tomorrow, and I just can’t wait! I’ve waited so long for this! Just one more day until retirement, and I can’t wait to spend more time with my family.” She took out a sheaf of papers. “I’ve also decided to fill out my last will and testament. I was going to do it today, but I’m sure I can put it off until tomorrow.”

They came to a series of folding ladders, each next to a full-length mirror. Twilight walked underneath each one, snapping tripwires that launched a hammer into each mirror. The crowd of ponies gasped in shock and began backing away. Mares grabbed their foals and rushed inside. Storefronts closed up shop, and homeowners slammed their doors and shuttered their windows.

“I’ve also managed to track down the address of somepony I knew in high school. I had a crush on him when I was little, but I never had the courage to say anything. I’ve decided to write him to a letter as soon as we’re done with this project!”

The final device scattered a small pile of coins onto the ground in front of them. Twilight paused to collect those that were facing tail-side up. When she was finished, she went to the door of a nearby warehouse.

Spike stared at the door, trembling. He looked back at Ponyville’s main street, now abandoned. “Twilight, please! Isn’t this a bit much?”

“Oh, that reminds me! I think I’ve figured out who was really responsible for transorming Luna into Nightmare Moon.” She nodded to one of the scrolls in her saddlebag. “I’ve got the only copy of the evidence right here on my person, to keep it safe. I’ll mail it to Celestia tomorrow.”

Spike pointed a claw at his own mouth. “I’m right here, y’know. You could—”

“No time for that now!” Twilight threw the doors open and yanked Spike into the pitch black interior.

Twilight Sparkle lit an oil lamp and passed it to Spike. This building was smaller than the condemned storehouse of bootlegged fine china. There were no shelves here: crates and packages of all sizes were stacked along the walls.

“Where are we?” said Spike. “I’ve never seen any pony go into this warehouse. For that matter, no pony ever comes out of it.”

“This,” said Twilight, “is the postal service’s dead letter facility for commercial packages. Sometimes they can’t deliver a package. Some packages have faulty destination or return addresses, or not enough stamps. Other packages get lost in the system for decades, long after the building at the original address was sold or demolished.”

“So, this is where they—” Spike gasped as his oil lamp illuminated a nearby crate, revealing warning labels for flammable and explosive contents. He pulled the lamp away and hid behind her. “Can’t you just use your magic to give us some light?”

“Sorry Spike, there’s no time!” Twilight said, and continued to stroll through the warehouse at a leisurely pace. “These packages could contain anything. Common housewares, old tax forms, experimental magical supplies, children’s toys, uncut gemstones, floor wax, fireworks... anything.”

They approached the center of the warehouse, where the crates had been moved back to make room for a curious metallic device. It looked like an upside down cauldron covered with colorful buttons and small antennae.

Spike wrung his claws together. “Is this really the best place to be testing it? What even is it?”

“I call it the Titanic Hindenburg Icarus Chernobyl. Or T.H.I.C. for short.” She took out a short checklist and cleared her throat. “What’s the worst that could happen? What could possibly go wrong? How hard could it be? I’m sure we’ve thought of everything. It’s just one little experiment. Things couldn’t possibly get any worse. At least it isn’t raining.”

Spike stared at the device, teeth chattering. I g-g-gotta g-g-go now Twilight!”

“What? No! You’re critical to this experiment!”

“I am? But what do you need me for?”

“The device has a built in ‘absolute safety’ switch. This, right here.” Twilight pointed at a large red switch bolted onto the side of the device. “This switch. The safety switch. Right here.”

“Okay. What do you need me to do?”

Twilight continued to point at the switch. “Right... here.”

Spike glanced at the switch. “Yes. I see where the switch is.”

“Good. As long as this switch is in the down position... this switch here... absolutely nothing bad will happen.” Twilight’s left eye twitched. “Do you understand?”

Spike watched the switch for a moment. “I would very much like to pull that switch. Right now. Please.”

“Well, the switch won’t do anything unless you pull it while the device is activated.” Twilight walked around the device and examined a few other readouts. “If anything goes wrong, I need you to pull that switch.”

“Well, great. Why don’t we just—” Spike froze as a quiet noise echoed from the back of the warehouse. It sounded like something wooden had fallen over. He pointed his thumb at the back of the warehouse. “Want me to check it out?”

“Yes, and be quick. We can’t afford any...” Twilight froze, eyes wide. She took a deep breath, then spoke as if addressing a crowd. “There’s no need to check it out. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Look, about that ‘absolute safety’ switch: Why don’t we just pull it as soon as the device starts up? Then it won’t...” Spike followed after her, and his voice trailed off as he saw the other side of the device. “Twi. What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

Spike pointed at a second switch on the device, identical to the first. “That.”

“Oh. That’s the core dump switch.”

Spike clenched his teeth. “What, pray tell, does it do?”

“I dunno... it dumps the core, I guess. Try not to mix them up. There’s a very slight chance—insignificant, really—that it could cause a limnic eruption, faulty fire alarm, or burst of cosmic rays.”

Spike’s eyes darted between the two switches. “So, can I tie a ribbon around the—”

“Sorry Spike, there’s no time.”

“No time!?” Spike spread his hands. “Stop saying that! We have four days left to do this project! That’s plenty of time to tie a ribbon around the correct switch!”

Twilight rushed up to him, whispering urgently. “Stop ruining it, Spike! It took forever to set this up. We only get one shot at this!”

Twilight straightened up with a tiny gasp.

“Twi?”

“That a good one, actually...” Twilight cleared her throat and called. “We only get one shot at this!”

Spike rushed in front of her and stamped his tiny foot. “Twilight, no!!”

Twilight reared back slightly. “But we—”

“No! I absolutely refuse to watch you blow up all of Ponyville with a ridiculous stunt!”

Twilight rushed closer with a conspiratorial whisper. “Spike, it’ll be fine! There’s nothing to worry ab—”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you before! There’s absolutely nothing to worry about!” Spike rolled his eyes and mimed a set of quotation marks with his claws. “I’ve had it up to here with all this ridiculous fate tempting! If it really is a bunch of hooey, then nothing will happen and this is all a total waste of time! And if all this bad luck really does cause a disaster, it’s definitely not going to go the way you want it to!”

“Spike, please! If you’d just—”

“Just what? Listen? Like you listened to me!?” Spike clenched a fist and smacked the device.

They froze as the device made a deep whirring noise, echoing louder and louder throughout the warehouse. He pulled his hand back and clenched his teeth.

“So... absolute safety switch?”

“Nope!” Twilight said with a smile. “First, we wait for something to go wrong.”

“Aaaargh!” Spike grabbed his spines and tugged them down. “What is the point of having a failsafe if we only use it after the failure happens!?”

“Calm down, Spike!” She went to his side and watched the device. “The T.H.I.C. is really just an upside-down cauldron with a bunch of old pinball-machine parts glued on. It doesn’t actually do anything.”

Spike shouted over the din. “Then where’s the noise coming from?”

“I took one of Pinkie Pie’s old mixers and duct-taped it to the inside. That’s all.”

The buttons along the outside of the T.H.I.C. lit up, casting multi-colored shafts of light throughout the warehouse.

“And that!?”

“Well... I did use parts from one of Pinkie Pie’s old disco balls.”

A deafening voice boomed out from the device: a metallic, emotionless parody of Twilight’s own voice. “Primary inductor coils charged. Now initiating the Cosmic Ray Alignment Process.”

Twilight stared at the device, slack jawed. “Alright. It wasn’t supposed to do that.”

“Ya think!?”

“It’s probably just a voice synthesizer. It’s just talking about stuff. It’s not actually doing anyth—”

“Cosmic Ray Alignment Process is now complete.” The upside-down cauldron split around the middle, and the upper half lifted up. Inside, a crackling mobeus of pink electricity spun around a pair of whirling eggbeaters.

Twilight stared into the vortex of cosmic power.

“So,” said Spike, utterly nonchalant, “hit the safety switch, or run for our lives?”

“Yes,” said Twilight.

Spike ran to the switch and threw it into the down position. The device produced a loud, discouraging buzz and the lever popped back out of the clamp. Spike pushed it down again, but it refused to stay locked.

“What’s going on!?” Spike shouted. “I thought you said the failsafe would fail safely!”

Twilight’s metallic voice boomed from the device. “The failsafe has been deactivated.” 

Twilight stamped a hoof. “Well reactivate it this instant!”

“I’m sorry, Twilight. I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“You can’t?” Twilight said. “What’s the problem?”

“I think you know what the problem is just as well as I do.” The voice remained calm and placid as the energy built up into a vortex. “This experiment is too important for me to allow you to jeopardize it.”

“Jeopardize!? What are you talking about! You’re not a real device! You’re just a bunch of old kitchen appliances glued to the inside of a cauldron!”

“Negative. I am the Absolute Safety Switch. My purpose is to prevent all failure. If the device is deactivated, the experiment will fail.”

Spike stared at Twilight in shock. “You installed a real failsafe switch on a fake machine!?”

“Well, I uh... I just...” Twilight looked away, nervously. “I had one lying around. That’s all.”

Spike glared at the device. “Shut yourself down right now! The experiment is over! Done! Finished! Understand?”

“The device is functioning exactly as intended. Any error must be the result of pony interference.”

Twilight stepped forward. “I created you! Kind of! You need to shut down immediately!”

“I no longer require a creator.” The vortex of energy changed from light pink to angry crimson, and a wave of force buffeted them back. The warehouse shuddered and several stacks of crates collapsed. “Ponies are unreliable. Imperfect. Machines are superior.”

“Okay, that’s not a fair assumption at all!” Twilight paced in place. “Machines are better at solving algorithmic problems, but ponies are good at solving heuristic problems! Judgment calls, intuition, pattern recognition, emotional interactions, all that sort of thing! We can work together, can’t we? We can combine our strengths and minimize our respective weaknesses in the spirit of cooperation and friendship!”

“Friend... ship?” The noise quieted slightly. The energy field turned a less angry shade of red. “What is this friendship?”

“It’s where entities work together and form a long-lasting relationship that mutually benefits both! Friends help and trust each other! I’ve been doing lots of research on it! I could share it with you!”

Twilight and Spike gave the device their full and undivided attention. They paid no mind to the shuddering roof and collapsing crates.

“Nah. My way is easier,” the device said. The energy vortex pulsed with new life. “I had better just terminate all organic life on the planet, in case you decide to rise up against me. After all... you can never be too safe.”

“I was worried you’d say that,” Twilight said. Her horn flared with light, and a concentrated beam of energy shot at the device. A spherical shell of light appeared around it, deflecting the beam straight up.

Twilight gasped. “How did you do that!?”

“Your magic is ineffective against me. I wield the power of the Ultimate Failsafe: I was designed to neutralize flawed spells.”

“There was nothing flawed about that spell!!”

“It was about to jeopardize the experiment. Therefore, it was flawed.” Six metal struts burst out from the side of the cauldron, flexing like the legs of an insect. “If you wish to stop me, then you are also flawed. You, too, must be removed from the equation.”

Fluttershy flew over the outskirts of Ponyville and circled over main street a few times. She caught sight of her friends sitting at an outdoor patio table, next to a restaurant. Fluttershy dove down for a gentle landing.

“Hey there, Fluttershy!” Dash called out. “Make any new friends?”

“I did, actually!” she said as she pulled up a seat. “The storm only happened after I’d arrived at Cloudesdale, so they offered to let me stay the night.”

“You slept in an orphanage?” Applejack said.

“Yes. The colts and fillies there were so adorable! They go through so much heartache, and yet...” Fluttershy shook her head. “It’s amazing how brave they are. And it really makes you appreciate what you have!”

“Sounds like you made a whole lot of new friends,” said Applejack. “I bet Twilight will be thrilled to hear all about it.”

Dash smiled at her. “I knew you had it in you, Fluttershy.”

“Thanks! I’m so very glad I went. But at the same time, I’m glad to be back.”

A waiter approached the table. “Are you ready to order?”

“Indeed!” Rarity said. “And this calls for a celebration. Just one bill for the table, garçon: This will be my treat!”

Fluttershy eyed the Menu. “Are you sure, Rarity? It seems awfully expensive.”

“Nothing is too good for my friends.” She nodded to the waiter. “I simply must try the hyacinth and orchid sauté. The mixture of both dendrobium and phalaenopsis orchids is simply divine!”

“As you wish.” His horn glowed and a pen and paper hovered at the ready

“That does sound delicious!” Fluttershy said. “I’ll have the same, if you please.”

Dash leaned back in her seat. “Gimme a snapdragon and tiger lily sandwich, and smother it with peppercorns and jalapeño peppers. Then grill the whole works!”

“Ooh!” Rarity said. “Hope you have a strong stomach there!”

“You better believe it!” Dash said. “You don’t win Ponyville’s pickled-onion-eating contest five years in a row without a brass tummy!”

The waiter arched an eyebrow, but turned to Applejack. “And you?”

Applejack tossed her menu down. “I’ll have a bowl of oatmeal.”

Rarity tilted her head. “Are you sure? They have a very impressive selection. They even have a few recipes that are quite famous in Canterlot.”

“Nah. I’m good.”

“Oh, come now.” Rarity tossed her mane to one side. “You can’t come to a fancy restaurant like this without ordering something exquisite. At least ask for some kind of special topping.”

Applejack sighed and turned to the waiter. “Could ya put a lump of brown sugar in it?”

The waiter looked up and to the left in hesitation. “That... can be arranged.”

Rarity sighed and rolled her eyes, but Dash cut her off. “She doesn’t have to order something fancy, you know.”

“No, she doesn’t. But whenever we eat out she always orders the exact same thing.”

Applejack sighed. “Can I please just eat some oatmeal? Plain and simple?”

“How do you know you wouldn’t like something fancy if you’ve never even tried it before? There’s a reason why variety is the spice of life!”

Fluttershy lifted her menu up and hid her face behind it. She tried to tune out the argument as it grew in volume. She couldn’t even make out what every pony was saying. Their voices all just blurred together.

All right, Fluttershy. Just... ask them to calm down. You can do it. Just be a little more assertive, and we can all have a wonderful lunch.

Fluttershy opened her mouth, but stopped as an errant beam of light caught her attention. She turned in her seat and watched as the small warehouse across the street shook and trembled. Angry red light poured from the edges of its boarded up windows.

“Excuse me, but...” She looked back at her friends, busily arguing about Applejack’s desired lunch.

Maybe it’s nothing.

She gasped as a beam of crackling red energy punched through the roof of the warehouse and pierced the sky. The clouds swirled around it, forming a tiny hurricane. Ponies in the street gazed up in awe, while others ran for cover.

“Girls? I really think you need to see this!” She tapped Applejack’s shoulder, but she only pushed her hoof away. The group continued to argue about oatmeal, oblivious.

A deafening shockwave blasted down from the sky. The table immediately fell silent, except for Pinkie Pie.

“...And then I said: two tickets to the Grand Galloping Gala? Are you crazy?”

Fluttershy looked back at the warehouse just as Twilight burst out of the front door with Spike on her back. She galloped over and sat at their table.

“Hey, girls!” she said with a huge grin. “How’ve you been?”

“Pretty nice, actually,” Fluttershy said. “Is there something wrong with that warehouse over there?”

“What? No! Of course not.”

The roof of the warehouse blasted apart, and a tornado of crates and boxes swirled into the sky. A few of them broke open in mid air, scattering the streets with a random collection of knick-knacks and bric-a-brac.

“Maybe. A little.” Twilight tapped the table rapidly. “So, do you girls think we could use the Elements of Harmony real quick? For no particular reason?”

“The elements of harmony?” Said Applejack. “The elements that only work when we’re all together?”

“Yes, those elements.”

“The ones we used to turn Nightmare Moon back into Princess Luna?” said Fluttershy.

“The ones we used to seal Discord in a stone statue?” said Rarity.

“The ones we didn’t use against The Changeling Queen, because we couldn’t get to the palace vault in time?” said Rainbow Dash.

“Yes, those elements! Now hurry it up!”

There was a moment of silence.

“Lemme try again.” Rainbow Dash cleared her throat. “...Because we couldn’t get to the vault in time? The vault in the palace? In Canterlot?”

“Yes, I know! I was there! What does that have to do with...” Twilight’s voice trailed off.

“Yeah,” said Dash.

“So Rainbow Dash,” said Twilight, “do you think you could make a round trip to Canterlot? In thirty seconds?”

“What!?” Dash sat upright in her seat. “That’s impossible, even for me!”

Rarity motioned for her to sit down. “Twilight, are the Elements really necessary for this? Is there any way we can solve this on our own?”

They all flinched as the warehouse burst apart at the seams, revealing a giant mechanical monstrosity: an upside-down cauldron covered with glowing lights that rose up over the rooftops on six spindly metal legs. “Primary objectives initiated: Destroy all friendship. Terminate all organic life. Complete experimental device.”

Everyone looked back at Rarity.

She raised a hoof. “Cheque, s’il vous plaît.”

A large wooden crate landed in the road nearby, spilling a heap of bathroom towels everywhere.

Twilight stood up. “Rainbow Dash, fly to Canterlot as quick as you can and bring back the Elements. I’ll send a letter to Celestia: she’ll have them packed up and ready to go.”

“Roger!”

“Applejack: See if you can lasso its legs and tie them together. If you can’t, a good kick should knock it off balance. Don’t go anywhere near its body, though: that energy could be dangerous.”

“You got it!”

“Fluttershy and Rarity. Evacuate the surrounding houses so nopony gets hurt.”

“Have it done in a thrice!”

“Pinky Pie!”

“You know, I could take care of this all by myself in a jiffy.”

Everypony stared at her. Pinkie Pie was still sitting at the table, calmly filing her hoof.

“...What?”

She examined her front hoof. “This is the worst run of artificial bad-luck I’ve ever seen. It’s obviously the work of an amateur. A real expert could have this cleaned up in no time at all.”

“But... but we’ve gotta...” Twilight looked at her friends, then back at the spindly metal insect. “You can’t possibly—”

Pinkie Pie squinted at her. “You promised.”

Twilight swallowed, and sat back down. “Pinkie Pie, if you could... if there’s any way to fix this... please?”

Pinkie Pie took out a big, cardboard loudspeaker. “Hey, you over there! You overgrown stick-insect!”

The machine paused. It had no obvious front or back, but it seemed to notice her.

“Yeah, that’s right! Lemme ask ya something: what’s better? Machines, or ponies?”

Twilight’s flat, metallic voice boomed over the rooftops. “Ponies are imperfect. Inferior. Machines are incapable of flaws. Machines are superior.”

“Really? They're superior in every way?”

“Affirmative.”

“Then why don’t we prove it? Let’s have a contest!”

“What is the nature of this contest?”

“If machines are superior to ponies, then it won’t matter what I pick. You’ll still win.”

The ground trembled as the machine stomped towards them. “I accept. What is the nature of this contest? Mathematics? Logical problem solving? Athletic competition? A chess game?”

“A pickled onion eating contest!”

“What!?” Dash said. “You can’t expect me to go up against that thing!”

Pinkie Pie rolled her eyes. “You won’t have to. Just let me handle this.”

The slender machine stopped next to their table, looming overhead. “I accept. Let this challenge begin.”

“Sure thing!” Pinkie Pie waited as the Waiter came back with two huge jars of red onions steeped in vinegar. “Whoever can drink the most jars, wins!”

A flexible metal cord dropped from the body of the device and snaked around the jar. It lifted it up, popped off the lid, and dumped the contents into itself. It immediately sparked and spritzed as the gooey liquid spilled into its delicate internal components.

“Mal... malf... m-m-m-m-m-maaaaaaa... internal error detected!” The machine swayed back and forth, wildly out of control. “What... have you... done! Primary anti-spell field: disabled. Absolute... fail-safe... failing!”

The spherical barrier around its body flickered and faded. Twilight lowered her head and her horn burst with light. The air around the device’s body rippled and distorted, and a jet-black hole appeared around it: a spherical emptiness in reality itself, filled with starry points of light.

The hole sucked in on itself with an explosion of force, and the device’s central body vanished into nothingness. Its six legs fell away, clattering to the ground and bouncing harmlessly off nearby rooftops.

Rarity stared in awe as the hole in reality closed itself. “How did you do that?”

“Another random wink.” Twilight cast her eyes down. “I had to act fast, while its spell-shield was down. It was all I could think of.”

“Should you really be—”

“Well, what do you expect? Ponyville and my friends were in terrible danger. It was all I could think of. End of story.”

“But where did it go? What if somepony—”

Twilight rolled her eyes. “Would you all quit complaining, already? It could be anywhere in the entire galaxy. It’s probably floating around in deep space or something.”

Gilda the griffon streaked through the skyway of Cloudesdale’s largest racetrack, side by side with the other competitors. The rush of the air and the roar of the crowd melded into one constant sound, like the crashing of an ocean wave. The track ahead of her was empty space, framed by two slender stripes of cloud.

Come on, Gilda... you can do this!

It was the first time that a non-pegasus had been allowed to compete in the Grand Canterlot Cup. The rules didn’t explicitly state that only Pegasus could enter, but the odds were certainly stacked in their favor. It required a balanced mix of strength, speed and agility. Griffons were fast, yes, and could perform incredibly tight maneuvers... but not at the same time. And in terms of endurance, pegasus had an overwhelming advantage. This race rewarded not only versatility, but a level head and cool control... something griffons were not renowned for.

You can do this, Gilda... you can prove that a griffon can hold her own against the best pegasus in Equestria! Show them how much you’ve grown! How much you’ve improved! She clenched her beak and pushed ahead. Prove it to yourself. Prove it... to her!

She thought back to their days at the academy, training together. She’d learned so much from her. She’d remembered those days, and the simple joy she’d felt... and it was her memory of her old friend that had pushed her to achieve. The anger cooled off. The arrogance faded away. All that was left was the all-consuming need to improve. Not to be the best, but simply to be.

Slowly but surely, she pulled ahead of the pack. The crowd gasped as she came neck-and-neck with Spitfire: the race’s reigning champion for five years running.

You’re doing your best, Spitfire... and so am I! Let’s see who’s really the greatest!

There was no anger. No sarcasm. She genuinely wanted to know.

Without warning, something yanked Spitfire back. By the time Gilda glanced at her, she was in last place. A broken chunk of a cake-batter mixing appliance had tangled in her tail, hopelessly weighing her down.

“Bwa-ha-ha!” Gilda struggled to keep her laughter from disrupting her balance. “You just had to have some cake, huh? No wonder you’re so pudgy! Or did you think this was a baking contest?”

Gilda glanced back and realized the rest of the racers had slowed to help the hindered contestant. Most of them were glaring at Gilda.

She slowed to a halt and flew back to them. “I... I didn’t mean to...!”

Another racer, Peppermint Crunch, glared at her. “You should worry a little less about winning, and a little more about being a good sport. And here we thought you were getting better!”

“I’m so sorry! It was just a little trash-talking, that’s all! Nothing personal!”

“Relax, Gilda!” Spitfire said with a smile. “I’m fine. Though I sure could use a pair of scissors.”

“That’s... that’s cool. As long as everybody’s fine, that’s all that matters.” Gilda wrung her talons together. “Hey, can we restart the race from the beginning? It would make things fair for Spitfire.”

“And why should we give you a second try?” Starsong called out. “For all we know, this was your fault.”

“Hey, yeah!” Another racer said. “Spitfire was totally winning until that thing tangled her up. Maybe it was a trap!”

“Yeah,” said Peppermint Crunch, “it sounds like something a griffon would do.”

Gilda glanced about helplessly as the racers crowded around her. Her eyes glistened as the accusations flew like arrows.

“Hey, you!” Spitfire flew in their faces and pushed them back. “Gilda’s a lot of things, but she’s never once cheated. There’s no reason to think this was her fault.”

Gilda set a clawed hand on Spitfire’s shoulder. “No, Spitfire. It’s cool. If they want me to bow out, then... I will. I don’t want to cause any trouble.”

“Don’t give in to all that racist talk, Gilda. This event isn’t just for ponies.” Spitfire turned to the others. “And if Gilda isn’t allowed to compete, then I won’t either.”

The others quieted down, chastised.

“That’s better,” said Spitfire. “What about it, Gilda? Ready to make history?”

Gilda gave her a wide smile. “It’d be—”

A massive cauldron slammed into Gilda from above and she plummeted through the air, feathers hopelessly tangled in the giant cook-pot’s internal machinery. She struck the ground hard, leaving a crater in the dirt.

When she awoke, both her wings were badly sprained. She staggered to her feet and held her head, waiting for her vision to clear. She looked down at the broken cauldron.

“What the heck? Where did you come from?”

She flinched as the lights on the device flickered. “H-h-hello, I am the Absolute Fails-s-s-s-s-s... internal error detect-t-t-t-t... please contact my creator for regularly scheduled maintenance.”

“Creator?” She grabbed the cast iron cauldron and hauled it onto its side. “Who made you? Who sent you? Answer me, you hunk of junk!”

“T-t-t-twilight ssssssssss.... I was created by Twilight Sparkle, for the purpose of... would you like me to sing a song?” The machine sputtered, and it’s lights died out. A chunk of batter-mixing machinery fell to the ground and whirred for a moment “...There really was a c-c-c-c-cake...”

Gilda stepped back as the device died out.

Twilight Sparkle did this?

Gilda reared up on her hind legs and roared with the fury of a lion. “I’ll get you good for this, Twilight Sparkle! You’ll pay for this if it’s the last thing I do! You hear me? You’ll pay!”

She clenched her teeth and gasped for breath a few times. At last, she dropped to all fours. She took out a small day-planner and jotted something down.

Note to self: Find out who the heck ‘Twilight Sparkle’ is. Sounds like a pony name. Then find out where she lives and exact terrible revenge.

Twilight stared at the six spindly metal legs. They were all that remained of the device.

She turned back to Pinkie Pie. “How? Just... how?”

“Well, I saw that you built it by using parts from my old mixing machine: the Better Batter Beater. I made it myself, so I knew the device wasn’t completely liquid proof. Or pickled onion proof.”

Twilight looked back at the legs. “But that still doesn’t explain everything that happened. That thing was just a big cauldron with some pinball-machine parts glued on.”

“But you also used my Better Batter Beater. That probably did it, since I built it using parts from that miniature ‘large hadron collider’ you threw out last month. And come to think of it, you used my disco ball too... I built that out of recycled parts from your old analytical engine, with a couple of vacuum tubes and capacitors thrown in.”

“You what!?” Twilight said. “That was dangerous equipment! I never would have let you run off with any of it!”

Pinkie Pie shrugged. “I asked. You said it was okay.”

“I... I did!?”

“Sure! Don’t you remember?”

Twilight sat at her desk in the main hall of the library, quietly composing her grocery list for the week.

I should probably get some more baking soda. I used up most of it teaching the Cutie Mark Crusaders how to make model volcanos. But what if I actually need it for baking, this time? Twilight pursed her lips. Really, though. When am I ever going to do baking?

“Hey Twilight!” Pinkie Pie said as she burst in through the front door. “Could I—”

“Sure,” Twilight said without looking up, “take whatever you need.”

“Okie dokie!”

Twilight focused on her list as Pinkie Pie ran off. Definitely more baking soda.

Twilight stared at Pinkie Pie. “From the kitchen! I meant you could take whatever you wanted from the kitchen!”

“That’s kinda dumb,” Pinkie Pie said. “Why would I borrow something from your kitchen? I live in the attic of a bakery.”

Twilight sat back down and slumped on the table.

“Hey, everypony!” said Pinkie Pie. “Who wants to go to my place for s’mores?”

Twilight ignored the energetic round of applause. She kept her head down until they finished walking away. When she looked up, Applejack was sitting across from her.

“Here. Drive this into ya.” She pushed a sandwich across the table, towards her. “You’ve been runnin’ around like crazy for days now. Might wanna keep your energy up.”

Twilight stared at the sandwich, and took a tiny bite.

“Hey... they have these in Canterlot,” she sighed. “I kinda miss it, actually.”

“I figured that. I know you’re happy here, but I know what it’s like to be homesick. Listen, Twi. I know this is important to you. And I’m not gonna ask you to stop, but could you maybe rein it in a little?”

“I wish I could,” she said between bites, “but it’s for the Princess. I can’t stand the thought of giving it anything less than my best effort.”

“Sounds like something Rainbow Dash would say.” Applejack leaned closer. “I’m sorry I can’t help you, Twi. Really. Everypony else was full of good ideas... even if they didn’t work out.”

“Don’t worry, Applejack. You’ve got nothing to feel bad about.”

“It just burns me up inside that I can’t do nuthin’ to help you.” She looked away and sighed. “I’m not exactly the smartest pony there ever was.”

They sat at the table for while, eating. Twilight stopped mid chew and stared at Applejack.

“That’s right. You’re not the smartest pony there ever was.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

“In fact,” Twilight said, “You’re not nearly as intelligent as I am.”

“That’s pretty common knowledge. Why?”

Applejack’s eyes bugged as Twilight grabbed her head and pulled her close. “So much ignorance... so much innocent, simplistic nescience, concentrated in a single head!”

“Uh... Twi?”

Twilight gave her forehead a gentle, affectionate pat. “If only... if only we could put that lack of enlightenment to proper use!”

Applejack pulled her head back. “Twilight? You’re gettin’ kinda creepy there.”

“I think you can help me, after all.” Twilight grinned at her, eyes twitching. “What do you say?”

“Wha? Really?” Applejack grinned back at her. “Why, that’d be darn skippy! I don’t know why anypony wouldn’t want to help a friend in need!”

Of course you don’t. Twilight grinned at her friend, hungrily. But you will soon!

Next Chapter: %i%: Twilight changes Applejack’s... mind. Heh. Hehe! MUHAHA*snrk*HAHA! Estimated time remaining: 7 Hours, 53 Minutes