The truth was, Scootaloo's parents just didn't care about her. Everypony in Cloudsdale could see it - it was in the way they spoke (or didn't speak) to her, the way they were always forgetting her and leaving her places, and especially in the way they liked to tell all the neighbours that they didn't care about her.

But what happened in that family was nopony's business but their own, so although the blatant disinterest from her parents in their own daughter was a little alarming, nopony did anything about it. For the most part, the neighbours either assumed that somepony else would deal with it or that it would just work itself out somehow. As it was, they refrained from ever mentioning it out of a misguided sense of politeness, her mother and father continued to regret her birth and pretend she didn't exist, and Scootaloo herself never realized anything was wrong.

When her family finally left Cloudsdale and moved to Ponyville for some reason, nopony said anything: yet they all privately agreed that it was a relief. It would be much easier to ignore that nagging feeling that they should've done something about if it the family in question didn't actually live there anymore. Without the perpetual shadow of dysfunction hanging over their fair city, the pegasi of Cloudsdale could finally get on with their lives.

But Scootaloo was still just a filly, too young to understand the looks of hesitant sympathy she used to get from the neighbours back home. If she'd ever realized how wrong her upbringing had been, she might have sought help on her own or even run away. Instead, she stuck with her parents all throughout the move, convinced that all those times they'd forgotten to feed her or left her stranded on stray clouds were either simple accidents or gentle pushes towards self-sufficiency.

And so, when she was frightened, she turned to her parents for comfort, like any other filly.

-----

It was a cold night in early fall, shortly after they'd moved to Ponyville.

"Mom?" Scootaloo asked, peering through the shadowy doorway and into her parent's bedroom. Aside from the silvery moonlight pouring through a crack in the curtains, it was completely dark, and all she could see of her mother was the silhouette of a shapeless lump on the bed. "I heard a noise."

"Mommy's ignoring you, honey," came the dreamy response, partially muffled by the blankets her mother had piled on top of her. "Go bother your father. He's in his study."

Scootaloo knew better than to push her mother's patience when she was still in the throes of her antidepressants, and so, quietly slunk away.

The house seemed especially empty and silent that night, particularly because she was the only one still awake and wandering. Her every hoofstep seemed to echo throughout the seemingly-vast hallways. It felt like it would be a very easy thing indeed for her to make a wrong turn and get lost. She tried to ignore the little twinge of fear in her stomach, swallowing the sudden lump in her throat.

Scootaloo prided herself on being fearless, and if anypony ever found out that she was still scared of the dark, she'd be done for. So she refused to scream or cry out, even when a sudden crash came out of nowhere and made her jump. Instead, she tightened her grip on her stuffed Wonderbolts doll. Another secret that she prayed nopony else ever found out about.

"C'mon, Spitfire," Scootaloo whispered to her companion. "Dad'll help us."

The blank face of the doll offered no comfort, but she tried imagining Spitfire telling her "Yeah!" or "You rock, kid!" in encouragement all the same.

When she reached her father's study, the door was already cracked open. She slowly pushed it open. It gave a long, low creeeeak.

"Dad, I heard noises," she said, peeking in at him. "I'm scared."

Her father was seated at a desk that was completely bare of any tools or office supplies in a room that had no light to see by but what was offered by the flickering bulb of the desk lamp. He was resting his head on his hooves, breathing deeply. In, and out. In, and out. Slow and steady and ...

"Dad?"

"Scootaloo, we just moved here," he answered tersely, not looking up. "You're just not used to the sounds of our new home."

Suddenly, he slammed his hooves on the desk, lifting his head. She might have imagined it, but Scootaloo thought for a moment that she saw one of his ears twitch.

"I'm busy right now. Working." He spat, still not turning around. "That's all I do now. I have to work to keep you alive.To feed you. I haven't smiled once since you were born. Go to sleep."

"But I can't!" Scootaloo wailed, voice cracking shamefully high. "I don't have curtains on my windows and it feels like things are watching me! Please, dad, it's scary here, and I hear sounds!"

"Your presence tires me," he said abruptly, cutting her off. "Go to your room and stay quiet, or the things will hear you."

"But - "

"Go to sleep."

Scootaloo squeezed her Spitfire doll even closer. For a moment, she could feel her lips twitch while her eyes stung with the threat of imminent tears,  but she didn't say anything. She only bowed her head, mumbling "okay" before leaving.

It felt like it took hours to make it back to her room. When she finally did, she kicked the door open with a frustrated sigh.

"Here we are, Spitfire," she mumbled. Maybe she was too old to be talking to her foalhood toys, but on nights like this, it offered a tiny bit of the comfort that she couldn't find elsewhere.

Then she froze.

The window in her room had been broken. Hundreds of shards of glass littered the floor, glinting softly in the moonlight. The hole was huge and jagged, as though something had come crashing through and hadn't had time to stop; the draft coming through made her shiver.

For a moment, Scootaloo was silent.

"Mommy," she squeaked.

And then, there was an enormous smashing sound - like rattling, breaking glass - and Scootaloo shrieked, her tiny wings flapping furiously in panic.

"The bathroom!" Scootaloo whispered to her toy once she'd regained some semblance of self-control. She glanced down the dimly lit corridor the sounds were coming from, trying to see if she could catch a glimpse of whatever was making the noise. "There's something in the bathroom!"

As she drew nearer, the sounds of rattling and clanking grew louder. Her entire body shook in fear as her tail swished back and forth nervously.

"I gotta be brave!" she hissed, looking down at Spitfire for encouragement. "I gotta protect mom and dad!"

You can do it, kid! she imagined Spitfire saying in response. You're awesome! I've got your back!

"Yeah, I can totally do this," Scootaloo answered, nodding fiercely. "You're right! ... huh?"

Spitfire was saying something else now.

"What? No, you're wrong. They're not bad ponies. They love me. They don't really mean it when they tell me to get kidnapped."

Spitfire only stared on straight ahead, nothing but judgement reflected in her plastic goggles. Scootaloo frowned at her sternly before a sudden crash jolted her back into reality, and she squeaked in surprise.

But she had to be brave. A hero.

Taking a deep breath, she mustered all of her strength and bucked the door as hard as she could. Maybe the robber or whatever would be so afraid of this terrifying show of strength that he'd have already started running and would be gone before Scootaloo had to say a single word.

The sounds continued uninterrupted.

Scootaloo swallowed her fear and peeked inside.

Her breath hitched.

Sitting amongst the ruins of their brand-new bathroom was a bright pink pony, rummaging through the cabinet over the sink with a noisy clatter. The cabinet doors hung on their hinges, having apparently been swung open with great gusto, and piles of discarded bottles and boxes were scattered on the ground all around her.

When she heard Scootaloo enter, she whipped her head around, revealing a face framed in masses of curly pink hair and contorted in fury.

"WHERE THE BUCK IS THE BACTINE?!" she screeched.

Scootaloo yelped and leapt back, dropping Spitfire. The toy bounced on the ground with a little plastic squeak.

Although the pink pony was breathing as heavily as an enraged bull, she seemed to collect herself the moment her eyes fell on the cowering filly. "Oh, hi, there!" she cried, face breaking out in an enormous smile. In a flash she was at Scootaloo's side, grinning maniacally, blue eyes shining. "My name's Pinkamena Diane Pie, but you can call me Pinkie! What's your name?"  

"S-Scoot-" Scootaloo stammered, now backed up against the wall by the pink pony's enormous, staring eyes.

"Scoots, huh? That's a funny name. Like a scooter! Do you have a scooter? I don't, but I have a unicycle, which is almost the same thing. Have you ever been to a circus? Oh, yeah, where do you keep the Bactine? Some of this blood's mine, y'know - oh, wait, here it is!"

The older pony skipped to the cupboard and dug through the shelves for a moment before pulling her head out, bottle balanced on her nose, and hummed happily as she began to tip the contents all over herself. Stunned into silence, Scootaloo could only watch. Pinkie's pretty pink coat and mane were covered in rust-coloured stains, cuts, and bruises, and yet she had such energy in her voice when she spoke - as though she didn't even feel them.

"Wowie-zowie!" Pinkie cried after the bottle was empty. It fell to the ground, forgotten. Her hair was soaked, causing it to hang limply around her face, and little drops of the antiseptic began to gather in a puddle around her hooves. "That last one really put up a fight! Scraped me up like a big ol' ... scrapy thing! Or maybe a cat, after the cat had, like, a million tons of sugar!" she giggled. "You take it from your Auntie Pinkie Pie here, though, kiddo. Nothing brings out the zest for life in a pony like the thought of their impending death!"

Scootaloo's eyes widened in horror. Pinkie had seemingly materialized a knife out of thing air, which she was now precariously balancing by the handle on her snout.

"Looks like you know what I'm talking about!" Pinkie continued conversationally, grinning, oblivious to Scootaloo's fear. With a little upward flick off her nose, the knife was tossed gracefully in the air, spinning once before she caught it neatly between her teeth: and then it was gone, vanished into some pocket of hammerspace.

Pinkie whipped around to smile at Scootaloo, eyes huge and happy, when her eyes fell on the Spitfire toy lying abandoned on the ground. "Hey!" she cried, springing forward to examine it. "Who's your friend here?"

"Um, that's my Wonderbolts toy, Spitfire." Scootaloo answered hesitantly, gesturing nervously with a hoof.

"Why, hello there, Spitfire!" Pinkie Pie bubbled, nosing the doll on the ground. "Nice to meet you! I'm Pinkie Pie! So, you're Scoots little friend, huh? Wow, I can see why she likes you! You must be pret-t-ty cool to have a friend like her! You have that awesome uniform and wings and everything! Pegasi are so cool!"

Scootaloo was still backed against the wall when Pinkie began to chat with the doll,  yet she felt her mouth curve upwards into a smile all the same. Not because Pinkie was making her feel especially at ease, but because of how surreal the whole scene was. Even though she was covered in blood and wounds, Pinkie still managed to come across as almost bizarrely sweet and happy, rendered incoherent in her eagerness, and Scootaloo couldn't help but begin to feel her earlier fear subside.

"Huh? What's that, Spitfire?" Pinkie asked curiously, cocking her head as though listening carefully to something the doll was telling her. "Mm, hmmm, yeeess. Hmm? Yeah, really? Uh huh, okaaay. What? Hmm. Well, BUCK YOU, PEGASUS! YOU'RE LYING! LYING!"

And suddenly she was screeching and stomping the toy, face once again twisted from pure, unbridled anger. Scootaloo looked on in shocked silence as Pinkie Pie once more whipped a knife out of nowhere.

"Stuffied with pure nastiness, you mean, lint-infested LOSER!" Pinkie spat, glaring at the toy with utter hatred in her eyes, Scootaloo completely forgotten. Her mane was beginning to dry, but any signs of her former curls were gone, leaving only two razor-sharp sheets of hair framing her face. "How many more like you are there?! How many more?! You can't even imagine the things I've endured, and always at the hooves of jerks like you! YOU DON'T KNOW THE TRUTH!"

In a swift motion she brought down the knife, piercing the soft cloth body, then again and again and again and again, until nothing remained of the doll but the shredded remains of fabric and stuffing.

"Oh!" Pinkie Pie cried as realization dawned over her. She slowly pulled away. Her hair began to wave almost imperceptibly, as if it had been waiting for this shift in mood to use as permission to change again. "Um ... I should probably go home now. It's getting late. But come on, you can come with me! Let's go!"

A spring in her step, Pinkie literally hopped out the door, knife once again nowhere to be seen. Casting one last glance behind her at the ruined toy and destroyed bathroom, Scootaloo reluctantly followed.

"Sorry about the window!" Pinkie Pie called, shooting Sctooaloo an apologetic grin once they were back in her bedroom. "I noticed it was locked. You probably shouldn't do that anymore. Thanks for the disinfectant! I bet that I'll get all better really quick thanks to that stuff!"

She tensed to spring, preparing to leap through the broken window back the way she'd presumably arrived.

Then she slowly swivelled her neck to give Scootaloo once last smile, this one with a hint of menace in it.

"Don't worry," Pinkie said sweetly. "We'll see each other again soon. I still have to throw you a welcoming party - after all, we're neighbours now!"

And then, with surprising grace for a pony of her plump build, she leapt out the hole.

Scootaloo flew to the window and watched Pinkie trot away, her pink hooves clopping against the cobblestone street as she headed for the bakery in the distance before disappearing completely in the night.

Scootaloo blinked.

It took a moment for the shock to wear off. And when it did, the reality of what had just happened hit her all at once, finally sinking in.

"MOMMY! DADDY!" she howled.

"I don't hear you, honey," came her mother's sleepy, drug-addled voice.

"You ruined my life!" her father bellowed.

Scootaloo did not sleep well that night.