The city of Las Pegasus opens up like a gilded rose, every petal promising grander riches, more spectacular thrills, and unique possibilities available nowhere else. All a sham, of course, as phony as the pyrite gilding the bridges and walkways that snake from one island in the clouds to another like stems and poorly concealed thorns. The landing pad is not the largest, and certainly not the most splendid, but it is the one that Trixie trusts the most. After all, sinking through the ground after your very first step would hardly hook a pony for long.

Trees stand alone as if they too are spectacles, providing a touch of shade and a splash of green but never enough cover to block the gaudy sight of the next flamboyant attraction, or to shroud a themed hotel to the point of anonymity. And such locations abound: a pink castle oddly reminiscent of Twilight’s School of Friendship, a casino garbed as chess pieces facing off on a checkerboard (and the buildings do move about over the course of the night!), and a thick facsimile of Seaddle’s Space Stylus that towers above everything but the looping track of the Wild Blue Yonder. Gladmane’s, their destination and the home of said Wild Blue Yonder, is the farthest one on this cumulus: a hatted hotel sculpted in the shape of the founder, a giant ponyloaf pony with amethyst windows along the sides and sapphire bands around the lifted hooves.

Trixie hops down onto the well-trod grass with a practiced ease, her starry cloak billowing behind her. Home! She feels a surge course through her at just the thought of seeing the sights again, and her old friends. (How much older? She doesn’t want to ponder her extended absence.) She flips her wind-brushed mane back, glad she got tips from Rarity on maintaining and restoring her natural sheen with minimal effort. She barely needs to touch it up before they hit the town; while nopony might get kicked out for an unkempt appearance, she would certainly garner a number of unwelcome glances were she not looking her best. And Trixie never fails to look her best.

Applejack gives the grass a tentative touch before gingerly stepping down. She wants to trust her hooves underneath her, but she bets she could toss a suitcase over the poofy edge from where she is standing. Her mind tells her that it is safe, that there are plenty of other ponies plodding along, but it’s hard to convince her gut - a lot like when Twilight Sparkle cast her cloudwalking spell when they toured Cloudsdale. It would be a long, long way down, then much like now: she can see the rescue pegasi on standby, watching like griffons for any grandmare to trip and tumble off a platform, and she’d hate to have to use their services.

The noise isn’t as bad as Big Mac made it out to be. It’s worse. Far worse. It takes her a moment to acclimate to the constant thrum of street musicians serenading passers-by, the synthesized tunes blaring from every restaurant packed for dinner, and the voices and hooves of those traveling the crowded streets. They all blend together into a horrible cacophony, with none of the harmony Pinkie Pie so expertly twines when she plays a dozen instruments at once.

The grandmares plod along behind Trixie, each familiar with the springy surface and chattering amongst themselves as they amble along, their loud conversation sounding like they’ve had it at least a dozen times before.

“How ‘bout,” Granny Smith ventures, ”a trot down the avenue to see the sights, girls?”

“Forget the sights!” Goldie Delicious exclaims, cracking her neck first one way and then the other. “I came here to play some serious horseshoe toss!”

“Remember the time we spent the whole night splashing in the Rainbow Fountains?” Apple Rose reminisces as they pass a spectacular water show, dozens of jets shooting sprays of brilliant color. It turns to a multicolored mist as it dissipates, leaving them lightly sprinkled. “They’re so magical!”

Auntie Applesauce laughs off the story. “My pores are cryin’ for a mud mask at the Prism Palace Spa! Gotta look my best when we get invited onto Big Bucks’ stage!”

Trixie’s easygoing grin locks at the mention of her sire’s longtime partner, her hooves coming to a stop while the other mares amble on. He’s not the issue, but the reminder of why they came here keeps her legs from working. She doesn’t want to return a disappointment, and what does she have to show for her time away from home?

“Ah guess Ah’m gettin’ stuck with the luggage?” Applejack calls from behind, to no avail. Cherry Berry finishes unloading the balloon and reboards, already being waved to fly it off the prime landing spot. There isn’t a wagon in sight, and she’s not sure how the grandmares managed to pack as much as Rarity. Okay, it ain’t that bad, but at four bags apiece (she packed only one) and all different sizes? It’s the kind of logistical Nightmare she would gladly shove Pomarbo’s way.

“Here, let me help.”

Applejack glances up at the suave voice. A tan pegasus stallion has separated from a group of two giggling concierge mares. He stands a respectful distance away, his easy-going grin making her swoon almost as much as his toned, glittering flanks with a cutie mark of a dark brown cylindrical suitcase being shoved between two red roll-arounds. The strapping stallion fills his crimson bell-hop outfit, embossed in gold with black cuffs. “S-sure,” she stammers, blaming her swaying on the spongy surface. “Ah’m Applejack.”

“Package Pusher.” Without a hint of complaint he locates the large chest full of what must be Apple Rose’s bricks and uses one wing to pack it straight onto his sturdy back. Applejack should stop him, offer to take at least her share of the load, but she finds it too fascinating to watch one suitcase after another get piled on top of the gregarious stallion. “Gladmane’s?”

“Eeyup.” Applejack again finds herself impressed by the stallion’s quick pace and steadfast attitude. She has to remind herself of their reason for being there, and not focus on what must be an illusion of the dark brown cylinder squeezing between the two red suitcases before pulling out, repeated every time he dips down to grab another item. Is she getting dizzy? It must be the altitude. “Hey, y’all heard about anypony havin’, Ah dunno, some sorta Friendship problem?”

Package Pusher chuckles, deep and soothing. “Ma’am, lots of ponies ‘round these parts need a friend.” He winks at her. “You lookin’?”

Applejack might have snorted if she didn’t find the offer so tempting, only trusting herself to shake her head no.

“Suit-case yourself.” Her refusal rolls off his back, unlike any of the suitcases, and he easily outpaces her as he trots to Gladmane’s resort.

“Oh, my,” Auntie Applesauce comments as the stallion strolls past her. “You are a strong pony. Aren’t you, sugarhocks?”

She gets a smooth smile in reply, enough to send the other grandmares chittering. “Only the best of the best for our favorite guests. Which, of course, means you lovely mares.”

Auntie Applesauce giggles as he dips his head, fanning herself like a filly. “Why, thank you a bushel and a peck, you scrumptious morsel of frosted carrot cake.”

Package Pusher tips his hat. “Thank you, Ma’am.”

“I think he was sweet on me,” Auntie Applesauce comments as the concierge pulls away, coming off as dutiful instead of rude. Her grin widens; she whispers, “Maybe I should ask him to accompany me to the magic show tonight.”

Granny Smith laughs off the suggestion. “You sure your name isn’t Apple Saucey? Better find the brakes on that buggy, sugar, we just got here!”

“You’re right,” Auntie Applesauce concedes with a conspiratorial look at the other attendants waiting for the next passengers to arrive. “Better see what else is out there first. The day is young, and I am not!”

Another balloon arrives at the platform, carrying a pair of well-to-do earth pony stallions. The two concierge mares, all smiles and swishing hips, keep the pair’s attention so well they miss their step and tumble down. Applejack rolls her eyes, lest she get caught up in the stallions’ unabashed ogling, and sets off.

She pulls next to Trixie, the unicorn still lost in thought. She deftly pushes her out of the way into a shaded alcove, lest they get trampled by a huge pack of recently disgorged tourists in their haste to see the sights. Frankly, she’s surprised it hasn’t happened already. “Ah’m gonna go make sure our bags get put away right,” she informs, a quick nudge getting Trixie to pay attention. Ostensibly. “An’ see if’n Ah can’t find out why we was sent to this…” She looks around at the bright and glittering exteriors, all specially engineered to keep foolponies inside and unawares as bits slip from their frogs. She wants to call it a ‘Celestia-forsaken wasteland’, but after seeing how many ponies prefer the facade? “...Paradise.”

“Oh?” Trixie waggles her eyebrows, heavily implying that Applejack merely wants to chase Package Pusher.

Applejack seethes. “It ain’t like that,” she spits out as though she could quell Trixie’s implication with just a glare. “Look, we gotta figure out why we came here. We’ll cover more ground if we split up. You wanna cover the hotel? Fine.” Applejack grimaces at the thought of going to the many unfamiliar locations. Still, she can’t let her reservations keep her from doing her duty. “That’s where Granny Smith an’ the rest of the Gold Horseshoe Gals’re goin’, anyways.”

Trixie brushes her mane back as though the location doesn’t bother her at all.

“An’,” Applejack continues before Trixie can make some glib remark, “you remember all them things those grannies ain’t supposed to be doin’, right?” Her glare narrows at Trixie’s nonchalance. “Right?”

Trixie gives a plastered-on smile and answers with a sing-song insolence Applejack would never have allowed if it came from Pomarbo. “Naps, soft food, careful when dancing, don’t get excited. Keep them in my sight.” She grins even further. “Did I forget anything?”

Applejack huffs. “No,” she reluctantly concedes.

“Then the Observant and Scrupulous Trixie must make sure to keep those rascals under her watchful eye.” Trixie winks before slipping into the fast flow of traffic with a practiced ease, leaving Applejack wondering how to do the same without bumping somepony sidelong and off the edge. The showmare quickly catches up to the grandmares stretching outside Gladmane’s, eager to check the first item off their list.

Applejack regards the steady flow of traffic with a dour gaze. Well, she has to start somewhere. Might as well be the closest hotel, the chess piece shaped buildings ready to rumble while dozens of wizened mares and fresh-faced fillies battle it out for the top two positions, the soon-to-be headliners of tonight’s game. She judges the gap between the two platforms; it’s only separated by a ponylength of cloud, but she won’t get a running start. Well, she hasn’t been practicing her rodeo skills for nothing, and makes the leap rather than squeeze her way into traffic.

She studies each face in turn, but trying to find a pony out of place is like trying to find one of Doug’s ham-burgers among the hay-burgers. Downright difficult without using her nose, and trying to isolate a single whiff here is next to impossible. Everypony has a look of cheer, of gleefulness, chasing an ephemeral giddiness as though permanent joy might be lurking just around the corner.

Except for those two unicorn stallions. Applejack frowns at the blue and white pinstripe suits, the yellow coats with sliced apples, the slicked-back red and white manes hidden under straw hats. Flim and Flam. What are those two charlatans doing here?

Next Chapter: Ch. 158 - Mutated Growth, Part Four Estimated time remaining: 7 Hours, 8 Minutes