Down-on-her-luck Trixie


                                            >"So, all Trixie has to do is put that... thing in her mouth and you'll give her food, right?"

                                            "Wait, food? You're not doing this for money?"

                                            >She sniffles. "A-At least a sandwich."

                                            >You hastily pull your pants up and redo your belt.

                                            "Fuck, no..."

                                            >"Okay!" she cries out in desperation. "Half a sandwich! Just a bite! Anything, please!"

                                            "No, Trixie, I'm not trying to take advantage of a starving mare. I just thought you were looking to make some bits on the side."

                                            >Still blubbering, she wipes away her tears. Now that you get a closer look, she's pretty thin. You've never seen an underweight mare before.

                                            "Come inside, out of that rain. I'm going to make you a hot meal."

                                            >"No tricks?" she asks, doubtfully.

                                            "No. Come on."

                                            >Cautiously, she follows you into your home, exhaling a sigh of relief when met by the warmth of your crackling fireplace.

                                            >She's shivering, the poor thing. It's pouring outside, and she got completely drenched.

                                            >You dig through the closet and pull out your mother's old fleece blanket.

                                            >Bringing it over to her, you kneel down and wrap it around her.

                                            >"W-What's this?" she stammers, taken by surprise.

                                            "Shhh. You'll catch a cold."

                                            >Though initially tense, she acquiesces to your touch, allowing you to swaddle her in the blanket's soft embrace.

                                            >Her pale blue mane is dripping onto the hardwood floor, her trademark curl now just a wet lock of hair cascading down her face.

                                            "Sit by the hearth so you can dry up."

                                            >She obeys, but remains clearly baffled by the tender care you're extending.

                                            >You return to kitchen. A small pot of soup sits on the stove, simmering away in preparation for your supper.

                                            >But it looks like she could use it more.

                                            >You turn off the stove, pour the piping-hot broth into a bowl, and bring it over to the fireplace.

                                            >Setting it down in front of her, you take a seat on the rug across from her.

                                            "Here. Eat up."

                                            >She glances down at the bowl, then back to you. "Just like that? Trixie can have it... for free?"

                                            "Of course. No strings attached."

                                            >She attempts to withdraw a hoof from within the blanket to reach for the spoon, but struggles to get out of the swaddle. Suddenly feeling trapped, she cries out in fear and thrashes to get free.

                                            >Immediately, you lay your hands on her sides and reassuringly hold her in place.

                                            "Hey, hey, it's okay!"

                                            >This isn't normal. Something happened to her.

                                            "I'll feed you, alright? Just stay in the blanket, you're freezing cold."

                                            >She hesitantly nods as you lift a spoonful of soup up to her face. She looks down at it a moment before leaning in for a sip.

                                            >The moment her lips make contact, though, she winces in pain and recoils from the heat.

                                            "Shit, sorry."

                                            >You bring the spoon closer and blow gently to cool it down.

                                            >Satisfied when the thin wisps of steam dissipate, you offer it to her once more.

                                            >Again she leans in, this time more cautiously, and lightly grazes the utensil with her lips to test it. Once she's confident it's cooled, she tenderly sips the contents of the spoon.

                                            >You didn't think you'd spend tonight feeding soup to a starving pony wrapped in a blanket in front of the fireplace, but here you are.

                                            >Bringing another spoonful up and blowing on it, you ask the question on your mind.

                                            "How'd you get like this? "

                                            >She opens wide and eagerly gulps down the meal. "Though Great & Powerful, Trixie has fallen on hard times. After that humiliating debacle, nopony will pay to see my performances. And so it turns out my once-grand illusions... were simply delusions of grandeur."

                                            >Damn. She talks funny.

                                            "Still, isn't this like a welfare state or something?"

                                            >"Of course not! Everypony is expected to make a subsistence off their special talent." She pauses to swallow another spoonful. "What business is there for a failed magician?"

                                            >That's right, you keep forgetting Diversityquestria isn't canon. Hail neoliberalism.

                                            >"It's all thanks to that stuck-up Twilight Sparkle," she growls.

                                            "Ugh, don't get me started on her."

                                            >Trixie looks up with interest behind those sparkling eyes.

                                            "First she's like, oh cool, a new species for me to poke and prod in my basement under the guise of 'research'!"

                                            >You do your best imitation of her prissy voice.

                                            "And I'm just like, 'Who the hell are you? Give me my pants back!'"

                                            >Trixie snorts with laughter, amused by your impressions.

                                            "After a week of being forced to walk around that stupid treehouse without any pants, she says she 'has all the data she needs' and kicks me out."