Big Mac and Cheerilee


                                            > Seeing your neighbor outside wasn’t particularly unusual, even if said neighbor was a five-and-a-half foot tall bright red pony.

                                            > You’d gotten well enough used to that, and so seeing him around - out in the fields, harnessed up to his cart, or even taking the rare nap against one of the orchard’s apple trees.

                                            > But today, you spotted him when he suddenly broke from a crowd to dash through a good half-length of street.

                                            > That was unusual.

                                            > Big Mac was a big pony, not a fast pony.

                                            > Not that he couldn’t cover a good distance with his size alone, but Big Mac didn’t move fast.

                                            > Except now he did.

                                            > Curious, you slam your car’s door shut and head after him.

                                            > It’s… another pony?

                                            > Mare, purple, pinkish mane, green collar so one of the enslaved…

                                            > And Mac nuzzling her as hard as possible.

                                            > Huh.

                                            > Somepony he knew, you’re sure, but not any of the more famous faces you’re familiar with.

                                            > Also not a moment to interrupt, even if you’d love to hear what they’re saying as they embrace.

                                            > A whole lot was being said, it seems, but you’re far too distant to even hear half of what they are saying.

                                            > Soon the mare’s owner emerges from a store.

                                            > A curious look is shot at Mac, but no hostility - not from either party, though that hardly surprises you in Mac’s case.

                                            > That stallion had a mask on his emotions that sometimes seemed to be made of steel.

                                            > You knew he had to have thoughts on everything that’d happened to Equestria, but they were never discussed with you:

                                            > Neither protests of its conquest and humiliation, nor obsequious platitudes of thanks for mankind’s intervention amid its collapse.

                                            > Hell, you’d gathered his sister had been some kind of a bigshot before, even.

                                            > But now…

                                            > The mare’s owner unties her leash from the shiny new streetlight pole it’d been wrapped around and leads her off; Mac watches from a distance.

                                            > Stock still, tail held low, ears drooping but not pinned.

                                            > Whatever is going on behind those big green eyes hidden from you.

                                            > Then he turns too, heading the other way.

                                            > Your feet itch to go intervene, but now doesn’t seem right.

                                            > Not yet.

                                            > Not until later, when Mac is already packing up on his cart to haul it back to the acres do you step over.

                                            “Hey, Mac? You want a ride back? I can hitch your cart up, spare you the harness.”

                                            > Wide green eyes study you a moment, and that huge head slowly bobs in answer.

                                            > “...yeup.”

                                            > It wasn’t exactly a conventional trailer hitch, but you managed; Mac even helps as he can.

                                            > “You’ll ‘ave to drive slow.”

                                            “Don’t mind. You can hop in the front of the truck; let me know if I’m going too fast.”

                                            > But he doesn’t, even though you’re fairly sure the cart - a cobbled-together thing with the wheels of a John Deer, an Equestrian framework, and some springs from who knows where - wasn’t even meant for twenty miles an hour.

                                            > Instead he just stares.

                                            > Through the windshield, out the window, off into space - just staring.

                                            > No words (though, again, not unusual), no idea, not even a flick or twitch of his tail.

                                            > Not even when you pull off the cracked road and onto the cobbled path up to his acres.

                                            “Hey. We’re here.”

                                            > “Yup.”

                                            “Uh, I’ll let you off here, then, or you want me to go all the way up to your home?”

                                            > “...here’s fine.”

                                            > Another non-surprise.

                                            > Mac was… particular about his acres.

                                            > No humans allowed.

                                            > Not officially, of course, but unofficially - everyone gave the quiet giant of a stallion his room.

                                            > It was a point of pride, some personal victory, for Mac that he’d resisted and slipped out from under all attempts to put him in a collar and chains.

                                            > That victory began at the edge of what was still unquestionably his property.

                                            > That you’d had to remind him of it again…

                                            > A little more surprising.

                                            “Sure. Let me help you unhitch it.”

                                            > Not a word more was said, even as Mac harnessed himself and trotted off into his acres with his tail swishing, the sun low across the treetops.

                                            > Whoever that mare had been, it sure put something into his head.

                                            > …

                                            > You didn’t seem Mac for a couple days after that, except occasionally in the distance at work on his acres.

                                            > Hauling a cart, kicking trees, pulling weeds… but not leaving the town.

                                            > You pause from loading up the truck and take a long look, but whatever was eating him wasn’t going to reveal itself from this distance.

                                            > In fact, the next time you even saw Mac off his acres was well into the next day’s afternoon.

                                            > You had put your feet up after the day’s work, opened one of your beers - imports from Earth still being a rare and valuable thing - and were drinking the ache of hard work away.

                                            > Opening it finds Mac on your doorstep, eyes downcast and a basket filled with fresh and shiny apples at your door.

                                            “Uh… hey?”

                                            > “Brought y’a gift.”

                                            “Yeah, uh… thanks. Hey, you want to come in?”

                                            > He does, and sets the basket on your table before sitting opposite to you.

                                            > Ponies doing that always looked oddly cute, and Mac would too if it weren’t for how something seemed to physically hang on him with a great and terrible weight.

                                            “You, uh, you want a beer or something, Mac? You’re looking kind of down.”

                                            > “Nope. Cider’s better, an’ your beers taste funny.”

                                            “Same for yours.”

                                            > He shares a little grin, and even that is enough to make you grin too.

                                            > But the moment is passed all too soon, and again Big Mac seems entirely lost within his own mind.

                                            “Hey, uh, Mac… I don’t want to weigh on you too much, but you’re kind of worrying me here. Something’s got you lately…”

                                            > You thumb the pull tab on the can; how far should you go with this.

                                            “...is it about that pony you saw the other day in town? I, uh - I saw you get kind of broken up.”

                                            > One huge green eye turns to study you, and for a moment you feel that admitting you’d spied on him is too much.

                                            “...eeyup.”

                                            > But that reply had all of Mac’s typical even-headedness.

                                            > Simple, short, and to the point.

                                            > Mac was like a mountain in more ways than one:

                                            > Doesn’t beat around the bush, but heaven help anyone trying to move it.

                                            > Hell, you’d seen him face down chain gangers trying to find some worked-up charge to put him on.

                                            “You want to talk about it?”

                                            >”Not really.”

                                            > But not ‘no’ either.

                                            > And after a minute, Mac flicks an ear as if bothered by something.

                                            > “Wanna ask a favor.”

                                            “Well, I can always do what I can. Uh. If that makes sense. So, what is it?”

                                            > The huge stallion sucks down a breath, seeming to steel himself.

                                            > “Cheerilee. Ah want y’to buy her.”

                                            “You what?”

                                            > Mac lets his eyes fall shut, nostrils fluttering in a low snort.

                                            > His tail, long and the orange of fall leaves, swishes slowly.

                                            > “Y’been a good neighbor t’me, Anon. Don’t judge me. Don’t give me crap. And I see th’way you’re like that with most ponies. You’re good people, an’... Cheerilee’d be here. Close. Could see her. Know she’s good, and know you’re treatin’ her good even when she ain’t right there.”

                                            > For one thing, you’re pretty sure that’s the most words you’ve ever heard him speak consecutively; for another, what he’d actually said with those words…

                                            “I… wow. Mac, don’t get me wrong, that means a whole lot, but - but I don’t know if I have the money for that.”

                                            > “Y’have a home. An’ a business. Good business, I know how much y’charge for electricity.”

                                            “I have a bit of land, yeah, and a pond with a dam and a couple generators I bought with the government’s rebuilding act money. But I gotta pay that back eventually, and… c’mon, Mac. Look around-”

                                            > You gesture around to your home, with its rough-made fixtures, a couple dimly-glowing LED bulbs, and salvaged accouterments.

                                            “-do I look like I’m rich? C’mon.”

                                            > He does look, and as much as he hates to admit it, you can tell he is seeing the truth of your argument.

                                            > “...I’ll sell th’acres.”

                                            “Now we’re talking about your home, Mac. You can’t do that. You’ve fought tooth-and-hoof to keep anyone from taking your land away. You need that to keep making money.”

                                            > “No, I don’t. Acres ain’t meant for one pony. Meant for three to work it. But there ain’t three anymore. Lot of it’s just goin’ fallow.”

                                            > There was an undernote in his voice as he admitted that, and you can guess why.

                                            > Rumor was his family had been some kind of Equestrian bigshots - the kind that got swept up and hidden away somewhere on Earth when mankind rolled in.

                                            “Still, though. You can’t just give it all up-”

                                            > “Ah’ll sell m’self.”

                                            > Nearly spitting out the swig of beer you’d just taken, you bring up a hand to cover your mouth - and then realize that was the hand that’d been holding the can, now spilling out on the floor.

                                            “Oh, shit-”

                                            > “Ah’m sorry, ‘nonymous!”

                                            > Grabbing the can up, you cough a few times to clear your lungs and give Big Mac the sharpest of looks.

                                            “Don’t apologize, but hold up and run that one by me again. Because I’ve seen you run slavers right off your property, and so I’m 99% sure what I just heard was batshit insane. So what the hell is on about this now?”

                                            > “Ah’ll sell m’self. T’you.”

                                            > The words seem physically painful for him to admit.

                                            > “Sell m’self in, give you th’money. And th’acres too. And then I’ll work t’make it all back.”

                                            “Shit, Mac…”

                                            > “And if not you - if not you, then Ah’ll find some other human who’ll do it. Ah swear Ah will!”

                                            > His head was turned away from you, muzzle drooping to the floor along with his ears.

                                            > You reach a hand out to put a hand on the back of his neck, at the spot you knew ponies used when hugging each other.

                                            “Who the hell is she, Big Mac?”

                                            > His jaw works loosely a moment, words trying to find the right words to fit in it.

                                            > “Was… we were together for a bit. Cheerilee an’ I. That’s not why, though. She was a teacher. Taught m’little sis.”

                                            “This is the one who was, uh, the big hero-”

                                            > “Nope. Other one. Little, little sis. Applebloom. Should be ‘bout ten now. Cheerilee was there t’help her. Help us raise her, ‘cause our parents… weren’ there.”

                                            “And what am I going to do with her? I don’t have a school. I don’t have kids. Can she help out on the acres?”

                                            > “Doubt it. She’s an earth pony, but… not a farmer.”

                                            “Doesn’t have that magic, huh?”

                                            > “Nope. But Ah can help you work. I know y’hire ponies t’help you out on big jobs. Fixin’ the dam and stuff. An’ you do other buildin’ in town, with your power tools ‘cause you’ve got the electricity.”

                                            > You rub your chin; that was true, but if he was working there he wouldn’t be on the acres.

                                            > Then again, if you said no…

                                            > Upending the nearly-empty beer can, you drain the last few drops from the bottom.

                                            > Damn; you feel like you need more of that stuff now.

                                            > Ugh.

                                            “I can’t talk you out of this, can I?”

                                            > “Nope. She’s tough, but she ain’t a fighter. I’m afraid, ‘non. She goes to Earth, what happens to her…”

                                            “Can I think on it a couple days?”

                                            > “Nope. Asked ‘round. Her owner’s-”

                                            > The word is spat out as if it could be shattered against the floor.

                                            > “-just bringin’ her through ‘fore headin’ back to Earth.”

                                            “Shit.”

                                            > Mac nods.

                                            “...okay. One thing - two things, Mac. One, you gotta be honest with me. Two, if this works… I ain’t feeling it exactly right either. You’ve got to tell me you aren’t going to hate me or something if this happens.”

                                            > The first demand earns a quick, affirmative nod.

                                            > The second, a longer, pondering pause.

                                            > “Yup.”

                                            “Alright. Crap, I can’t believe I’m doing this. Tell me what our plan is here.”

                                            > …

                                            > Dealing with Cheerilee’s owner was easy enough.

                                            > He seemed just happy to make a sale without having to feed and house her the rest of the way to Earth; for him, this was just pure business.

                                            > Fine by you.

                                            > Cheerilee herself didn’t seem too hard-up; she followed easily, and hopped up into your truck without question when ordered.

                                            > A quick once-over produced no obvious signs of punishment.

                                            > Her coat is dull, mane and tail both in need of a good brush and cut, and she was just a little too thin; but that’s not exactly uncommon in a nation still rebuilding.

                                            > If anything, she just seemed kind of shell-shocked.

                                            > Didn’t even speak until you brought her in through the front door of your home.

                                            > “...what am I to be doing here, Master?”

                                            > Her voice was soft, somehow surprisingly gentle and warm compared to her somewhat bedraggled appearance.

                                            > You could believe Mac when he’d said she was a teacher; that was a teacher’s voice if you’d ever heard one.

                                            “Y’know, I’m still figuring that one out myself.”

                                            > In the corner of your eye, you see Cheerilee giving you a sharply questioning look.

                                            > Not your problem; there was still a lot to do.

                                            “Right now, you’re staying here. And staying calm. I - shit, I need to get another mattress or something.”

                                            > Cheerilee visibly relaxes, and belatedly you realize she probably thought that if you weren’t going to work her, you were going to fuck her.

                                            > Not that you hadn’t done that before, but it hadn’t really entered your mind right now.

                                            > That, and the last time had involved a whole lot more alcohol for both participants.

                                            “Just… stay in here, okay? Do, I, uh, do I have to tie your collar to the wall or something?”

                                            > The look she gives you is somewhere between perplexed and dumbfounded.

                                            > “You really are new to this slavery thing, aren’t you?”

                                            “Fuck yes. You were kind of an impulse buy. Long story; someone else talked me into it.”

                                            > “Right.”

                                            > She looks around again, then shakes her head.

                                            > “I’d rather be here than back in a cage, and I’m too hungry to run far. You can leave me here.”

                                            “Cool. Just - stay here, then, and I’ll be back in-.”

                                            > “‘nonymous?”

                                            > On any other day, Mac would have had the good sense to knock first.

                                            > Today was not any other day.

                                            > Both yours and Cheerilees’ heads snap around to the door; both ponies freeze at the sight of each other.

                                            > “Big Mac?”

                                            > “Cheerilee?!”

                                            > He steps in, dinner-plate sized hooves tapping on the floor with surprising softness.

                                            > She drags her leash along the floor.

                                            > Muzzles grow close, sniffing each other over - and then both ponies lurch deep into a hug, squeezing each other fiercely.

                                            > You retreat back to give them their space, but the house is small and you cannot really help but hear what follows.

                                            > “Ah’m no good pony anymore, Cheerilee.”

                                            > “What? No - what do you mean, Big Mac?”

                                            > Mac shudders gently, still burying his face in the waves of her mane, no matter how dirtied they were.

                                            > “I brought y’here. To this house. And, Ah did… Ah did…”

                                            > “What, Big Mac? Did you hurt somepony?”

                                            > “...no. Yes. Maybe. Ah dunno.”

                                            > “Who?”

                                            > You’re starting to understand why Mac had thought she was such a good teacher.

                                            > She has… that voice.

                                            > The kind of voice that just makes people listen, but also tells you everything is going to be alright.

                                            > Not soft, not gentle exactly, but warm.

                                            > “Mahself.”

                                            > “What?! What’d you do, Big Mac?”

                                            > “Had t’get you out of there.”

                                            > Pulling back, Mac finds that while Cheerilee’s eyes are damp, his cheeks are truly wet.

                                            > Even so, he brushes her eyes dry with the shaggy feathering on his fetlocks before clearing his own eyes.

                                            > “Please don’ hate me, Miss Cheerilee?”

                                            > “I couldn’t, Big McIntosh. I couldn’t ever. Whatever you did, I couldn’t.”

                                            > Enough.

                                            > This really isn’t something you should be spying on.

                                            “Hey, Mac? I’m going to be outside. When you’re ready, uh… when you’re ready, just come on out.”

                                            > …

                                            > Time to take care of the other half of this.

                                            > You didn’t bother with the truck this time; who knew when the next diesel delivery would come, and there wasn’t much to carry this time.

                                            > Just a big sheaf of papers.

                                            > Big Mac walked alongside you as if hypnotized; not looking, twisting an ear to listen, or showing any sign of awareness- even when he walked by the gate to his acres.

                                            > Well, your acres now.

                                            > He’d already gone into town and gotten the deed transferred this morning.

                                            > Now there was just the other part.

                                            > Slave registration was carried out through the local government office, in the old town hall.

                                            > This close to Canterlot, everything was still directly run - no Equestrian Special Governance Zone here.

                                            > Big Mac kept quiet through the entire process, only adding a word or signature here or there when it was needed.

                                            > A pony electing to enter into slavery must not have been too unusual, because the clerk didn’t question him too much.

                                            > Just filled out the paperwork, processed her end, and slapped down the stamp with a very final-sounding thud.

                                            > Flinching, Mac lays his ears down as the packaged papers get filed away.

                                            > “That it?”

                                            “Yeah, Mac. That’s it.”

                                            > “You own m’now?”

                                            “...yeah.”

                                            > No purchase cost, only the small registration fee - and he’d be earning enough to pay that back too.

                                            > “What now?”

                                            “Let’s go home, Mac.”

                                            > He pauses at the front door, though, looking silently to you.

                                            > You, in turn, raise an eyebrow questioningly.

                                            “What is it?”

                                            > “Ain’t you gonna put a collar on me?”

                                            > Putting a hand on the huge stallion’s withers, you shake your head.

                                            “No. Not now.”

                                            > Not when it’d demand he walk through town, running a gauntlet of rumors about what he’d done.

                                            > That experience was somewhat inevitable, but not right now.

                                            “Let’s go.”

                                            > Big Mac seems to understand what you were doing too, and falls in step beside you without another word.

                                            > Literally, not a word - not even breaking his stride all the way back out through town until he reaches the edge of his acres.

                                            > Only then does he stop, staring longingly at them.

                                            “Hey. Mac. That’s still going to be yours, really. I can’t work it.”

                                            > “No, it ain’t.”

                                            > He sighs, tail swish-swashing.

                                            > “Was m’family’s. I was just… lookin’ after it.”

                                            > And now he’d sold it to you.

                                            > You take a big step on, bug Mac remains completely still, green eyes boring into the front door.

                                            “Mac?”

                                            > “...don’t want her to see me.”

                                            “Hey, hey. I thought you talked this over-”

                                            > “Ah ain’t a pony anymore. Just a slave now. Don’ matter what Ah think, but-”

                                            > He falls down on his haunches.

                                            > No, ‘falls’ is he wrong word; he collapses as if the full impact of what he’d done had somehow finally landed on his back.

                                            > Forelegs fold too a moment later, and then Big Mac is laying on the ground, tears beginning to roll down his cheeks.

                                            > You join him, sitting down with your back against the fence.

                                            “Hey - Hey, c’mon, Mac…”

                                            > A hand is stretched out towards him, but Mac turns away from it.

                                            > Well, you’ll not be having any of that.

                                            > Leaning over, you slip the arm instead over his neck and pull him close against your chest.

                                            > It takes a moment, but Mac finally relents and allows his bulk to slump against you as fat, heavy tears run down his cheeks.