Peppermint
July 1, 2025 at 4:35 PM
The tenth day dawned, thick with the scent of ripening apples and unspoken contempt. Flim remained a no-show, a phantom promise that solidified the other convicts’ grim satisfaction. Flam, the broken burden, was out of sight in the barn, and blissfully out of mind. His absence from the relentless orchard labor was a perverse relief.
Dinner was a tense affair under the setting sun. Granny Smith presided over a large pot of stew, her ladle clanging rhythmically against stainless steel bowls passed down the line of orange jumpsuits. Apple Bloom stood sentinel beside her, eyes narrowed. When Lockpick Silvers’ hoof darted towards a bowl set slightly apart – fuller, with chunks of bread softening in the rich gravy – Apple Bloom’s small hoof shot out, smacking the mare’s fetlock sharply with a wooden spoon.
"Hands off!" Apple Bloom snapped, her voice surprisingly firm. "That’s Flam’s. Got medicine mixed in it, on account of he can’t keep the pills down without somethin’ solid. Doctor’s orders."
Lockpick Silvers recoiled, rubbing her fetlock, her lip curling in a sneer. "He asked for it, squirt," she growled, her voice low and venomous. "Played his stupid game and lost. Ain’t no way I’m beggin’ forgiveness for that waste of space."
Nearby, Rust Shank slammed his own empty bowl onto the rough-hewn table. "She’s right!" he barked, drawing stares. "Skim’s lyin’ up there cool as a cucumber in the shade, stuffin’ his face with medicated stew and bread, while we’re bustin’ our flanks under this Celestia-forsaken sun! Eatin’ slop while he gets the good stuff?" He gestured disgustedly at the thin, vegetable-laden broth in the main pot. "This ain’t stew, it’s veggie water!"
A low murmur of agreement rippled through the convicts. The injustice of Flam’s comparative comfort – however medically necessary – festered alongside their existing hatred.
Granny Smith, however, had heard enough. She straightened up, her old eyes sharp as flint. "Hush yer yappin', the lot of ya!" she commanded, her voice cracking like a whip. "Botherin' my granddaughter and complainin' like spoiled foals won't fill yer bellies faster. That good-for-nothin' Flam ain't gettin' none o' my signature apple pie tonight." With a flourish, she pulled a large, golden-crusted pie from beneath the table. The rich scent of cinnamon and baked apples instantly filled the air, overpowering the smell of the stew. "Which means," Granny added, a sly glint in her eye as she started cutting generous slices, "you reformed bad guys get extra helpin's."
The convicts' resentment evaporated like morning mist under a hot sun. Greedy eyes fixed on the pie. Praises erupted – "Granny, yer a genius!", "Best cook in Equestria!", "Ain't nopony bakes like you!" – as they eagerly shoved their bowls forward again, the plight of the broken con artist in the barn utterly forgotten in the face of sugary, buttery redemption.
Inside the dim, dusty barn, the scent of hay, old wood, and liniment mingled. Flam lay on his thick bed of straw, a coarse blanket pulled up to his chest. His face was still bruised, the gash above his eye a livid line, but the swelling had subsided enough for both pistachio-green eyes to be open, though clouded with pain and lingering humiliation. Big Macintosh knelt beside him, his massive hooves working methodically but firmly along Flam’s uninjured foreleg and shoulder. The big red stallion’s ears were pinned flat back against his skull, his expression a mask of profound irritation. Every movement radiated the sentiment that this was the absolute last place he wanted to be.
"Oof! Easy there, big fella," Flam grunted, though a hint of genuine relief colored his voice as Mac’s strong hooves kneaded a particularly stubborn knot. "Mmmph... that’s the spot. Say, Macintosh, you ever consider a career change? ‘Big Mac’s Therapeutic Hoofin’? You’ve got a surprisingly deft touch beneath all that... stoicism." He managed a weak, pained smirk. "Or did you train under some Manehattan masseuse? Specialize in huffing out the kinks for high-roller unicorns?"
Mac’s only response was a deep, disapproving frown and a single, drawn-out syllable dripping with annoyance: "Nnnnnope."
Fortunately for Flam, Apple Bloom’s cheerful voice cut through the awkwardness. "Heya, Peppermint!" she chirped, hopping into the barn, carefully balancing the special bowl of stew. She’d apparently decided Flam needed a nickname as ridiculous as his situation. "Brought yer dinner! Extra bread, extra medicine, extra everything!" She thrust the bowl towards him.
Flam, propped awkwardly on one elbow, took it with a shaky hoof. The rich aroma was a stark contrast to the convict slop. He looked from the stew to Apple Bloom’s expectant face, then back. With a surprising show of resolve, he lifted the bowl and drained it in several long, desperate gulps, medicine and all. He slammed the empty bowl down onto the straw beside him, gasping slightly but looking marginally less pale. "Ahh... hits the spot, little... uh... 'Apple Sprout'," he managed, wiping his mouth with the back of his fetlock, the old habit of assigning nicknames resurfacing weakly.
Suddenly, Applejack stood silhouetted in the barn doorway, the fading daylight outlining her hat and stern profile. Her gaze swept the scene – Flam recovering, Mac massaging, Apple Bloom watching. "Mac," she said, her voice calm but carrying an undeniable weight. "Sugar Belle’s been feelin’ them foals kickin’ up a storm again near sundown. Reckon she’d appreciate her husband checkin’ on her belly ‘fore it gets full dark."
Mac didn't need telling twice. He stopped his ministrations instantly, stood up with palpable relief, gave Applejack a curt nod, and lumbered out of the barn without a backward glance at Flam.
"Apple Bloom," Applejack continued, her tone softening only slightly as she looked at her sister. "Those dishes won't wash themselves. Keep an eye on our... guests while they're scrubbin' pots. Make sure nopony 'accidentally' breaks Granny's good ladle."
"Sure thing, AJ!" Apple Bloom chirped, giving Flam a quick, almost sympathetic glance before darting out after Big Mac, leaving the bowl behind.
Silence descended, thick and heavy. Dust motes danced in the slanted rays of sunset piercing the high barn windows. The distant sounds of clattering dishes and the convicts' muffled voices felt worlds away. Applejack stepped fully into the barn, letting the heavy door swing mostly shut behind her, plunging the space into deeper shadow broken only by the golden shafts of light. She walked slowly towards Flam’s straw pallet, her hooves silent on the packed earth floor. She stopped a few feet away, looking down at him, her expression unreadable in the gloom.
Flam shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, the bravado he’d shown Apple Bloom evaporating. He pulled the scratchy blanket a little higher, trying to hide the tremor in his hooves. The medicinal stew sat heavy in his stomach, warring with a rising tide of dread. Applejack hadn't sent everyone away for small talk. The Element of Honesty wanted a private audience with the broken con artist. The air crackled with unspoken questions, the weight of past deceptions, and the uncertain, painful future stretching out before him in the quiet barn. He met her gaze, his green eyes wide, wary, and stripped bare of any remaining illusion. The game, whatever it had been, was truly over. Applejack lowered herself onto a bale of hay beside Flam’s makeshift bed, the straw crunching softly under her weight. The dusty air felt charged, thick with the scent of liniment, old hay, and unspoken truths. "Flam," she began, her voice low and steady, cutting through the quiet. "We gotta have us a talk. A real, honest one."
Flam blinked, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing his battered face. He pushed himself up slightly, wincing. "Honest? With me?" A dry, humorless chuckle escaped him. "After everythin' Flim an' I pulled on you, your kin, your friends... why in Tartarus would you wanna talk to me at all? Ain't exactly earned your trust, have I?"
Applejack tilted her head, a look of genuine surprise momentarily softening her features. "Well, slap mah flank and call me a dairy cow. Sounds like you do got somethin' rattlin' around in there 'sides bits an' schemes. Didn't think yer conscience was entirely swapped out fer a wallet." She didn't linger on the point. Her gaze sharpened. "Before that... incident... out by the old Zap tree. I heard ya. Clear as day. Ya told Rust an' the others ya were waitin' on yer dear little brother. That Flim was gonna swoop in, bust ya outta here, an' y'all'd vanish before the law could blink."
She exhaled heavily, rubbing the bridge of her nose with a work-roughened hoof. "Now, I ain't yer ma, Flam. Ain't gonna lecture ya on the life ya chose, even wearin' this Element o' Honesty. That path leads nowhere but more bars or an early grave. An' hidin'? Ya can't outrun the sun forever." She leaned forward slightly, her green eyes locking onto his pistachio ones. "But here's the plain truth ya gotta be seein', lyin' here day after day: It's been near two weeks since them bones got broke. Two weeks in my barn. Flim ain't shown his face. Not a whisper, not a shadow."
Flam snorted, trying to muster some of his old dismissiveness, though it fell flat. "Didn't exactly set a calendar date, Applejack. Underground operations take time! Plannin', reconnaissance... probably diggin' a tunnel right now! Acres borders gotta be watched tighter'n a dragon's hoard after what happened."
Applejack actually laughed, a short, sharp sound devoid of humor. "Acres borders? Flam, Sweet Apple Acres ain't guarded by nothin' fiercer than an ornery rooster and Granny's glare. If somepony wants to steal an apple, chances are they can try." She paused, letting the implication sink in. "An' if one o' y'all orange jumpsuits decides to bolt? The clankin' o' them shackles you ain't wearin' right now, plus the bright orange screamin' 'convict'? Anypony from Ponyville to Canterlot'd spot ya a mile off. They'd drag ya right back here, stripped o' any 'good time' ya might've scraped together, or worse – straight back to a cell with bars thicker'n Big Mac's neck. Escape ain't freedom, Flam. It's just a longer sentence waitin' to happen."
Flam looked genuinely taken aback, his confident facade cracking. The lack of elaborate security was unsettling. He rallied quickly, grasping for another justification. "F-Flim wouldn't risk walkin' in blind! He sees what they did to me," Flam gestured weakly at his injuries, "he knows he looks just like me! He'd get jumped worse'n I did! He's waitin' for the perfect moment!"
Applejack’s patience snapped. A low, almost feral growl rumbled in her chest. "Perfect moment? Flam, yer brother ain't got a crystal ball! He don't know if yer bein' treated like royalty or bein' worked to the bone! He. Don't. Care." She punctuated each word. "Yer own blood dumped ya. He let ya take the fall, alone, while he's out there right now, slickin' back his mane, sellin' bottled sunshine or friendship diplomas to some other poor suckers! He ain't comin'. He never was comin'. Yer sittin' here, broken, waitin' on a ghost while he cashes in the freedom you bought him!"
"Shut up!" Flam hissed, his voice rising with panic and anger. Applejack's words were shovels digging into the foundation of his last, desperate belief. "You don't know him! You don't know us! You're wrong! He'll come! He'll–"
Fueled by a surge of furious denial, Flam tried to lunge up from the straw. Agony exploded through his broken leg and ribs. He gasped, collapsing back with a choked cry, sweat beading on his forehead, his breath coming in ragged, pained hitches. He glared up at Applejack, eyes burning with defiance and a dawning, terrifying vulnerability. "Get... get out," he demanded, his voice tight with suppressed pain and humiliation, no longer shouting but trembling with intensity. "Just... get out. You underestimate Flim. He'll get me out... 'fore this leg's even set right... He will... Now leave. Sick ponies... heal slower... when they're... bothered." He turned his face away, staring fixedly at the rough barn wall, his body rigid with the effort of not screaming, not crying.
Applejack watched him for a long moment – the proud, broken con artist clinging to a lie because the truth was too desolate to face. She saw the tremor in his shoulders, the way he bit down hard on his lip. She knew. Some wounds cut deeper than bones. She slowly rose to her hooves.
"Suit yerself, Skim," she said quietly, her voice devoid of anger now, only a heavy weariness. "Just remember who told ya the truth when that 'perfect moment' never comes, an' the prison wagon rolls back up for ya." She turned and walked towards the barn door, the sound of her hooves echoing in the sudden, suffocating silence she left behind. She pulled the heavy door open, letting in a shaft of late afternoon light that seemed to avoid Flam's corner deliberately, then stepped out, closing it firmly behind her.
Alone in the deepening gloom, Flam squeezed his eyes shut. The pain in his leg was a dull, constant roar, but it was nothing compared to the icy crack spreading through the core of his belief. Applejack's words echoed, relentless and brutal: Dumped ya... Don't care... Ghost... He pressed his face into the scratchy straw, a single, choked sound escaping him – not quite a sob, not yet, but the precursor to a despair far more crippling than any broken bone. The barn felt colder, darker, and infinitely more empty. The only certainty now was the bitter taste of the medicine in the stew, and the crushing weight of the truth he was desperately trying, and failing, to outrun.
