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Too Many Pinkies Plus One [Chapter 3]

By YuriFanatic
Created: 2026-02-12 08:29:13
Expiry: Never
pinkie piehumansfwdiane pie

  1. 1.
    A few weeks have passed since the Mirror Pool incident, and I—the clone—have quietly settled into a strange but peaceful routine. I’ve claimed a small, abandoned shack on the outskirts of Ponyville near the lake, fixed it up with some scavenged furniture and a lot of slapstick ingenuity (walls reinforced after one too many cartoonish collapses), and spent my days doing… not much. Sunbathing, skipping stones with inexplicable physics-defying bounces, occasionally wandering into town to observe from a distance.
  2. 2.
     
  3. 3.
    But idleness is starting to itch.
  4. 4.
     
  5. 5.
    I’m not the hyperactive party pony the original Pinkie is. I don’t crave constant motion or endless social whirlwinds. Yet I feel a low, persistent tug—the same instinct that drove me to help the real Pinkie at Café Hay. A quiet urge to *do* something useful. To leave a small positive mark on somepony’s day.
  6. 6.
     
  7. 7.
    One afternoon, while drifting through the market square (hooded cloak on, because straight-maned pink clones still draw stares), I pass Sugarcube Corner. The line is out the door, Pinkie Pie darting between counters like a pink tornado, Mr. and Mrs. Cake looking frazzled as they try to keep up with the post-holiday rush.
  8. 8.
     
  9. 9.
    Across the street, a much smaller shop catches my eye: **Ponyville Milkshake Palace**, a retro-style diner with chrome stools, checkered floors, and a faded “Help Wanted” sign taped crookedly in the window. The place has been struggling since the owner, an elderly earth pony named Mix Master, started having trouble with his hips. Only two teenage part-timers man the blenders now, and the line—while shorter than Sugarcube Corner’s—is still long enough that ponies are grumbling.
  10. 10.
     
  11. 11.
    I stand there for a long minute, tail flicking.
  12. 12.
     
  13. 13.
    *Just one pony,* I remember telling my reflection. *Make one pony happy a day. That’s enough.*
  14. 14.
     
  15. 15.
    A milkshake shop seems… manageable. Low stakes. No expectation of nonstop bouncing or party cannons. Just blending, serving, maybe a dry quip or two.
  16. 16.
     
  17. 17.
    I push open the door. The bell jingles. The two teens behind the counter look up, startled by the cloaked figure. I lower the hood.
  18. 18.
     
  19. 19.
    Straight pink mane, balloon cutie mark, deadpan expression.
  20. 20.
     
  21. 21.
    One of the teens—a mint-green unicorn—blinks. “Uh… are you… another Pinkie Pie?”
  22. 22.
     
  23. 23.
    I sigh. “Something like that. I go by Diane.”
  24. 24.
     
  25. 25.
    The name had come to me the night before, half-remembered from a fragmented human memory of somepony mentioning Pinkie’s “full” name once. Diane feels grounded. Separate. *Mine.*
  26. 26.
     
  27. 27.
    “Diane Pie,” I add, testing it. It fits surprisingly well.
  28. 28.
     
  29. 29.
    Mix Master hobbles out from the back, squinting. “You here about the sign, missy?”
  30. 30.
     
  31. 31.
    “Yeah. I can start today if you need me.”
  32. 32.
     
  33. 33.
    He eyes me suspiciously. “You got experience?”
  34. 34.
     
  35. 35.
    “Does pseudo-omnipotence and slapstick physics count?”
  36. 36.
     
  37. 37.
    He stares. I stare back.
  38. 38.
     
  39. 39.
    Then he barks a laugh. “Girl, if you can handle a rush without breaking my blenders, you’re hired. Minimum wage, tips, free milkshakes on break. Uniform’s in the back.”
  40. 40.
     
  41. 41.
    I nod. “Deal.”
  42. 42.
     
  43. 43.
    ---
  44. 44.
     
  45. 45.
    Three days later, Diane Pie has become a quiet fixture at the Milkshake Palace.
  46. 46.
     
  47. 47.
    I wear a crisp pink-and-white striped apron over my slightly chubby frame, straight mane tied back in a practical ponytail. No bouncing. No random songs. Just calm, efficient service with the occasional dry one-liner that makes customers snort into their straws.
  48. 48.
     
  49. 49.
    “Extra thick chocolate banana?” I ask in my flat tone.
  50. 50.
     
  51. 51.
    “Yes please!”
  52. 52.
     
  53. 53.
    I nod, toss ingredients into the blender with perfect aim, hit the button—and somehow the shake comes out with a tiny balloon-shaped swirl of whipped cream on top, even though I never touch the piping bag. Ponies notice. They come back.
  54. 54.
     
  55. 55.
    Word spreads slowly: *There’s a new Pinkie working at the milkshake shop, but she’s chill. Calls herself Diane. Makes the best shakes in town and doesn’t sing while doing it.*
  56. 56.
     
  57. 57.
    Some ponies ask outright if I’m a clone. I never deny it.
  58. 58.
     
  59. 59.
    “Yeah,” I say, sliding their strawberry vanilla across the counter. “But I pay taxes now, so I’m basically a citizen.”
  60. 60.
     
  61. 61.
    That usually gets a laugh.
  62. 62.
     
  63. 63.
    One slow afternoon, the real Pinkie Pie bursts through the door in a flurry of confetti that definitely isn’t mine.
  64. 64.
     
  65. 65.
    “Diane! I mean—hi! I heard there was another me here and I had to see and oh my gosh you look so serious behind the counter it’s adorable!”
  66. 66.
     
  67. 67.
    I pause mid-wipe of the blender. “Hey, Pinkie.”
  68. 68.
     
  69. 69.
    She leans over the counter, eyes wide. “Are you happy? Doing this, I mean?”
  70. 70.
     
  71. 71.
    I consider it, glancing around the little diner—the satisfied customers nursing their shakes, the soft oldies music playing from the jukebox, the quiet rhythm of measuring, blending, serving.
  72. 72.
     
  73. 73.
    “Yeah,” I say finally. “I am. One milkshake at a time.”
  74. 74.
     
  75. 75.
    Pinkie beams so brightly it’s almost blinding. “That’s perfect! Because that’s all anypony needs—just to make somepony’s day a little sweeter!”
  76. 76.
     
  77. 77.
    I roll my eyes, but the corner of my mouth twitches upward. “Get outta here before you scare the customers with glitter.”
  78. 78.
     
  79. 79.
    She salutes, bounces once, and vanishes out the door in a pink streak.
  80. 80.
     
  81. 81.
    I turn back to the blender, a small, genuine smile lingering.
  82. 82.
     
  83. 83.
    Diane Pie has found her place.
  84. 84.
     
  85. 85.
    Not as a copy.
  86. 86.
     
  87. 87.
    Not as a mistake.
  88. 88.
     
  89. 89.
    Just as Diane—serving cold, creamy happiness, one shake at a time.
  90. 90.
     
  91. 91.
    ===
  92. 92.
     
  93. 93.
    Rainbow Dash pushed open the door to Ponyville Milkshake Palace with more force than necessary, the bell jingling sharply overhead. She was sweaty from a long afternoon of cloud-busting practice, wings still half-extended and twitching with leftover adrenaline. A cold milkshake sounded perfect—something thick and sweet to cut through the dust in her throat.
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  95. 95.
    The place was quieter than Sugarcube Corner, which was exactly why she liked it. Soft rock-and-roll from the old jukebox, the low hum of blenders, the faint clink of glassware. She trotted up to the counter, already rehearsing her order—extra-large strawberry with double whipped cream, no cherry because cherries were for slowpokes.
  96. 96.
     
  97. 97.
    Then she saw who was behind the counter.
  98. 98.
     
  99. 99.
    Pink mane tied back in a neat ponytail, pink coat, balloon cutie mark—but the mane was straight, the expression calm, almost bored. The pony was wiping down a blender with slow, deliberate circles, like she had all the time in the world.
  100. 100.
     
  101. 101.
    Rainbow froze mid-step.
  102. 102.
     
  103. 103.
    The clone. The one they’d almost zapped. The one Pinkie had vouched for.
  104. 104.
     
  105. 105.
    “Diane,” Rainbow muttered under her breath, remembering the name Pinkie had mentioned in passing a week ago.
  106. 106.
     
  107. 107.
    Diane glanced up, blue eyes meeting Rainbow’s without a trace of surprise. “Hey. What can I get you?”
  108. 108.
     
  109. 109.
    Rainbow’s wings fluttered once, uncertainly. She approached the counter and planted her forehooves on it, leaning in a little. “You’re… really working here now?”
  110. 110.
     
  111. 111.
    “Yep.” Diane didn’t stop wiping. “Tips are decent. Free shakes on break. Beats floating on a lake all day.”
  112. 112.
     
  113. 113.
    Rainbow snorted despite herself. “Yeah, I guess it would.”
  114. 114.
     
  115. 115.
    An awkward beat passed. Rainbow’s mind raced back to that day at the lake—how quickly she’d jumped to Twilight’s defense, ready to help send this pony back into the Mirror Pool without a second thought. She’d called her a fake. An imposter. She’d been ready to fight her if it came to that.
  116. 116.
     
  117. 117.
    Now here she was, wearing a striped apron, looking… normal. Useful, even.
  118. 118.
     
  119. 119.
    Rainbow’s ears flicked back. “Look, uh… about that day. When we showed up with Twilight’s spell and everything.”
  120. 120.
     
  121. 121.
    Diane paused, setting the blender cup down. “You mean when you were ready to help erase me?”
  122. 122.
     
  123. 123.
    Rainbow winced. “Yeah. That.”
  124. 124.
     
  125. 125.
    Diane shrugged, but her eyes held Rainbow’s steadily. “Water under the bridge. Or over the lake, I guess.”
  126. 126.
     
  127. 127.
    Rainbow huffed, rubbing the back of her neck. “I was kinda a jerk about it. I just… I thought we were protecting Pinkie. Protecting everypony. But Pinkie said you helped her, and… I dunno. I’ve been thinking about it.”
  128. 128.
     
  129. 129.
    Diane raised an eyebrow. “And?”
  130. 130.
     
  131. 131.
    “And maybe I jumped the gun. You didn’t hurt anypony. You’re just… here. Doing your thing.” Rainbow gestured vaguely at the shop. “Making milkshakes, apparently.”
  132. 132.
     
  133. 133.
    A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of Diane’s mouth. “World-class milkshakes, thank you very much.”
  134. 134.
     
  135. 135.
    Rainbow couldn’t help it—she cracked a grin. “Yeah? Prove it. Extra-large strawberry, double whipped cream, no cherry.”
  136. 136.
     
  137. 137.
    Diane nodded once. “Coming up.”
  138. 138.
     
  139. 139.
    As Diane turned to the blender, tossing ingredients with smooth, practiced motions, Rainbow watched her. No random bouncing. No sudden songs. No confetti explosions. Just quiet competence.
  140. 140.
     
  141. 141.
    It was weird. But not bad weird.
  142. 142.
     
  143. 143.
    Diane slid the tall glass across the counter a minute later, topped with a perfect swirl of whipped cream and a single blue straw. “On the house. First-time regular discount.”
  144. 144.
     
  145. 145.
    Rainbow blinked. “I’ve been here before.”
  146. 146.
     
  147. 147.
    “Not with me working,” Diane replied, deadpan.
  148. 148.
     
  149. 149.
    Rainbow snorted again, louder this time, and took a long pull from the straw. Her eyes widened. “Whoa. Okay, that’s… actually awesome.”
  150. 150.
     
  151. 151.
    “Told you.”
  152. 152.
     
  153. 153.
    Rainbow leaned against the counter, relaxing a little. “So… Diane, huh?”
  154. 154.
     
  155. 155.
    “Middle name,” Diane said simply. “Fits better than ‘Clone Number Whatever.’”
  156. 156.
     
  157. 157.
    “Fair enough.” Rainbow took another sip, then met Diane’s eyes again. “Hey. For what it’s worth… I’m glad Pinkie stopped us. And I’m glad you’re sticking around.”
  158. 158.
     
  159. 159.
    Diane’s expression softened—just a fraction, but Rainbow caught it.
  160. 160.
     
  161. 161.
    “Thanks, Rainbow Dash.”
  162. 162.
     
  163. 163.
    Rainbow smirked. “Just Dash is fine.”
  164. 164.
     
  165. 165.
    “Dash it is.”
  166. 166.
     
  167. 167.
    Rainbow finished half the shake in one go, then pushed off the counter with a flap of her wings. “Gotta get back to practice. But I’ll be back. That shake’s too good to miss.”
  168. 168.
     
  169. 169.
    Diane gave a small salute with one hoof. “See you around, Dash.”
  170. 170.
     
  171. 171.
    As Rainbow Dash pushed out into the evening light, wings spreading for takeoff, she felt lighter than she had in weeks—not just from the sugar rush.
  172. 172.
     
  173. 173.
    She’d been wrong about something.
  174. 174.
    Admitting it didn’t feel so bad after all.
  175. 175.
     
  176. 176.
    And those milkshakes really *were* awesome.
  177. 177.
     
  178. 178.
    ===
  179. 179.
     
  180. 180.
    The bell over the door of Ponyville Milkshake Palace jingles cheerfully as three familiar fillies trot in, capes fluttering behind them like proud little flags.
  181. 181.
     
  182. 182.
    “Cutie Mark Crusaders Milkshake Tasters, yay!” Scootaloo announces at full volume, buzzing her wings in excitement.
  183. 183.
     
  184. 184.
    Apple Bloom is already scanning the chalkboard menu. “They’ve got a peanut-butter apple swirl! Ah call dibs on tryin’ that one.”
  185. 185.
     
  186. 186.
    Sweetie Belle bounces on her hooves. “Ooh, and the triple-berry sparkle! Do you think it really sparkles?”
  187. 187.
     
  188. 188.
    I look up from polishing a glass, straight mane tied back, expression as flat and calm as ever. A tiny flicker of something soft crosses my face when I see the three of them—maybe because they remind me of the simple, earnest kind of happiness I’ve decided to protect, one pony at a time.
  189. 189.
     
  190. 190.
    “Afternoon, Crusaders,” I say in my low, even tone. “Find a booth. I’ll be over in a minute.”
  191. 191.
     
  192. 192.
    The fillies scramble into their favorite corner booth by the window, chattering about flavor combinations and whether a milkshake could theoretically earn them a cutie mark in “Extreme Dairy Appreciation.”
  193. 193.
     
  194. 194.
    I’m halfway to their table with three tall, colorful shakes balanced expertly on a tray when the bell jingles again—this time with a sharper, more entitled ring.
  195. 195.
     
  196. 196.
    Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon saunter in, tiaras glinting, noses in the air.
  197. 197.
     
  198. 198.
    “Well, well,” Diamond Tiara drawls loudly enough for the whole shop to hear. “Look who’s slumming it at the second-rate shake place. Couldn’t get a table at Sugarcube Corner, blank flanks?”
  199. 199.
     
  200. 200.
    Silver Spoon snickers, pushing her glasses up. “Probably because even the Cakes are tired of looking at those hideous capes.”
  201. 201.
     
  202. 202.
    The Crusaders stiffen. Scootaloo’s wings flare. Apple Bloom’s ears flatten. Sweetie Belle’s lip wobbles.
  203. 203.
     
  204. 204.
    I don’t break stride. I set the tray down in front of the fillies first—peanut-butter apple for Apple Bloom, triple-berry sparkle (complete with edible glitter) for Sweetie Belle, and a mango-chili dash for Scootaloo—then turn slowly to face the two bullies.
  205. 205.
     
  206. 206.
    I don’t raise my voice. I don’t bounce or glare dramatically. I just stand there, calm and immovable, like a pink boulder.
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  208. 208.
    “Diamond Tiara. Silver Spoon.” My tone is polite, almost customer-service perfect. “This is a family-friendly establishment. We have a strict policy: no mocking, no name-calling, no making other customers feel bad on purpose.”
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  210. 210.
    Diamond Tiara rolls her eyes. “Oh please. Since when do you make the rules, clone?”
  211. 211.
     
  212. 212.
    I don’t flinch at the word. I simply reach under the counter, pull out a small laminated sign, and place it on the counter facing them.
  213. 213.
     
  214. 214.
    It reads, in neat block letters:
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  216. 216.
    **Ponyville Milkshake Palace House Rules**
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  218. 218.
    1. Be kind or be gone.
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    2. Management reserves the right to refuse service to anypony creating a negative atmosphere.
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    3. Violators will be asked to leave—once.
  223. 223.
     
  224. 224.
    I tap the sign lightly with one hoof. “That’s been up since I started. Owner-approved. Town business license compliant. You’re welcome to order shakes to go, or you can leave now. Your choice.”
  225. 225.
     
  226. 226.
    Silver Spoon shifts uncomfortably. Diamond Tiara opens her mouth for a retort, but I continue in the same even, almost bored voice.
  227. 227.
     
  228. 228.
    “I’m going to count to five. If you’re still here and still being rude, I’ll escort you out myself. Politely. Legally. And without spilling a single drop of milkshake on your tiaras—though gravity can be unpredictable.”
  229. 229.
     
  230. 230.
    I meet Diamond Tiara’s glare head-on, unflinching.
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  232. 232.
    “One.”
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  234. 234.
    Diamond Tiara scoffs. “You wouldn’t dare—”
  235. 235.
     
  236. 236.
    “Two.”
  237. 237.
     
  238. 238.
    The few other customers in the shop have gone quiet, watching. The Crusaders stare wide-eyed from their booth.
  239. 239.
     
  240. 240.
    “Three.”
  241. 241.
     
  242. 242.
    Silver Spoon tugs at Diamond Tiara’s tail. “Uh, DT… maybe we should just—”
  243. 243.
     
  244. 244.
    “Four.”
  245. 245.
     
  246. 246.
    Diamond Tiara’s ears flick back. She glances around, suddenly aware of everypony watching, of my calm certainty, of the fact that this isn’t the usual pushover adult who’d back down.
  247. 247.
     
  248. 248.
    With an exaggerated huff, she spins on her hooves. “Fine. This place is lame anyway.”
  249. 249.
     
  250. 250.
    Silver Spoon scurries after her. The bell jingles again as the door slams behind them.
  251. 251.
     
  252. 252.
    I don’t smile triumphantly. I don’t pump a hoof in victory. I just turn back to the Crusaders’ booth, refill Scootaloo’s chili dash without being asked, and say quietly, “Enjoy your shakes, kids. On the house today.”
  253. 253.
     
  254. 254.
    Apple Bloom finds her voice first. “That was… awesome.”
  255. 255.
     
  256. 256.
    Sweetie Belle’s eyes sparkle brighter than her drink. “You didn’t even yell!”
  257. 257.
     
  258. 258.
    Scootaloo grins wide. “Cutie Mark Crusaders Official Coolest Adult Protector—Diane Pie!”
  259. 259.
     
  260. 260.
    I roll my eyes, but the corner of my mouth twitches upward as I walk back to the counter.
  261. 261.
     
  262. 262.
    “Just doing my job,” I mutter.
  263. 263.
     
  264. 264.
    But as the fillies dive into their shakes with happy exclamations and zero worries about bullies, I allow myself the smallest, satisfied nod.
  265. 265.
     
  266. 266.
    One positive mark on the day—actually, three.
  267. 267.
     
  268. 268.
    Mission accomplished.

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