Too Many Pinkies Plus One [Chapter 5]

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Weeks have slipped by in a quiet, steady rhythm. Ponyville has settled back into its usual gentle hum—holidays come and gone, snow dusting the rooftops, the Milkshake Palace doing better business than it has in years thanks to a certain pink barista with a straight mane and a knack for perfect blends.

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I’ve become a fixture: calm, reliable, quietly protective of my little domain. Ponies come not just for the shakes, but for the atmosphere—no chaos, no pressure, just a place where you can sit and be.

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Most of the Mane Six have already made their peace. Rainbow Dash is a regular. Applejack drops by after orchard work. Twilight and Rarity have turned into occasional “research and relaxation” visits that always end in long conversations about magic, identity, and flavor profiles.

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Only one has stayed away.

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Until today.

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The bell jingles softly just before closing time on a quiet, snowy afternoon. I’m wiping down the counter, humming faintly under my breath—an old, slow tune from half-remembered human memories—when I look up.

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Fluttershy stands just inside the door, bundled in a thick scarf, wings tucked tight against her sides, eyes fixed on the floor. Snowflakes melt in her pink mane. She looks like she might bolt at the slightest loud noise.

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I pause, cloth still in hoof.

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“Hey, Fluttershy,” I say gently, keeping my voice low. “Shop’s technically closing in ten, but I’ve got time.”

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Fluttershy takes one tiny step forward, then another, until she reaches the counter. She doesn’t sit. Her hooves fidget.

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“Um… hi, Diane.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I… I’ve been meaning to come for a long time. I just… I didn’t know what to say.”

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I set the cloth aside and lean forward slightly, resting my forehooves on the counter in a relaxed, non-threatening way. “You don’t have to say anything fancy. I’m not going anywhere.”

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Fluttershy’s eyes flick up, then down again. “That day at the lake… I didn’t say anything. I just stood there while everypony else was ready to… to send you away. I was scared, and I didn’t speak up. I should have. You hadn’t hurt anypony, and you looked so calm, and I just… let it happen. Or almost happen. I’m so sorry.”

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Her voice cracks on the last word.

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I watch her for a quiet moment, expression soft.

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“You were scared,” I say simply. “That’s okay. Fear makes ponies quiet sometimes. Doesn’t make you bad.”

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Fluttershy shakes her head. “But I’m supposed to be kind. And I wasn’t. Not when it mattered.”

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I come around the counter slowly—no sudden movements—and stand a respectful distance away.

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“You’re here now,” I say. “That’s kind. Takes guts to walk in and say you’re sorry when you think somepony might still be mad.”

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Fluttershy finally looks up fully, teal eyes shimmering. “Are you? Mad, I mean?”

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I consider it, then shake my head. “Nah. Life’s too short—or whatever the pony version of that is. And honestly? You were the only one that day who didn’t say something mean. You just whispered. I noticed.”

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Fluttershy’s ears lift a fraction.

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I gesture toward the stools. “Sit, if you want. I’ve got one last shake in me before I lock up. What’s your poison?”

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Fluttershy hesitates, then carefully climbs onto a stool. “Um… do you have anything with… chamomile? Or honey?”

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My mouth curves into a small, knowing smile. “I’ve got a chamomile-honey vanilla with a little oat milk. Soothing. Good for nerves.”

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Fluttershy nods gratefully.

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As I work—slow, deliberate motions, no rush—Fluttershy watches me.

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“You’re… really good at this,” she says quietly. “Making ponies feel calm. Safe.”

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I shrug, sliding the finished shake across the counter: pale yellow, topped with a light dusting of cinnamon and a single edible flower.

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“Figured if I can’t be the party pony, I can at least be the ‘quiet corner of the world’ pony.”

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Fluttershy takes a small sip and lets out the tiniest sigh of relief. “It’s perfect.”

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We sit in comfortable silence for a minute, just the soft clink of the straw and the faint whistle of wind outside.

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Finally, Fluttershy speaks again. “I’m glad you’re here, Diane. Ponyville is… nicer with you in it.”

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I look at her, something warm flickering behind my usual deadpan.

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“Thanks, Fluttershy. That means a lot. Especially coming from you.”

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Fluttershy smiles—small, shy, but real.

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And outside, the snow keeps falling gently, covering the world in quiet forgiveness.

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===

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The Milkshake Palace is in its late-afternoon lull. Snow taps softly against the windows, the jukebox plays a slow, croony tune, and only one old stallion nurses a hot cocoa in the corner booth. I’m restocking the napkin dispensers when the door bursts open with a blast of cold air and a familiar explosion of pink.

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“Diaaaaane!” Pinkie Pie sings, shaking snow off her poofy mane like a happy dog. “Guess who brought fresh cupcakes to trade for one of your super-duper chamomile-honey specials?”

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I don’t flinch at the volume; I’ve gotten used to it. I just give a small nod toward the counter. “Hey, Pinkie. Booth or stool?”

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“Stool! So we can talk face-to-face!” Pinkie hops up onto the nearest one, swinging her legs. “One chamomile-honey vanilla, pretty please!”

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I start the blender, the low whirr filling the quiet shop. When I slide the shake across, Pinkie wraps both hooves around the glass like it’s a treasure.

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“Mmm! You always make it just right. Not too sweet, not too herby—just cozy.”

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I lean against the counter opposite her, folding my forelegs. For a minute we just sit in companionable silence—Pinkie sipping happily, me watching the snow.

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Then I speak, voice quieter than usual.

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“They’ve all come by now. All five of them. Apologized. Bought shakes. Said nice things.” I pause. “But none of them have said a word about the others.”

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Pinkie slows her sipping. “…The other clones?”

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“Yeah.” My gaze drifts to the window. “The hundreds that got poofed back into the pool. The ones who were running around chanting ‘fun’ and wrecking everything. They’re gone now, and everypony acts like it’s fine. Like it was just… cleanup.”

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Pinkie sets her glass down carefully. Her mane seems a little less poofy.

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“I think about them sometimes,” I go on. “They weren’t smart like me—or whatever made me different. They didn’t question anything. They just wanted to do the one thing they knew: fun. Over and over. Like that’s all they were programmed for.”

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Pinkie’s ears droop. “I… try not to think about it too hard.”

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I give a humorless half-laugh. “Exactly. Everypony tries not to. Because if you really think about it—if you admit they were thinking, feeling things, even in a simple way—then sending them back wasn’t extermination. It was…”

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I don’t finish the sentence. I don’t have to.

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Pinkie stares into her shake, stirring the straw slowly. “Massacre,” she whispers, voice small.

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I nod once.

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Silence stretches between us, heavier than any snowstorm outside.

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Finally Pinkie looks up, eyes shiny. “Do you… hate us for it?”

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I’m quiet for a long moment.

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“No,” I say at last. “I don’t hate you. I don’t even hate them. I just… notice that nobody talks about it. They come in, say sorry for almost poofing *me*, buy a shake, and act like the rest never happened. Because if they faced it, they’d have to sit with something ugly. And ugly doesn’t feel good.”

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Pinkie reaches across the counter and rests a hoof on mine. “I think about it,” she admits. “At night, sometimes. I wonder if they’re… somewhere in the pool. Waiting. Or if they’re just gone. Really gone.”

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I don’t pull away from the touch.

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“Me too,” I say. “But I’m still here. You’re still here. And we keep going. That’s what we do.”

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Pinkie manages a wobbly smile. “One day at a time. One shake at a time?”

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My mouth curves—just a little. “Yeah. One shake at a time.”

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We sit like that until the cocoa-drinking stallion pays and leaves, bell jingling behind him. Outside, the snow keeps falling, soft and silent, covering everything in a clean, quiet layer.

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Some things, I figure, will stay buried.

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But at least now, between the two of us, it isn’t buried alone.

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===

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Snow had settled over Ponyville like a thick quilt, muffling hoofsteps and turning the rooftops into soft white hills. The holidays had come and gone—Hearth’s Warming lights still twinkled here and there—and the town had slipped into that quiet stretch between celebration and spring. In that stillness, ponies talked.

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Not loudly. Not in big gatherings. But in small moments: over hot cider at the market, while waiting for the train, during slow shifts at work. They talked about the pink mare with the straight mane who worked at the Milkshake Palace.

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The conversations were never planned. They just… happened.

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Mr. Cake mentioned it first to Mrs. Cake one evening while closing Sugarcube Corner.

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“You know, Cup, that Diane Pie’s got the steadiest hoof I’ve seen in years. Not a single shake spilled, even during the foal rush last week. And quiet? Like a library with hooves.”

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Mrs. Cake nodded, wiping down the counter. “She’s good for the town. Different from our Pinkie, but… good in her own way.”

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At Sweet Apple Acres, Big Mac was repairing a fence when Granny Smith hobbled out with a thermos of cocoa.

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“Eeyup,” he said after a long sip, “that Diane gal makes a mean peanut-butter apple swirl. Tastes like honesty in a glass.”

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Granny cackled. “Honesty, huh? Reckon the town could use a second dose of Pinkie flavor—’cept this one don’t come with a side of roof repair bills.”

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Even the foals talked about her. The Cutie Mark Crusaders had made it their mission to try every flavor on the menu, dragging reluctant older siblings along.

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“She’s like the cool big sister who doesn’t yell but still scares off bullies,” Scootaloo declared one afternoon in their clubhouse.

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Apple Bloom nodded solemnly. “And she never treats us like we’re too little to order the spicy ones.”

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Sweetie Belle sighed dreamily. “I think her special talent is making everypony feel… safe.”

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In the library, Spike overheard the guards chatting during a shift change.

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“Heard she turned down a party invitation from Pinkie herself,” one said.

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The other snorted. “Can you imagine? A Pinkie saying no to a party?”

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“Yeah, but she told Pinkie she’d rather keep the shop open late for ponies who needed a quiet place. That’s… kinda heroic, right?”

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Lyra and Bon Bon shared a booth at the Palace one snowy evening, watching Diane methodically clean the blender like it was a sacred ritual.

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“She’s proof magic can make something new, not just copies,” Lyra murmured.

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Bon Bon smiled into her strawberry-rose shake. “Proof the world’s big enough for more than one Pinkie Pie.”

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Mayor Mare mentioned it during a town council meeting, almost in passing.

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“Business licenses renewed without issue. The Milkshake Palace is up thirty percent in revenue. Miss Diane Pie has been… an unexpected asset.”

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Nopony argued.

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And on the weather team, Rainbow Dash—usually too cool to gossip—found herself defending Diane when Cloud Kicker joked about “clone weirdness.”

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“She’s not weird. She’s just… Diane. And if you mess with her shop, you’ll answer to me.”

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The team exchanged glances and dropped the subject.

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Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon still walked past the Palace sometimes, heads high, but they never lingered. Word was they’d tried to complain to their parents about being “kicked out,” only to be told—in no uncertain terms—that being rude in somepony else’s business wasn’t acceptable behavior. They hadn’t come back.

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Slowly, without fanfare or ceremony, Ponyville did what it always did best: it made room.

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Nopony called Diane “the clone” anymore. She was just Diane. The mare who made the best shakes in town. Who stayed calm when everypony else panicked. Who listened without bouncing, who protected without preaching, who existed—not because some ancient pool allowed it, but because the town had quietly, collectively decided she belonged.

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One evening, as Diane locked up the shop and flipped the sign to CLOSED, she paused on the threshold. Snow crunched under her hooves. Across the square, lights glowed warmly in windows. Laughter drifted from a distant Hearth’s Warming leftovers party. Somewhere, Pinkie Pie was probably planning the next big celebration.

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I pull my scarf tighter, breathe in the cold, crisp air, and allow myself the smallest of smiles.

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The town has reflected.

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And in its reflection, it has seen me—not as a mistake, not as an echo, but as one of its own.

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I turn toward my little shack by the lake, hooves leaving soft prints in the fresh snow.

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For the first time since waking up in the Mirror Pool, I feel something settle deep inside my chest—quiet, steady, and warm.

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I am home.