Too Many Pinkies Plus One [Interlude 1]

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Twilight Sparkle sat alone in the library long after midnight, the only light coming from a single candle on her desk and the soft glow of the moon through the round windows. A half-finished letter to Princess Celestia lay crumpled in the wastebasket—her third attempt. Every time she tried to write about “ongoing magical anomalies” or “ethical observations of Mirror Pool derivatives,” the words felt hollow. Clinical. Wrong.

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She levitated a fresh sheet of parchment, then let it fall again.

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Her gaze drifted to the window. Snow still blanketed Ponyville, quiet and undisturbed. Somewhere out there, Diane was asleep in the attic above Sugarcube Corner—living a life Twilight had almost ended with a single spell.

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Twilight’s shoulders drooped.

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She had apologized to Diane weeks ago. Bought a milkshake. Smiled. Moved on.

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But she hadn’t really moved on.

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Because every time she thought about Diane now, she couldn’t help thinking about the others.

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The hundreds of Pinkies who had filled the streets that day—laughing, chanting, breaking things in their relentless pursuit of “fun.” They had been simple. Limited. But they had *wanted* things. They had reacted—glee when they found streamers, frustration when doors were barred, confusion when ponies ran from them.

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They had been alive, in whatever small way magic allowed.

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And Twilight had designed the spell that sent them back.

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She rested her forehead against the cool window glass.

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“I keep telling myself it was necessary,” she whispered to the empty room. “They were destabilizing the town. Ponies were terrified. Property damage was extensive. Restoring the original Pinkie was the priority. The texts were clear—Mirror Pool duplicates aren’t stable long-term. They aren’t… real.”

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But the word *real* tasted bitter now.

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Diane was real. Diane thought, chose, felt, grew. Diane had helped Pinkie through a crisis Twilight herself hadn’t fully noticed. Diane had built a life—quiet, kind, meaningful.

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If Diane could emerge from the same magic that created the others… then what separated her from them, except luck? A slight variation in the chant? An outside force bleeding through? Random chance?

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Twilight closed her eyes.

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She remembered the lake that day—the clone floating calmly in the center, deflecting her spell with nothing more than a suntan screen, and a flat stare. She remembered the question that had stopped her cold:

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*Who decides if I exist?*

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Twilight had no answer then. She still didn’t.

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She had decided, though. Or almost decided. And if Pinkie hadn’t spoken up—if Pinkie hadn’t claimed responsibility for the one clone who was different—Twilight would have cast the spell without hesitation.

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Would that have made her a murderer?

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The word made her stomach twist.

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She opened her eyes and stared at her reflection in the dark glass—horn glowing faintly, eyes haunted.

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“I was so sure I was right,” she murmured. “I thought I was protecting harmony. But harmony isn’t just order. It’s… room for ponies to be. Even the ones magic says shouldn’t.”

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Diane had proven that.

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The others… hadn’t gotten the chance.

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Twilight turned away from the window and levitated a new sheet of parchment. This time, she didn’t try to write a report.

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She wrote a letter to herself.

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*To Twilight Sparkle,*

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*You will never know if the other clones could have become more, given time and kindness instead of fear and dispersal.*

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*You chose safety over possibility. You chose the known Pinkie over the unknown ones.*

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*You may have been right. You may have been wrong.*

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*But you will carry the weight of that choice anyway.*

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*Learn from it. Question sooner. Listen harder. Let mercy stay your horn when certainty urges you forward.*

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*And never forget Diane—the one you almost erased—who taught you that “not supposed to exist” and “should not be allowed to exist” are not the same thing.*

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Twilight signed it, folded it, and tucked it into the drawer with her most private journals.

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Then she blew out the candle.

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In the dark, she whispered one last thing to the silent library:

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“I’m sorry. To all of you.”

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Outside, the snow kept falling—soft, forgiving, and endless.

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===

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Spike lay on his back atop a pile of cushions in the library, staring up at the ceiling as moonlight filtered through the high windows. Everypony else had gone to bed hours ago—Twilight included, after another long night of “just one more chapter.” The library was quiet, save for the occasional pop from the dying fire in the hearth.

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He rolled onto his side, tail curling around him, and let out a long breath.

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Diane.

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He’d been thinking about her a lot lately. Not just because her milkshakes were awesome (though they totally were), but because of everything that came with her.

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He remembered that day at the lake clear as gemstone. He’d been riding on Twilight’s back, clutching her mane while she prepared the spell. He’d called Diane “defective.” A throwaway joke to lighten the mood. Everypony had chuckled nervously, and he’d felt clever.

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Now the word tasted like ash.

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“She wasn’t defective,” he muttered to the empty room. “She was just… different. Quiet. And we almost wiped her out because she didn’t act like the Pinkie we knew.”

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Spike sat up, hugging his knees.

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He’d watched Twilight these past months. Really watched her.

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At first, she’d seemed okay—relieved the crisis was over, proud they’d saved the real Pinkie, throwing herself into research about the Mirror Pool like it was just another magical puzzle. But little things started showing up: late nights in the library staring at nothing, crumpled letters in the wastebasket, moments when she’d look at Diane across the market square and her ears would droop.

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Twilight hadn’t said anything to him directly. She never did when the guilt was this heavy. But Spike knew her better than anypony.

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“She’s carrying it,” he said quietly. “All of it. The hundreds we sent back. The one we almost did.”

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He thought about the clones—the real chaotic ones. The way they’d swarmed the town, laughing and bouncing and breaking everything without meaning to. They’d scared him too. He’d hidden under a table in Sugarcube Corner while they banged on the windows chanting “fun.”

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But now… now he wondered.

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They hadn’t been evil. They’d been like hatchling dragons—full of energy, no sense of limits, no idea their play could hurt anypony. If somepony had taken the time—if Twilight had tried a different spell, or Pinkie had taught them boundaries—could a few of them have calmed down? Could more Dianes have come out of it?

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Spike rubbed his eyes.

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“And I didn’t help,” he admitted. “I just went along. Made jokes. Told Twilight it was probably fine. I didn’t ask the hard questions either.”

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He thought of Diane now—living in the attic, working her quiet job, making ponies feel safe without ever needing to be loud about it. She’d turned into somepony important to the town. Somepony who mattered.

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And Twilight had almost erased that.

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Spike’s chest ached.

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“I think that’s why Twilight can’t let it go,” he whispered. “Because Diane’s proof that we might’ve been wrong. Proof that those clones weren’t just problems to solve—they were… possibilities we didn’t give a chance.”

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He flopped back onto the cushions, staring at the ceiling again.

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“I’m glad Diane’s here. I’m glad Pinkie spoke up. And I’m glad Twilight didn’t cast that spell.”

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A small, sad smile tugged at his lips.

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“But I think Twilight’s gonna carry the ‘what if’ forever. And maybe… maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’ll make her think harder next time. Make her choose kindness even when it’s scary.”

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Spike pulled a blanket over himself, curling up small.

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“I just wish I could tell her it’s not all on her. That we all made the choice together. That we’re all learning.”

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He closed his eyes.

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“Night, Twilight,” he murmured to the sleeping library. “You did your best. And tomorrow, maybe we’ll all do a little better.”

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The fire popped once more, then settled into quiet embers.

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And in the silence, Spike finally drifted off—dreaming, for once, not of gems or adventure, but of quiet pink manes and second chances.

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===

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Rarity stood in the dim light of her atelier long after Carousel Boutique had closed for the night. The snow outside muffled every sound, leaving only the soft tick of the grandfather clock and the occasional creak of the building settling. Mannequins draped in half-finished winter gowns stood like silent sentinels around her, their blank faces catching the glow of a single sewing lamp.

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She was supposed to be finishing a commission—an emerald velvet cloak lined with sapphire silk—but the needle had lain idle in her hoof for nearly an hour.

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Her thoughts kept circling back to the same place: a certain pink earth pony with a straight mane, calmly blending milkshakes and turning away rudeness with impeccable, quiet poise.

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Diane.

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Rarity set the cloak aside and walked to the full-length mirror in the corner. She studied her own reflection—perfectly coiffed mane, flawless makeup, posture elegant even in exhaustion. Then she let her shoulders sag, just a little.

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“I was ready to dismiss her entirely,” she murmured to the empty room. “A ‘defective clone,’ Spike called her. A mystery to be solved later. I stood there with the others, prepared to watch Twilight erase her as if she were a smudge on a design sketch.”

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She closed her eyes, remembering the lake: Diane floating serenely in the center, deflecting the spell with nothing more than a suntan screen and a dry quip. Remembering how she herself had fluffed her mane and declared it a problem for another time.

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“How utterly, unforgivably shallow.”

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Rarity opened her eyes again and turned away from the mirror, pacing slowly between the mannequins.

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“I pride myself on seeing beauty in the unique, the unexpected. I champion individuality—different silhouettes, bold colors, fabrics no one else would dare combine. And yet when faced with a pony who was literally one-of-a-kind, born of magic and circumstance… I was ready to see her erased because she didn’t fit the pattern I expected.”

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She stopped at the window, pressing a hoof to the cold glass. Snowflakes drifted past like tiny, imperfect gems.

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“Diane is refined in her own way,” Rarity whispered. “Restrained where Pinkie is exuberant. Measured where Pinkie is spontaneous. She has created an entire aesthetic of calm competence—simple apron, practical ponytail, flavors balanced with precision rather than excess. And she protects her space with a grace I can only admire.”

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A small, rueful smile touched her lips.

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“I went to apologize, of course. Bought a sapphire-berry shake and gushed over the edible pearl dust. But I never said the harder thing.”

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She turned back to the room, voice soft but steady.

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“I was afraid of her, darling. Not because she was dangerous—she clearly wasn’t—but because she forced me to confront how quickly I was willing to discard something… some*pony*… that didn’t match my idea of perfection.”

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Rarity levitated a length of soft gray wool from her fabric shelf—the same shade as the quilt she’d heard Pinkie mention Diane favored.

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“Perfection isn’t uniformity,” she said to the quiet atelier. “It’s harmony among differences. Diane belongs in Ponyville’s tapestry as much as any of us. More, perhaps, because she chose kindness when she had every reason to be bitter.”

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She draped the wool over a mannequin, considering.

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“I almost helped unmake a pony who has since made this town gentler, steadier, sweeter in her quiet way. That is not a smudge on my record, darling. That is a stain.”

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Rarity took a slow, deliberate breath.

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“I can’t change what I almost did. But I can choose to see her—truly see her—from now on. To celebrate her differences rather than fear them. To remember that generosity isn’t just giving gowns and gems. Sometimes it’s giving somepony the space to exist when every rule says they shouldn’t.”

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She returned to her sewing table, picked up the needle, and began working on the emerald cloak again. But this time, as the thread pulled through velvet, she added a subtle inner lining of soft gray wool—quiet, warm, understated.

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A hidden touch of Diane.

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For the pony who had taught her, without ever meaning to, that true elegance sometimes looks like straight pink hair, a calm voice, and the courage to simply be.

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===

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Applejack sat on the back porch of the farmhouse long after supper, the snow-covered orchard stretching out silent and silver under the moonlight. A mug of cider steamed in her hoof, but she hadn’t taken a sip in ten minutes. Big Mac had gone inside, Granny was snoring in her rocker, and Apple Bloom was fast asleep upstairs. The only sounds were the faint creak of the porch swing and the occasional hoot of an owl.

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She stared out at the dark shapes of the apple trees, but her mind was back at the lake that day.

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She could still feel the rope of her lasso coiled against her flank, ready to snag what she’d figured was just another loose copy causing trouble. She’d been practical about it—round ’em up, send ’em back, protect the town, protect Pinkie, protect the farm from more broken fences and trampled crops. Simple. Honest work.

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Except it hadn’t felt simple for a long while now.

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Applejack set the mug down on the railing with a soft clunk.

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“Ah was ready to help erase a pony who hadn’t done a lick of harm,” she said quietly to the night. “Just ’cause she came from the same place as the ones who did.”

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She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, hat tipped low.

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“Diane never wrecked nothin’. Never scared nopony. She just… floated there, calm as a summer pond, and asked a question Ah couldn’t answer. And when Pinkie said she’d helped her—really helped her—Ah still had that lasso half-out, thinkin’ about what was easiest for everypony else.”

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A cold wind rustled the bare branches, sending a light dusting of snow to the ground.

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“Ah keep tellin’ myself we did what we had to with the rest of ’em. They were tearin’ up the town, ruinin’ livelihoods, drivin’ folks half-mad. Sendin’ ’em back was the only way to stop it. But every time Ah see Diane behind that counter, steady and kind, makin’ shakes with the same careful hoof she uses for everything… Ah wonder.”

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She rubbed a hoof across her eyes.

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“Ah wonder if any of the others could’ve turned out different. If we’d tried talkin’ instead of roundin’ up. If one of ’em had been a little quieter, a little slower, a little more like her… would we have given them a chance too? Or would Ah still have reached for my rope?”

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Applejack exhaled, her breath clouding in the frigid air.

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“Honesty ain’t just tellin’ the truth to other ponies. Sometimes it’s tellin’ it to yourself, even when it stings. And the truth is, Ah don’t know if what we did to those clones was mercy, justice, or just the quickest way to make the problem go away so we could all sleep better.”

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She picked up the mug again, finally taking a slow sip of the now-lukewarm cider.

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“Diane’s proof that comin’ from the Mirror Pool don’t mean you’re only trouble. She’s proof that second chances can turn into somethin’ solid and good. And Ah reckon that means we might’ve taken chances away from others who never got to show what they could be.”

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Applejack stood, stretching her stiff legs, and looked out one last time at the sleeping orchard.

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“Ah can’t change what happened. But Ah can do right by the one who’s still here. Ah can make sure she knows she’s wanted, same as anypony born the usual way. And Ah can carry the weight of the rest—quiet-like, the way she carries things.”

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She turned toward the door, pausing with her hoof on the handle.

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“You done good, Diane Pie,” she murmured to the night. “Better’n any of us deserved after that day. And Ah’m mighty glad the lasso stayed coiled.”

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The door creaked softly as she slipped inside, leaving the porch empty and the snow to fall in peace.

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But the farm felt a little more honest for it.

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===

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Fluttershy sat curled up in her cozy living-room chair, the cottage dark except for the gentle flicker of the hearth. Most of her animal friends were already asleep—Angel Bunny tucked in his basket, the birds nestled in their roosts, even the bears hibernating peacefully in the back room. Outside, snow drifted softly past the windows, blanketing the world in hush.

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A half-empty mug of chamomile-honey tea sat cooling on the side table—the same flavor Diane had made for her that day at the Milkshake Palace.

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Fluttershy pulled her blanket tighter around her shoulders, staring into the flames.

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She had waited the longest to visit Diane. Not because she didn’t care—she cared too much. The thought of facing the pony they had almost erased had twisted her stomach with guilt for weeks.

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But when she finally went, Diane hadn’t been angry. Diane had been… kind. Quiet. Understanding.

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Fluttershy’s ears drooped.

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“I should have spoken up that day,” she whispered to the empty room, voice barely louder than the crackle of the fire. “At the lake. Everypony else was talking about fakes and imposters and spells, and I just… stood there. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t try to stop it.”

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A small tear slipped down her cheek.

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“I was scared. Scared of the chaos the clones caused. Scared for my little animal friends. Scared that if I said the wrong thing, I’d make everything worse. So I stayed quiet. And that almost cost Diane her life.”

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She thought of Diane now—living peacefully in the attic above Sugarcube Corner, making milkshakes with careful hooves, protecting fillies from bullies without ever raising her voice, offering quiet refuge to anypony who needed it.

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“Diane is gentle,” Fluttershy murmured. “In her own way, she’s just as gentle as… as me. Maybe gentler, because she doesn’t let fear stop her from doing what’s right. She told Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon to leave without being mean. She faced all of us that day and didn’t run or fight—she just asked a question.”

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Fluttershy’s wings trembled under the blanket.

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“And the others… the ones we sent back…”

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She swallowed hard.

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“They weren’t gentle. They were loud and wild and they scared everypony. But they didn’t know better. They were like… like baby animals who’d never been taught boundaries. All they knew was one thing—fun—and they chased it with everything they had. They didn’t mean to hurt anypony. They just didn’t understand.”

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Her voice cracked.

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“I keep wondering if any of them could have learned. If somepony had been patient with them, talked softly, shown them how to play without breaking things… maybe one of them could have become somepony like Diane. Maybe more than one.”

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Fluttershy wiped her eyes with the edge of the blanket.

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“I’ve spent my whole life believing every creature deserves kindness. That even the scariest ones can change if you give them a chance and show them love. But that day… I didn’t believe it for the clones. I let fear decide for me. And now they’re gone.”

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She looked toward the window, where snowflakes danced in the moonlight.

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“I can’t bring them back. I can’t undo what happened. But I can be better now. I can make sure Diane knows she’s wanted and loved and safe. I can visit her more. Bring her tea when she’s working late. Listen when she needs to talk about things the rest of us try not to think about.”

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Fluttershy took a shaky breath.

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“And I can remember them—the ones who didn’t get a chance. Not to feel guilty forever, but to carry their memory gently. So that if anything like this ever happens again… I’ll speak up. I’ll choose kindness first, even when I’m scared.”

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She reached for the cooled mug, cradling it in her hooves like a small warmth.

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“Thank you, Diane,” she whispered. “For being the pony who stayed. For showing us what we almost lost. For being braver than I was.”

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The fire popped softly. Outside, the snow kept falling—quiet, forgiving, and kind.

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Fluttershy sipped her tea, eyes still on the flames, and let the silence hold her grief and her gratitude in equal measure.

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Some lessons, she thought, come wrapped in pink manes and quiet voices.

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And some debts can only be repaid by becoming a little braver tomorrow than you were yesterday.