Sweetie blinked in shock as the red dripped down her face and landed on the floor. Looking down, she saw that it was a thin strip of confetti paper, crumpled and wrinkled everywhere. She felt several other strands poking out of her mane; she lit her horn experimentally, and procured several teals and limes.
“Surprise!” several cheerful, familiar voices shouted out.
Sweetie slowly looked back up, her mind locking in place. Rarity blew the confetti out of her mane with a confused huff. “Pinkie Pie! You do realize how annoying it is to brush confetti out of one’s mane!”
The pink party grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, Rarity. But you know how my party cannon is.”
Rarity sighed, then looked down at her sister. She frowned, noticing Sweetie frozen. “Sweetie? Are you alright?”
The young filly didn’t answer. Slowly her mind began to wind up again as she started to connect the dots of what just happened. Pinkie had fired her signature party cannon at them, blowing confetti in their faces. That meant there was a party going on. But whose?
In front of her was Pinkie, grinning next to her party cannon. Beside her was Applejack, Rainbow Dash, Fluttershy, and Twilight Sparkle, all wearing cone-shaped hats with bright polka-dots around the frames. Two other fillies stood in front of them; she recognized them as Apple Bloom and Scootaloo. All of the ponies had wide, beaming smiles on their faces, which only confused Sweetie even further. Behind them was a large table, draped in party decor, with something large set in the middle and covered by a cloak.
“Huh?” was all she could say.
Rarity sighed, then grabbed Sweetie’s chin. “Look up.”
She did so, seeing a white banner hung overhead. Written in light-blue paint were the words: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SWEETIE BELLE!
Slowly it began to dawn on her. “Happy… birthday?”
“My goodness, Sweetie Belle, you really had forgotten what today was!” Rarity exclaimed.
“It’s… my birthday?” Her eyes widened. “It’s my birthday!”
She jumped up. “It’s my birthday!”
Pinkie fired off another round of her party cannon, once again littering the floor with dozens of confetti pieces. Sweetie didn’t mind, happily jumping around squealing. Apple Bloom and Scootaloo joined in, chanting all the while: “It’s your birthday!”
“She really didn’t know, huh?” Applejack asked as Rarity walked over.
The unicorn shook her head. “No, she did not. I swear, she always has her head up in the clouds.”
“Guess she liked the surprise, though.”
Rarity smiled. “Indeed she did.”
“You were all planning this?” Sweetie asked her friends.
Apple Bloom nodded. “Yup! We wanted to throw something special, seeing that yer now a teenager! Like me!” she added with a toothy grin. She then gave Scootaloo a noogie. “Now we just gotta wait till Scoots here gets to be ten!”
“Hey!” Scootaloo pushed Bloom’s hoof off of her head. “I’m turning thirteen next month!”
“Really? Ya don’t look a year over nine!”
Scootaloo tackled the earth filly with a growl, drawing up confetti and dust. “Why, you—”
“Now, now, girls,” Rarity chided. “If you’re going to squabble, do it another day. After all, today is for a different festivity.”
They untangled themselves, but hadn’t lost their grins. Sweetie gave each of them a hug.
“If you’re done hugging it out,” Rainbow said, “then let’s celebrate!”
At that, Twilight lit her horn, pulling the cloak away from the table. She revealed an assortment of baked goods and a large, triple-layered cake. Frosting decorated the sides, while brown made up the midsection. A few strawberries had been placed on the edges of each wide cylinder, while whip cream puffs dotted the top. Thirteen candles were adorned in a circle, and with Twilight’s magic, burst into pretty flames. Next to the cake was a large punch bowl, with paper cups sitting next to it. Several pastries revolved around the table and cake, leading Sweetie’s eyes on a chase for the most delicious cookie. Her mouth began salivating; she was thankful she had a small breakfast.
“Wow!” Sweetie exclaimed. “Pinkie, you made all this?”
“Well, I had the Cakes help.” She beamed. “Isn’t it great?”
“It’s superb!”
Rarity laughed. “Yes, well, we wanted to pull out all the stops for your birthday.”
Sweetie approached the cake, readying her breath. Once she was close enough, the others began to sing softly:
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Sweetie Belle, happy birthday to you!”
Somewhere, she thought she heard a certain stallion also singing. But it was probably just her imagination. She blew out the candles, making a silent wish. Everyone cheered and clapped as the candle flames faded, leaving behind a faint trail of smoke.
The ponies dove right into the food, grabbing and passing around plates and filling cups. The conversation was light, as Sweetie kept babbling her thanks and shock. Her two filly friends only giggled at her, though they were happy with her reaction. The elder ponies were only a few steps away, happily conversing with one another.
“Girls,” Applejack said, “Ah think we did a mighty fine job here.”
“I do, too,” said Fluttershy, a small smile on her face. “It always makes me happy when I see a filly happy.”
“I know, right!” Rainbow said with a grin. “You’d think Sweetie would have noticed that we were planning this for the past few days!”
“Yes, well…” At that, Rarity’s voice faltered slightly. “She was busy with Opacare.”
“Oh, yes.” Twilight frowned. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure we could pull this off, with everything that had happened just days prior.” She sighed. “I suppose we all needed this, though. To take our minds off of what Prose had said.”
“Speaking of Prose,” Pinkie said, “where is he? I swear I sent him an invitation!”
They all turned to look at Rarity. She shuffled her hooves. “Well… something came up.”
Applejack frowned. “Nothing too tragic, Ah hope?”
“It depends.” Rarity sighed. “Opa, he… he had to deal with Grifford today. Once we arrived in Manehattan, we split up.”
“Split up?” Fluttershy frowned, concerned. “Rarity, are you sure that was a good idea?”
“Believe me, it wasn’t mine. But Prose insisted it. And you saw how quickly he recovered from his crashing into my Boutique. I have no doubt he can handle himself.”
“The question is how will he handle himself,” Twilight muttered. She cleared her throat. “Anyway… let’s not dawdle in that. We’ve got a party to celebrate.” They nodded, turning back to the party, trying to put their unease away at the back of their minds.
The fillies joy—both from the happiness of their friend as well as the food—quickly spread to the older mares, and while the seed on uncertainty still lay in their hearts, it was dormant for now, replaced with a tree of happiness. Sweetie’s smile was infectious as she laughed with her friends; it seemed that nothing could bring down her mood.
Soon the food had been consumed, and the scraps were thrown away. Fluttershy and Twilight helped Pinkie clean up the mess; thankfully, there wasn’t much. Applejack and Rainbow then went to another room to bring out the presents.
“How many rooms are even in this place?” Sweetie asked Apple Bloom.
“There’s five of them,” the tan filly answered. “Two bunks, and three Queen sized beds.”
“Wow! How on Equestria did you all afford all this?”
“Actually, we didn’t,” Rarity answered, stepping over. “Remember Sapphire Shores? She actually owns this hotel, and happily lent out this room for us!”
Sweetie’s eyes widened. “What? Why? I mean, not that that’s a bad thing—it’s really awesome—but what made her do it?”
Rarity tossed her mane. “She told me that she wanted to thank me properly for going to all the trouble to make her dress after the incident with the Diamond Dogs. I told her that I needed a special place to throw you a surprise party, and she happily suggested The Greenwood!”
“And she did it for free?”
“Well, not exactly. She did ask that I keep giving her amazing dresses.” Rarity smiled. “But really, with my talent, that’s pretty much free. What do you think?”
Sweetie hugged her sister. “It’s the best gift ever, Rarity.”
She giggled. “Thanks, Sweetie Belle. But the best is yet to come.”
Applejack and Rainbow returned from the other rooms. They carried with them various gifts and presents, all wrapped up. Cards were attached to the gifts. They placed them down, beckoning everypony over. They gathered around, Sweetie’s eyes as wide as saucers at the array of presents being shown off.
In fact, the sheer amount of gifts was… embarrassing.
“Guys… you didn’t have to get all this for me!” she protested.
“Well…” Rainbow started, but was cut off by an elbow from Applejack.
“It’s alright, Sugarcube,” the farm pony said with a smile. “Just enjoy the gifts.”
Sweetie happily nodded. She began to tear into the gifts one by one, letting out squeals of joy at each item. Twilight had given her a book on magic to help her practice; Fluttershy sewn her a nature-themed dress for next year’s Gala. Pinkie gave a recipe on how to make a special batch of cupcakes (she wasn’t sure if Rarity would allow her to bake), and Rainbow Dash and Applejack had contributed a three-legged toad statue (“I thought you might like having your own mutant pet statue!”) and a set of old songs to sing, respectively.
“Ah heard that ya liked to sing,” explained Applejack. “Thought Ah might give you a bit of country to work with.”
Sweetie blushed. “Oh, I’m not that good. But thanks, Applejack.”
“You most certainly are!” Fluttershy encouraged. “I mean, when you and your friends were staying at my cottage, you had a very strong singing voice!” She smiled as Sweetie’s face turned a bright crimson.
Finally, it was Rarity’s turn to present her gift. She opened her bag with her magic, levitating out a pair of gold-silver tickets, with bronze doves hovering above a set of green holly leaves and red berries in the middle. Sweetie’s eyes widened as she read aloud the word blazed in the center:
“Tickets to Bridleway’s The Phantom Pony of the Opera!”
“There’s more,” Rarity said. “Look at the back.”
Sweetie flipped it over. “‘This ticket ensures that the recipient as earned musical lessons with pop singer Adelante Castele, Winner of Fifteen Grammys.’”
She looked back at her sister. “You mean—”
Rarity nodded with a smile. “It was hard, getting that ticket. But we knew how much you like to sing, and how much you wanted to go into the singing business.” She sniffed. “Honestly, some ponies wouldn’t even let me into the ticket booths, what with all my nagging—”
She was cut off by Sweetie squeezing her tightly. Rarity felt her coat wetten; she looked down, seeing tears in the filly’s eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Rarity patted her on the head, a warm smile on her face. “It wasn’t just me, though. Another pony wanted to help, to make up for all you had done for him?”
“Him?” Sweetie scrunched up her face, before blinking in realization. “Wait, Opa?”
Rarity nodded. She looked at her friends, seeing that they were equally surprised; they had not known about Rarity’s gift, nor Opacare’s participation in its retrieval. “Yes. Prose wanted to lend a helping hoof in making your birthday special. He thought of it as his late thank-you.” She smiled gently. “A thanks for you helping him find his way. I hope it was worth it?”
“It’s more than that! It’s… it’s…” She struggled for the word. “Mirus!”
Rarity chuckled. “Latineigh? Sweetie, I’m impressed; did Prose help you learn that?”
“Yup! He’s helped with a lot of things!” Suddenly her smile vanished, replaced with a frown. “Actually… now that I think about it… he’s done a lot. For all of us.”
They grew concerned, seeing Sweetie suddenly lost in thought. She quickly noticed their looks, and swiftly forced a smile. “But, yeah, it’s wonderful, Rarity. Really.”
Their smiles returned, and they gathered for a group hug. A warmth spread through the filly’s heart; but she couldn’t help feel that there was a piece missing. She realized it was that stallion. Her smile fell slightly, but she kept it up high. After all, Prose wouldn’t want to see her upset. So she melted into the hug, letting the joy of her friends spread through her.
Two things were on Opacare’s mind as he trotted through the streets of Manehattan. One was what he was going to do next. The other was what today meant for a certain filly.
“Happy birthday, Sweetie Belle,” he muttered quietly. “I hope you enjoyed it.” He regretted not being there to see her face she Rarity presented her gift. While he had no official connection to the famed Adelante Castele, it wasn’t hard to get one of ticket suppliers to supply one. Thankfully, he didn’t need to be the Prime Intimidator to get one; all he had to do was include the pony in his next book as a character.
He had smiled when he had heard that request. It wasn’t everyday that you met a pony who wanted little more than a part in your fictional world. He had told the pony that, given the circumstances (of which he had not gone into great detail, but the pony hadn’t minded), it might be a while before he was able to write again. “Take as long as you need,” the pony had said. “And make sure that filly is happy.”
Ponies like that were rare in Manehattan—at least, according to Prose. Walking through the streets, he only saw phonies and fakes trot past him. Their heads were held high, necks bulging, their suits all straight and buttoned; it all looked forced, like an act, a play with terrible actors. He saw the drop in quality; he suspected he was the only one that saw. Rarity certainly hadn’t said anything; and while she had a natural gift for observation, it wasn’t as fine tuned as Prose’s.
Then again, he had been trained by his detective friend.
That thought troubled him, as he once again was confronted with the fact that Raven was forever gone. He shook his head; it would not do well to dwell on such matters.
A stray newspaper flew past him, and he briefly saw the headline: OPACARE PROSE: RETURNED! He frowned, unsure why he did so, as the paper floated away. A few ponies bumped into him, and while both parties exchanged brief apologies, he could tell that something was not genuine.
How a pony could live in Manehattan confused him. It seemed to him that nothing in this city was as it appeared on its surface. It was similar to a 3D map, in that, at the basic level, it showed just enough to intrigue a viewer, but on a more personal level, it became confusing and disorienting. Noises and sights and scents and touches and tastes—they were familiar, yes, and yet foreign.
Did he really know his city as well as he thought he did? Had it changed in the month he had been away? Had it grown worse?
He had no answer; at least, not now. His best bet of getting one was to complete what was first on his mind.
Getting to Grifford Finch.
He considered putting on some of the Illusionary Mud, to disguise himself, but eventually thought otherwise. He only used the Mud when it was imperative; using it, only to wipe it away later, just to reveal himself dramatically to Finch, seemed useless to him. It might have stirred up some drama, perhaps even increased the impact of his return, but to him, it would be impractical. So he kept his bag shut.
He stopped at a crosswalk as the carriages raced by, intending to head down Galloping Boulevard (he had no idea, even to this day, why it had such a silly name). He was working on memory alone. Glancing around, he saw that he was in Central Square; from his mental ruminations, he recalled that Grifford’s office was somewhere in this area of the city.
At the crossway, there was a mare. She seemed to be wanting to be left alone, so Prose obliged, staying a distance from her.
A young stallion, dressed in a business suit, walked up next to him, waiting for the carriages to stop. He saw the mare, and gained a leering look. He then saw Prose, with his cloak and hood, and asked, “Why do you have your hood up?”
Prose barely looked at him, preferring to keep his face hidden. “Isn’t it somewhat chilly?”
“Maybe. But your fur coat oughta keep you warm.”
“I come from warmer places.”
“South?”
“In some ways.”
The stallion nodded, but had a somewhat cocky grin. “Ah. A town pony? Well, welcome to Manehattan. Hopefully you don’t get lost.”
Prose snorted. “I know my way around these streets more than you do, kid.”
“Oh yeah? How so?”
The author took this chance to swiftly glance at the stallion, taking in his details. The suit was neatly pressed, but was of the cheaper brand. He had a faint scent of cologne drifting around him, and, as it was more exotic and had a “rich” feel, he was trying to impress somepony. The tie wasn’t even a real tie; it was a clip-on. Either the stallion was low on funds, was incredibly cheap, or too lazy. It was more likely the second option. Finally, Prose looked at the side pocket, seeing that it was much larger than it should be. It could have been a wallet, but no wallet was that big. He concluded that, based on the imprint, the stallion had some sort of papers with him—perhaps identification.
The stallion was looking away as Prose finished his observation, talking to the nearby mare. He still wore that arrogant grin, flaunting it like it was a trophy. “Yeah,” he was saying, despite the mare looking quite uncomfortable. “I’m a lawyer. Big time. I’ve won seventy different cases.”
Her eyes glanced at Prose, asking silently to get her out of this.
“No, you aren’t,” Prose interjected, making both the ponies look at him. They flinched as they gazed into his carnation eyes, which bore deeply into the stallion. “You’re a stallion who recently lost his job and are heading for an internship as a local small business. You dressed to impress because you know that hardly anypony who goes in there looks like they want to be there. You spent quite a lot of bits on that cologne of yours, evidenced by its exotic quality; but obviously, you failed to indulge in an actual tie and a better branded suit.” He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t lie. I’ll know.”
He pointed a hoof out. “By the way, this is the political district, not the internship section. For that, you’ll need to head right. Have a good day.”
The stallion gaped, his mouth moving, but no words coming out. He spluttered then, as the carriages began to slow, turned and galloped away, heading down where Prose pointed.
The mare thanked Prose for stepping in, but he simply waved her off, not wanting to deal with her overly exuberant thanks and offers of “buying him a coffee next time I see you.”
What a fake, he thought as he stepped over to the other sidewalk. It saddened him that there were still ponies who wanted to lie about who they were; though, he knew he had little place in talking.
Was this city at all genuine? He had thought so in the past; but what if that was simply him being ignorant, led on by the lies that the Family spun? How did he know whether or not the city’s roots were corrupted from the start?
All he could do was change the present for a newer, hopefully brighter future.
He passed a small hospital, and his mind wandered back to his old syringes. Following his return, he had passed them over to Doctor Irons and the Ponyville Hospital, instructing them specifically on where to send them. Since Raven was no longer… present, he needed another way to send out his life-saving blood. Irons had been his first real ally—friend—he had made in Ponyville, and he knew he would get the job done.
Still, though, he felt somewhat alone without the syringes being physically near him. Maybe because they were his longest connection to his past, one that he could never truly hide—not that he wanted to. Those syringes and that blood were his way of helping from afar. Without them, he wondered if he was even more useless than he ever was. Then he wondered if the syringes were what made him useful in the first place.
He frowned. Why was Manehattan making him think like this? He couldn’t recall ever being so deep in thought while he traversed the tangled streets in the past.
He stopped, looking up at a nearby sign. To the north, the Boulevard continued. Behind, to the south, was Trottingway; at a western turn, he would be heading to Bejeweled Pier, where the massive Equestrian Ocean lay beyond. If he turned east, he would be heading into the deeper section of Central Square where, if his memory was correct, lay Grifford’s base. So he turned right, heading down the sidewalk. The sky was enveloped by the massive buildings; it became noticeably darker, even with the city lights on. Even the sounds became muffled underneath the large structures that surrounded Prose.
He wondered if Finch purposely made this street this way. He glanced at the sign. HONORABLE WAY, it read. He nearly chuckled darkly. There was nothing honorable about this road. Even the ponies looked less than worthy—
He stopped, halfway down the street. He heard something, something faint; it was coming from one of the side alleys. Unsure of whether or not he was hearing things, he pressed up against one of the nearby walls, and waited.
“Please…”
It was a female. Young mare, from her voice.
“Back against the wall. Now.”
It was a stallion, much older than her; perhaps Opacare’s age. His voice was gruff, and about as smooth as sandpaper. Prose carefully approached the side of the alleyway, not leaning in all the way, trying to hear the conversation.
“W-what are you doing, Fetlock?”
“Getting what’s rightfully mine, doll.”
Opacare’s eyes narrowed. Fetlock’s voice was lecherous, disgusting the author. It was clear that the mare was in stress.
He half-hesitated on what he should do.
“N-no! Stay back!”
Any hesitation immediately left. He rounded the corner, loudly stopping, drawing their attention. He saw that Fetlock had a twisted blade in his hoof. It flashed dangerously in the light. The whole scene seemed like something from a noir tale. Fetlock’s hoof was tense, as if he had been preparing to slice something.
“What the—” Fetlock growled. “Buddy, you had better step back, and forget what you just saw.”
Prose said nothing, only stepping closer, his anger masked by his frown.
Fetlock spat. “Fine. I’ll gut ya first!”
He lunged forward, sloppily. Prose deftly sidestepped, throwing him off balance. Fetlock swiped at him, slicing his cloak, but not his skin. Prose caught the stray hoof, and twisted, and the blade fell out with a pained cry. The author whirled and slammed the attacker against the wall, his hood falling off with the force. The stallion saw who it he was, and he blanched.
“Y-you’re—”
Opacare headbutted him, knocking him out. He stepped back, breathing somewhat heavily. He glanced at the mare, whose eyes had widened enormously.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She nodded, unable to speak her thanks. “You’re him, aren’t you?” she asked.
He didn’t answer, instead throwing his hood back on. “I’d suggest not getting involved with strange stallions, miss,” he said, turning away. “This city is a dangerous place.”
Ponies had heard the commotion in the alley, and as he stepped out, they trotted over to the mare, questioning her. She pointed to where Prose left, but he had already vanished down the street. The police were notified; Fetlock was imprisoned, and she was left wondering what Prose was doing.
Don’t trust these cities’ streets, Opacare reminded himself some time after. He frowned. The last time he was in Manehattan, crime—in the traditional sense—was actually minimal. Maybe the mugging, the intended rape, whatever that was, was mere coincidence; perhaps evidence of Murphy’s Law. She might have just been caught in a bad place by a bad stallion. He was glad to have helped; but felt uneasy. He hadn’t seen a mugging in years; even as the Comminator Protos, petty crime was near unheard of in Manehattan.
It’s probably just a coincidence, he thought, trying to shake the incident from his mind.
Soon, he stood in front of a tall, wooden, office building. His memory had not failed him, as he glanced at the attention-grabbing letters that were fused on the arch: MAYOR’S OFFICE. The brown wood was a sharp contrast to the dull greys of the surrounding concrete buildings. The windows were blocked, their shades down, preventing one from looking in; Finch evidently didn’t like eyes prying where they shouldn’t be. Behind the shades, he could see the faint silhouettes of various workers; male or female, he could not tell for certain.
He glanced around. Some ponies came and went, none sparing him a single glance, despite his strange clothing. He felt hot, and tired; but did not resolve to remove his cloak. He doubted his presence would surprise Finch; but his workers on the other hand… if Prose was going to usurp Finch’s corrupted hold on the city, he ought to try it in an energetic manner, one that could rile up the wise.
At least, if there were any wise ponies left in Manehattan.
He released a breath. This is it. The doors looked like the gates to another plane of existence. To heaven or hell, he was unsure; but he knew he had to enter at some point.
The gates of eternity wait for only so long, before you are forced to shed your old body and step into that unforgiving light… He shook his head. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking such thoughts.
The late fall air brushed past him. He would hesitate no longer. He raised his head, and walked forward, moving up the marble steps. He pressed a hoof on the knob, seeing that it was oily and worn. He turned it, and pushed forward.
The scene of ponies sitting in cubicles met him. The smell of cheap paper, the click-clack of typewriter keys, the scratching of quills, and the murmurs from concentrating ponies immediately assaulted him. He blinked, closing the door behind him with a click. The number of collars, suits, vests, and dresses made him feel somewhat out of place.
No ponies looked at him, or even acknowledged his presence. He sighed, suddenly depressed.
He began slowly trotting forward, heading for the secretary desk that was on the second floor, just a staircase ahead. The dark, cerulean carpet made his steps soft, and suddenly he was transported into the past, remembering the first time he had entered the office. Old coffee drifted up his nose; he was filled with a sudden sense of nostalgia, dark, dreadful, not at all delightful as one would think. He could hear the ponies of the past whispering, unsure of why he was here, and he, also unsure, frowning and wondering what Grifford wanted to talk to him about…
Then he returned to the present, having suddenly stopped in the middle of the room. He blinked, legs tense, and he realized he was breathing heavily. A few ponies saw him, but glanced away, too indifferent to pay him any attention.
He worried, suddenly overcome with unease, with hesitance, with fear. It was a deep, primal feeling, one that he hadn’t felt since his parents’ passing. It came only when the unknown was being confronted, when he was uncertain of the future, when he could not plan accordingly.
The ground floor’s quiet sounds faded as he approached the stairwell. The area was faintly lit, and had a slightly red shade to it, reminding him of an underground shelter. He traveled up the stairs, hooves clacking against metal steps, as the second level grew easier to hear. He entered past the doorframe, amber light replacing red.
Here, he remembered, was the Communications Bureau. Ponies would send in paperwork to be sent out, as well as have messages shared back and forth between connections. To the front, where the various secretaries worked, was a large, horizontal shelf. Its compartments were filled with papers, parcels, boxes, and packages, all being distributed throughout the city and beyond. It reminded him of a mail office; almost like Ponyville’s, if much larger.
He remembered that one of Finch’s first acts was to have his office become a greater influence on the city, meaning that communication with other governmental and legislative bodies was of utmost importance. The Bureau had been established sometime after he had become Mayor, and, in the eight years that Prose had served the Family, had become one of the most efficient bodies that the city had to offer.
As he stepped out of the frame and onto the orange carpet, he attracted more attention than he had from downstairs. Ponies looked up from their desks, surprised to see somepony else other than a fellow worker. Their stares were filled with confusion as they regarded his attire, as well as his small frown that suggested he had something on his mind. He ignored most of them, already feeling apprehensive.
One mare, however, had yet to see him. She stood up, carrying with her a stack of papers, and walked over to the secretary desk. She placed the papers down, smoke-grey mane flowing behind her burgundy fur coat. He noticed a purple eighth note, two of them, one resting on each flank.
Something about her seemed familiar.
As he approached, he saw that she was actually quite small, compared to him. She stood only up to his mid-neck level. Not many ponies in the Family were that short; he could count maybe three or four. He heard her murmur something to the secretary, who then took the papers and proceeded to wrap a rubber band around them. The red mare nodded as the papers were then covered and placed into one of the racks.
The mare turned, bumping into him. She scowled, and looked up, perhaps to retort. Her eyes, he saw, were deep teal; attractive, he supposed, if he gave her the time. Nonetheless, her eyes widened as he looked back down at her, face-to-face.
She recognizes me.
Unsure what to say—or even if he should say anything—he carefully stepped back, giving her some room. She stared at him for a second longer, before turning back to the secretary.
“I’ll be out for lunch,” she said, before turning and trotting out. Prose did not watch her go. He wondered for a moment if he should have used the Mud; but was once again refuted by the same argument as before.
“Yes?” the secretary said, getting his attention. She seemed curious as to why the mare acted as she did. “May I help you?”
He kept his head down, just enough so that his face was hidden. “I need to see Mayor Finch,” he said, keeping his voice low.
“Do you have an appointment?” The secretary did not seem at all amused by his antics.
He sighed. “No.”
“I’m sure you are well aware that meetings without appointments are promptly cancelled in this office.”
“Please. You need to let me in.”
“I don’t have to do anything, sir.”
He bit back a curse. “It’s an emergency.”
“Many things are.”
“From an old friend.”
“Many ponies say that, but they’re all liars.”
He was growing peeved. “Miss, please—”
“Even if I did believe you,” she interrupted, “it wouldn’t do you any good.” She looked tiredly at him. “Haven’t you heard? Mayor Grifford Finch left for a business trip.”
He blinked, surprised. “Wait, he fled?”
“Did you not hear me? I said he left, as in, of his own free will. Everypony in Manehattan knows that.” She huffed, not catching his irked glare. “How do you not know that?”
“I’ve been away.”
“Foreigners. Always unable to get with the times.”
His tone shifted from annoyed to chillingly curious in a split second. “He’s gone? For certain?”
“What are you, deaf? That’s what I said, right?” she retorted with an eye roll.
He said nothing in return, thinking carefully on this new information. “How long will he be gone?” he asked eventually.
“A few days, maybe.”
He nodded at that. In that case… I suppose he can count himself lucky. He frowned. Not that I had much of an idea to work on, other than confronting him. He berated himself for being too focused on the confrontation, rather than on what he wanted it to result in.
He turned as the secretary asked—annoyed—whether he needed help with something else or not. His only answer was to ignore her, much to her distaste. He allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction as he heard her grumble at the “strange pony from afar.”
As he entered the stairwell, he found himself wondering: what now? He had not counted on Grifford being absent; he could recall a day when the mayor wasn’t busy working. Though, this trip of his was for work, so it wasn’t like he was being lazy. It was simply another aspect of being the mayor. But with Finch gone, Prose could do nothing at the moment.
He found it kind of funny how, despite all his careful, mental planning, he could not account for time as a deciding factor.
I suppose I must wait, he thought, heading back downstairs. Still the ponies on the ground level ignored him, and still he remained mostly silent, heading back into the loud outside, vowing to return sometime later.
It was strange that Opacare found himself in front of the Greenwood. An hour or so had passed since he had left the office; he had initially intended on travelling somewhere else, perhaps deeper into the city, but he was overcome by a sudden desire to return here.
He had not entered yet. He stood next to one of the obsidian columns, pondering. Ponies passed by without so much of a glance; his mind followed for a little while, before growing bored, and retreating back.
For some reason, he was unable—or unwilling—to enter at the moment. Something told him that he should stay outside, like a guard. He reasoned that it was just his nerves, but that voice still remained. He wasn’t sure if he should listen to it, as it was faint. But its concerns were still worth thinking about.
What if it’s all a ruse, a way for Finch to stop me before I stop him? What if he’s waiting for the opportune moment to strike? What’s to say that he won’t target me or somepony else? He lowered his head as his grimace returned. Finch may have seemed out of the picture; but the reality was, he had never left.
His mind found its way back to a memory, one concerning his essay from years prior. The Electiones Facimus: The Essay of Choice. It was not concerned with it being chosen for a contest; rather, it discussed Prose’s views on what it meant to be free, and the importance of having choice was for all ponies. He had written it sometime after his parents’ death, to deal with having to move on, and his decision to honor their memories; his choice.
In that essay, he had written about how choices do not necessarily lead one forward; sometimes, they allow one to look back. Indeed, he could attest to that idea. His choice to go to Ponyville, and eventually meeting Sweetie Belle, Rarity, and the others, helped him confront his past. Once again, he was reminded of their efforts, and he was thankful that they were there.
Prose’s mind then shifted to Finch. The Mayor had made his own decisions and choices, following his father’s death. It led him to taking over the Family, asking Prose to join, and leading to the usurping of the corrupt… only for the legislature to be taken over by perhaps worse politicians. Opacare could never understand why he did what he did; the author remained still ignorant on what Grifford hoped to accomplish.
Peace? Prosperity? He looked at some of the passerby ponies carefully. They hid their emotions well as they walked, but he was sure he saw an underlying sense of fear in their eyes. Even gone, his influence remains, and it is not for the benefit of those he swears to protect.
They had taken similar routes, following great tragedy. Both had met others, accomplished much, and strove to honor what their parents wanted: helping Manehattan in any way they could. But…
But things changed. I became aware. I realized what was happening. I would have no part in it.
His mind drifted back to the ponies inside the hotel. Right now, they were surely celebrating Sweetie’s party, unaware of Prose’s inner conflict. And why should they know? They were happy; Sweetie Belle was happy. All because of a gift of tickets and a connection to a famous singer.
No. It’s more than that. She has yet to see what these streets are really like. All of them have yet to experience what I’ve experienced.
He clenched his hoof tightly, then released it. On his life, he wanted to make sure that none of his new friends—his family, in some ways—would have to go through what this city still suffered. They saw a city of dreams, a shining example of what Equestria could be. He wanted to destroy that illusion, then build it back up so that it became reality.
He moved away from the column, walking up to the hotel. He pushed aside the glass doors, hearing everything fade away, as he made his way to the elevator. He pressed the button for the twenty-fifth.
The doors slid open, and he stepped out, going left. A door approached, and he smiled at the name. He heard voices inside, still celebrating, still happy. His smile widened, and for the moment, he forgot about his troubles, focused on the joy that lay beyond.
He knocked, twice, and waited. The ponies quieted up, and one of them approached the door. It opened with a light hum, revealing Rarity, standing there with a beaming smile. He took off his hood, returning the grin.
“Hello, Opacare. Things went well with Finch?”
“Actually…” She stepped aside, letting him pass. “As it turns out, he wasn’t there.” He shook his head. “I’ll have to confront him another time.”
He let out an “oof” as Sweetie ran into him, hugging him tightly. “I assume you like the gift?” he asked, being met with only a nod. He smiled. “Well… consider me being here, your second gift.”
He knelt down, smiling gently, all woes and worries having apparently vanished. “Surprise; happy birthday, Sweetie Belle.”
