The burgundy mare trotted silently down the sidewalk. Her head was lowered, but uncovered; a frown crossed her lips, matched in intensity by her gaze. Her small stature made such a look seem somewhat odd; but the fire in her eyes warded away questions.
The fall wind swept around her, pushing up her hair; she quickly patted it down with an annoyed grunt. It was not an easy task to perform while moving; and as an Earth pony, it was even more obnoxious. As she busied herself with fixing her grey crown, she glared at passerbys, daring them to try and ask her what was wrong.
None did. She huffed, finally getting her hair back into place, and resumed her trotting.
It had been an hour since she had left the Office. She headed down Main Street, then took a right, going down a somewhat busy section. The ponies rushed by her without a word, all clamoring for some dumb advertisement or job. She was thankful that, unlike the commonfolk, her job held actual meaning.
She headed for her usual place: a small cafe at the corner of the smaller Hoofson Street. It was not too busy; only a few ponies were sitting at the tables, mostly drinking coffee. The waiter outside saw her, and waved a hello; she replied with a nod.
“Heya, Minx!” the waiter said cheerfully, his smile wide and friendly. “What’s up?”
“Just here for my daily lunch,” she replied, still not smiling.
Her attitude did not diminish his, and he led her to her usual spot, a table on the far back left in the corner. She sat down, and he gave her a menu. He then took out a notepad. “So, what can I get you?”
“Coffee would be nice. Cream and sugar, please. Not too bitter.”
“Certainly. And for your meal?”
She looked at the menu, carefully going over the choices. Nothing too special caught her eye, so she ordered a simple sandwich of lettuce and feta cheese—the bread being required to be somewhat toasted. The waiter nodded, and took away her menu, promising to have both the beverage and the food out in a few minutes.
Minx then looked away from the cafe, staring across the street. Her eyes moved over the walkways, the paths, and the windows, seeing all sorts of ponies, mares and stallions alike, swiftly trotting past. She wondered where they were going, and why they were moving in such a rush; it wasn’t like what they did was important, right?
Were they a part of an organization that was working for the greater good of the city? Were they all trying to do what they could in the position they had, and more? Did they hold the title of Coercitor Protos—the Prime Enforcer?
Admittedly, she was the only Prime Enforcer of the entire Family, despite being one of its more recent members. But she had risen through the ranks quickly, becoming a reputable force in her own right, earning her the title.
No pony, mare or stallion, could best her when it came to letting the Family have its way. Though not on the level of an Intimidator, she could still drive the most stubborn of residents to leaving town or ruling in favor of members. Behind her small frame lay a strong mare, capable of holding her own against several enemies.
Such a role came with the benefit of having a say in some final matters; a privilege that, to her knowledge, even the former Prime Intimidator himself did not have.
That thought brought to mind what had transpired earlier today. Prose. He’s back. She had read the papers; she was surprised to hear him missing, as was a majority of the Family based in Manehattan. After all, it wasn’t everyday that a pony went missing; and it wasn’t a common occurrence for one of the Family’s members to simply vanish.
She knew Prose not for his stories, but for his efforts in the Family. All of the Family’s members knew of the famous Prime Intimidator. Though his position had since been nullified, his records were still on the books. She herself had gone over some of them, during her earliest years in the organization; she, surprisingly, had been inspired by the stallion’s determination and drive. No pony, aside from Boss himself, desired to help Manehattan more than Prose.
To that end, she had molded herself similarly in Prose’s image, thinking that it would help her as an Enforcer, and later on as the Prime Enforcer. She became colder, smarter, and definitely more arrogant; even sometimes going against orders from the Family to fiercely pursue a target. Yet she was never fired, nor removed; they knew of her importance, and in some ways, she was just as much as an asset as Opacare was.
So she knew why Opacare was vital to the Family. A month prior, she might have seemed to have had different thoughts; confronting Boss about why he cared so much for the stallion seemed evident of this. Though it came not without its repercussions; she still shivered when she remembered Boss’s anger towards Newt, the green stallion having spoken negatively of the author. In truth she understood exactly what made Prose special, and what made him invaluable.
What she did not understand, though, was why the author was so important to Boss.
Nor did she understand why Prose suddenly vanished.
Nor, she realized, why he had returned, and why he had been in the Mayor’s Office an hour before.
The waiter returned, carrying with his magic the hot beverage and and meal. He placed them down in front of her. She did not seem to notice, staring out into the street. He cocked his head, curious.
“Something troubling you, Minx?”
She was tempted to tell him to go about his way, but a part of her needed somepony to talk to. She turned, looking at him, instinctively mirroring Prose’s intense look.
“Do you recall that author from a month ago?” she asked. “The one who vanished?”
He nodded. “Oh, yes. Opacare Prose. He’s returned, you know that?”
“Yes. But why?”
The waiter shrugged. “I don’t know. The papers say it was because he wanted to return home. According to sources in Canterlot, they couldn’t get a lot of information on him.”
“So he was homesick?”
“In a sense.”
“But then why did he vanish in the first place?”
Again, the waiter shrugged. “Ponies are strange, Minx. And Opacare is one of the strangest I’ve heard of. He’s gone incognito before, you know.”
When he was on assignments. “So?”
“So, maybe he took it too far. Got too far away, realized he missed Manehattan, and decided to reappear.”
She frowned. It was a flawed viewpoint; but it offered up an idea that Minx hadn’t considered. The records never said it, but perhaps deep down, Prose was a sentimental stallion. Still, though, the lack of evidence—not that there was much to begin with—was worth the skepticism.
“Maybe,” she said, unsure. The waiter went off to get other orders, and she stirred her coffee silently, the spoon tapping against the ivory side.
The coffee and sandwich tasted great, just as she expected. So why did she still feel perturbed?
With lunch finished, Minx returned to the Office. She didn’t have to do much; it was a slow day. She decided to take the rest of the day off, as she couldn’t get into a working mindset. She said goodbye to the secretary, then walked out, weaving through the northern streets.
Soon she reached her apartment: a rather small abode, relatively speaking, compared to the buildings around it. It helped her remain somewhat anonymous, like a hideaway within the heart of the city.
As she walked up the steps, she pulled out the key from her bag, and unlocked the door. She paused, gathering her thoughts, still troubled.
She opened her mailbox and took the contents out. She opened her apartment’s door and stepped inside, closing it behind her with a soft click. She quickly looked around the apartment, making sure nothing was awry. The table been cleared, and a lone ceiling light hung above. She didn’t live in excess, so the tiny space suited her needs. The kitchen still had a few dishes in its sink; she would have to clean them later. Down the hall was the bedroom and supply closet; a quick glance showed that they had not been tampered with. She sighed, relieved.
She placed the mail onto the table. She moved to her bedroom, setting down her bags. She glanced in the mirror, seeing that her coat was in a somewhat sorrowful state, and her mane was a mess. She walked over to the neighboring bathroom, intending to take a shower.
Her Mark shone on the glass sliding door; a purple eighth note, signaling her talent for music. But she had not used her natural talent in years. There was a reason for that, one that, she reasoned, was well worth it.
She rotated the knob, letting the water flow from the shower-head. She placed a hoof out, felt it was cold, and turned the knob some more, gradually heating the liquid. A plume of steam and vapor rose up. She smiled slightly.
She stepped inside, feeling the water drizzle down her. She groaned. Goddess, she had not realized how much she needed this. The water was like ichor, replenishing her mind and body and soul. She had to stop herself from humming in content. She reached up for the soap and began rubbing it over herself, relishing in the soft bar. She washed off for a few minutes, before reaching up and pouring herself a blob of shampoo. She ran it through her mane, seeing white bubbles drip down to the floor. The scent of peaches and sweet things filled the air.
She continued washing herself until her fur and and mane were drenched. She then turned the knob, turning off the water. As it was cut off, the vapor rose, surrounding her, fogging up the glass even more. It kept her warm for a few moments.
She sucked in a breath as she stepped out, the cold air of the apartment cutting through her. She grabbed a towel, and dried herself, as her body became accustomed to the drop in temperature. Shortly, her red coat and mane were dry, and she placed the towel to the side. She stepped in front of the mirror and grabbed her comb. She brushed down her mane, returning it to its familiar and somewhat poofy image. Her eyes briefly twinkled, before returning to their deep, teal hue.
She walked away from the bathroom slowly, and headed for the dining area. She didn’t plan on eating; rather, she sat herself down, looking over the envelopes. Most were bills, but they were of little concern; her position paid handsomely, so money was not a problem. A few were advertisements, for something regarding a new fall dress, or a supposed “lamp that all ponies need,” or a giant “inflatable tupperware, good for the kids and adults.”
Whatever that was.
Her eyes then fell to the last paper, another advertisement. However, it concerned something more personal. It had a cobalt-blue hardcover as its main image, with gold, embellished lettering on the cover itself. An image of the mythological human lay in front, the subject—a male—in a pensive stance. The word, Logic, revealed the title. To the side, she saw a few more words:
“Celebrate the return of the famous author, Opacare Prose, by buying this special edition hardcover copy of his first story!”
Minx frowned. While she and Prose had not met formally in the Family, she doubted he was a pony who would celebrate his return in such an obnoxious manner. Then again, what did she know; she was basing all that she knew of him on records that the Family kept. Accurate, to a point, but not completely true, she supposed.
Her frown remained even as she tossed the papers into the waste-bin. It seemed that Prose was showing up everywhere; in the Office, in her mind, in her thoughts, and now, in her mailbox. His influence was spreading like wildfire. She had seen it in his eyes; he had returned with a strong purpose, and by extension, was exerting his will over Manehattan, unconsciously.
It was an act of power, if she had ever seen one. And she respected it.
But she did not know why. She did not think even he knew what he was doing.
There was a knock on the door. Minx went to answer it, finding the delivery pony with the daily newspaper. She thanked him with a few bits, before closing the door and walking over to her living area. She flapped open the paper, and her eyes narrowed at the headline article.
“Mugger Captured: Victim States, ‘It Was Prose!’”
It’s like he’s everywhere. Almost as big as the Family.
She placed down the newspaper, sinking into her thoughts. Was Prose this honorable? She had figured that the Prime Intimidator was above helping the regular ponies who inhabited his city. Did that make him weak, or less of a stallion than he was?
Then again, he hadn’t been on assignment. It wasn’t his professional duty; he chose to act.
Just like that essay…
She reached out below the coffee table, pulling out an old binder. She opened it, her eyes skimming over the words.
It was Prose’s essay, the one that had initially earned him fame and stardom. It was the one work she actually liked. Formal, logical, and intriguing, it succeeded in not only coming to a sound conclusion, but giving the reader a chance to question further.
In other words, it was exactly as how Minx imagined Prose to be. Cool, calm, and collected; the perfect example of what each member of the Family should strive for.
She admired him from afar; not in a romantic sense, but in a respectful manner. She knew he was special.
Her surprise confrontation, though, with the stallion, made her pause. He seemed different, somehow. Less calm. She had glanced into his eyes briefly, and had seen more emotion in him than she had expected. He was broken, she believed; shattered into something different. Different from what the city needed, what the Family needed.
He was different; he was strange. A stranger in a familiar body, in the home of a familiar pony. The same, but different. Not the Prose she knew. Not the Prose they knew.
She wondered if that was a bad thing.
She placed the paper back under the table, and rose, still thinking. She glanced out the window. It was nearing late afternoon; evening would soon arrive. It would not help to continue dwelling on such questions for the remainder of the day.
Minx went into her bedroom to rest.
