Emotional Compensation

by Kiernan

Chapter the Fifth

Blueblood put on his best fake smile as he stepped out of the carriage. He was not at all looking forward to this event. While it was normal, even expected, that he would make an appearance at a big event such as this, he often enjoyed the experience. This one was significantly different from the usual ones.

It was a picnic in the royal gardens, though that was not what made it odd. The gardens often played host to large outdoor events driven by the nobles. Garden parties, wedding receptions, certain stages of the Grand Galloping Gala; all of these were fair game. A charity fundraiser would be quite at home.

It was also not very odd to see ponies entering through a series of trellises, as if directing them to this particular section. That kept ponies from needing to detour through the castle to reach this particular section of the gardens. These ones were adorned with daisies, primarily of white and yellow.

The food at the catering table was still under preparation, which was a bit odd, but also expected. There was supposed to be a luncheon after the speeches, one of which he was supposed to give. Before that, there was to be a meet-and-greet, coupled with a photo-op with the regional newspaper. The caterers would presumably have plenty of time to finish up.

Even the choice of menu was standard for a party of this type. Very light, very simple dishes meant to not detract from the main theme. Sandwiches made from locally grown flowers with a crisp, summertime flavour.

What made this party odd was the wardrobe allowances and guest list. He’d been to countless charity events to raise money for homeless shelters and enjoyed himself thoroughly. He believed wholeheartedly that they should have a place to stay outside of sleeping in the street. That way he wouldn’t have to see them sleeping in front of buildings he was going to. The less he had to interact with them, the better.

So why were they invited to this one? Surely, they could enjoy the products given to them after the money was raised, so why would they need to attend the event? What would they do, watch the donation box fill up? A fair amount of the donors, including himself, would be extending notes of paper with numbers and signatures on them, partially because it would not be feasible to carry that much money in coins to the event. It wouldn’t even fit in the donation box.

As he walked in, he spotted Fancypants and Fleur De Lis chatting with one of the wretches. Fleur looked bored with the conversation, but Fancypants looked to be enjoying the company, even making gestures with his hooves. How that stallion could stand to be around those unfortunate was a marvel.

“Charming to see you again,” Blueblood smiled, bowing to the event coordinator. “A spectacular day for a luncheon, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” she smiled back, extending her hoof for a shake. “I made sure the weather was going to be nice this afternoon to make sure we could have some good, old-fashioned fun.”

“I can agree to that,” replied Blueblood, not shaking her hoof. “A rousing round of polo would be all manner of enjoyable right now.”

The coordinator withdrew her hoof and looked around. “It’s still a bit early, so not everypony’s around yet, but give them some time, and our special guests will be here soon. If you wish, you can make your donation now. The box is right over here.”

Blueblood made his way to the table indicated and dropped his contribution, a hefty twenty thousand bits, into the box. He had intended to just drop it in the box and leave, arriving early to miss the parade of homeless ponies, but then he’d been asked to give a speech, as he was routinely one of the largest contributors, alongside Fancypants.

Speaking of, he was headed over here now. “Prince Blueblood!” he called out. “Jolly good to see you again. After that whole incident at the restaurant, there were rumours circulating that you might not make it. I’m glad to see that you are fully recovered and in attendance.”

Blueblood had to hold back an outburst. After returning home, he found that the plumber was still fixing the pipes, unsure of what the problem was, and the butler was removing an entire flock of live ducks from his bathroom. After both of those problems were solved, he’d spent the rest of the day scrubbing himself. The colours and patterns had washed away on the first pass, but he still felt unclean, a feeling he was dreading today.

“Ah, the colourant,” he said, trying very hard not to seethe. “Yes, one of the maids had thought it a good idea to put dye into my soap. Rest assured, she has been fired for that embarrassment.”

“Oh, dear,” gasped Fancypants. “I do hope she’ll be alright.”

“And I hope that she will learn from this that her actions have consequences.”

“Are you certain she’s the one that did it?” asked a scruffy-looking stallion, the same one that Fancypants had been talking to earlier. “She might have left everything the way she was supposed to, and somepony else snuck in after she left. Just a thought.”

“And who are you?” asked Blueblood. “Her union representative?”

Fancypants shook his head. “Where are my manners? Prince Blueblood, this is Brace Bedlam. He used to be a construction worker, here in Canterlot. He oversaw the balcony extensions in the guest wing of the castle fifteen years ago. His parent company laid off his entire workforce, and he had to couchsurf for a few years while looking for work. Now he helps keep the shelters stable and up to code.”

Brace extended his hoof in a very obvious manner that Blueblood could not ignore. “A pleasure, Prince Blueblood,” he smiled.

Blueblood took his hoof and shook it, having to hold back his disgust. “Charmed,” he replied curtly.

“Brace and I were just discussing a novel idea to save some space in the bedrooms of these shelters,” continued Fancypants. “I thought it might be an interesting idea if we had the beds fold out from the walls on cables over top of each other, like a bunk bed sort of thing.”

“It was a good thought,” nodded Brace, “and his heart was in the right place, but aside from making the sleeping areas feel more like a prison, it also requires a stronger cross-section in the walls to keep from pulling them in and collapsing the building. Entirely stable with stone and brick buildings, especially on lower floors, but the higher up you go, the less stable stone becomes.”

"Interesting, interesting…" Blueblood muttered, pretending to be interested in the topic. "I never knew all that work went into construction…" Meanwhile, his sense of pride and wealthy taste were busy screaming to the uncaring heavens, begging him to be quit of this talk. Still, he had to swallow his pride if he were to leave in a clean and timely manner.

Luckily, he didn’t have to feign interest much longer, as more guests arrived. Blueblood bid them adieu, and had to suppress a flinch as Brace extended his hoof for another shake. Blueblood hesitantly raised his hoof and took the offering, wearing a false smile and keeping his eyes closed to avoid eye contact with Brace.

As the hooves parted, Blueblood realized he felt a little… itchy, as though something had bit him on the flank. The bite zone was swelling, except that the feeling started from below his neck, trailed down his body, and ended at his hocks and tailbone. He refrained from scratching the itch, knowing what his fellow nobles would think if they caught him with his hoof in such an awkward position, especially in the public sphere. Besides, that's what the bath brushes were for back home—his hooves would wear down their lacquer if he were to ever take the initiative. Though, he did take the time to wipe his hoof on his clothes, to remove the dirt he had to contract through shaking that oily homeless pony's hoof.

As he watched Fancypants, Fleur and Brace trot to the entrance to greet the new arrivals, his mind wandered back to the last interaction he’d had with them. Not Brace, obviously, but the other two. He looked like he’d been wearing cuts of meat, like a barbarian. The image had burned itself into his head, causing nightmares where a planet would show up right next to theirs, as if some sort of sister world, where ponies ate meat. The thought made him sick, and he would need to speak with Auntie Luna about ceasing these dreams.

He glanced about, seeing ponies gathering at where the speeches were going to take place. He steeled himself, completely unaware of the weird looks Brace, Fleur, and Fancypants were giving him, much less their hushed whispers as they talked amongst themselves. Whatever they were saying to each other, he had no further business with them—as the common rabble were fond of saying, 'not his monkeys, not his circus.'

He shelved the thought to prepare himself for his speech. He trotted up, finding a slight crowd forming at the side of the speaker's podium, with a handy-dandy little list affixed to a signpost, which he made sure to look over. Reading it revealed the speaking order for those who would deliver their speeches, and even better, he was only second in line, after the pony who would introduce said speakers to the gathering crowd. That meant he could be done with the affair faster than he thought.

The pony who would introduce the speakers for the speeches stepped up to the podium and tapped at the microphone, causing a minor bit of feedback that had everypony in the front row temporarily wincing. "Sorry, sorry," she said apologetically. "Sometimes we have to make sure everything is in working order, and sometimes feedback is to be expected in our line of work." That caused a murmur amongst the crowd, but ultimately Blueblood paid the whispers little mind.

"Anyway, we are gathered here today to commemorate the opening of the newest shelter in Canterlot, which, for those of you unaware, sits roughly three streets to the west of Restaurant Row." Behind the host, Blueblood noticed, was an enlarged—far too large for any standard fare, he realized—photograph of the building in question, with welcoming marble walls and an oaken door with a sign hanging on the front, emblazoned with the words CANTERLOT HOMELESS SHELTER etched on its swinging surface.

Blueblood took another look at the crowd, and noticed that there were more homeless ponies here than nobility. He had noted that the guest list was open to them, but there were so many, and their attire was appalling. For starters, their clothes were crooked, or had holes, or had dirt, if they were wearing anything at all. For those who weren't adorned with cloth, they had filthy coats, tangled manes and tails, and bald spots in both, indicating years of sleeping on the streets and living off of the refuse of the world. Where some should have had teeth, they instead had gaps, revealing unwashed tongues and yellow discoloration on the few teeth remaining.

Blueblood paled, but had to steel himself. So this was what he had been summoned to. If only he had known sooner, he might have pretended to be sick… but a noble's duties had called him to the front of the line, and by Celestia, he'd fulfill his end of the bargain—and then spend the rest of the event preferably elsewhere if he were allowed to do so. Public image, he remembered, public image—the face of a pony who could be counted on by his lessers.

Worryingly, he noticed more than a few ponies in the crowd and down the line giving him side-glances every now and again. He idly wondered if this was going to turn out like the bad day a week ago, where he had been caught in the most garish accouterments imaginable. The itchy feeling returned, but still, he held his hooves—the brush could come out later, when he had privacy and time to himself. For now… he had to grin and bear it. Better to bite the tongue than the pony leading him by the snout. He was no savage, and would not resort to such barbaric measures.

Also better to bite the tongue, than to face the wrath of his Aunties. He knew that when he was outmatched, outclassed, and quite possibly bamboozled—common sense told him that taking on any alicorn in their home turf was bad news. "Grin and bear it," he reassured himself in the back of his mind, "grin and bear it. Lose your mind in the bathtub later, when not even the trusted maids and butlers can see it."

The speech dragged on for a little, as the hostess extrapolated a little about the newest homeless shelter to grace Canterlot's streets. Terms like 'abused,' 'downtrodden,' 'rendered helpless,' and so forth came from her mouth, as pity flashed in her eyes while her head shook. She sounded as if she had genuine hope that the ponies of Canterlot would come together, and help their less fortunate brethren in their time of need.

Shaking the thought from his head, he listened passively for anything that might be describing him. All the while, he did his best to stay near the stage and away from the filthy homeless ponies. He had been forced to shake one dirty hoof twice today, and it had made his skin crawl. A repeat performance was something he very desperately wanted to avoid.

"And now," smiled the hostess, "without further ado, I would like to call to the stage our first speaker for this event. I would like to direct your attention to one of our most helpful benefactors. He routinely donates the highest of all of our members, because he genuinely cares that much about seeing ponies off the streets and into beds, away from hardship and into job training. A stallion who represents the highest quality of generosity, Prince Blueblood."

There was a fair amount of scattered clapping as Blueblood made his way to the stairs at the back of the stage. He looked down at himself to make sure he was pristine. He did not wish to be dyed suddenly again. He straightened his bowtie and pulled out his cue cards.

As he approached the podium, he heard a few gasps and whispers, then another round of applause, a bit more widespread than the first. He looked over the crowd that had gathered after his arrival, and he just felt insanely filthy. He shuddered, then lifted the cue cards to the podium.

"Good afternoon and welcome to the fundraiser to expand our selection of fine shelters for those who need caring for. It is always a disgust for me to walk down the street and see a pony lying in the gutter, curled up next to a dumpster, or waving a cup at me asking for spare change. It sickens me to know that they're sleeping there on the sidewalk, or to see them eating garbage. That's why I support this cause so vehemently. It's because I hate the homeless–" He flipped through his cue cards. Some of them had gone out of order. "--ness problem that plagues our fair capitol.

"It is in that spirit that we should all come together and do our part. We must open up our hearts to this group and donate our time, effort and capital to ensure that they have the same opportunities as everypony else. Opportunities such as schools, jobs and rocket boots."

There was a hushed murmuring from the crowd at the mention of rocket boots. Had he really meant to say such a thing?

He hadn't, and pulled the card he was reading from up to his face so he could reread it. He hadn't written that, and yet there it was, in his own hoofwriting. How could that possibly be?

"Somepony must have messed with my cards. I didn't write that in."

The crowd broke out into chuckles. Why did they laugh at that? It wasn't a joke. None of this was meant to be a joke. The closest thing to a joke around here was that the organizers decided for some reason to invite their benefactors.

"You know what? I'm done with these." He dropped the cue cards back into his jacket pocket. "I don't need tiny cue cards."

He cleared his throat and looked out over the crowd. "I look out among you today, and I see all of the dirt, dust, debris that covers your faces, and quite frankly, it disgusts me. The fact that you don't have a place where you can go to shower, wash your clothes, clean and cut your mane is an affront to all that I hold dear. One of you, I shook your hoof, and the amount of dirt made my skin crawl.

"That's why it's so very important that this shelter is built as soon as possible. The sooner you are off the streets and capable of contributing to society, the better I will feel. To my fellow philanthropists, I urge you to donate as much as you can. The state of things as they are is not ideal."

A collection of ponies began clapping and one even whistled. No doubt he was charming them.

"Now, when I say…" He stopped and cleared his throat. Something had gone wrong with the microphone on the podium. It had shifted his voice to be higher than it should have been.

"I say we should try…" he stopped again as his voice had been overcorrected to be too low.

He opened his mouth to speak once more, but what came out was not a coherent thought. Rather, it sounded much like the chattering of a dolphin.

His eyes went as wide as dinnerplates and his front hooves darted to his mouth. Somepony was messing with him. He shot a glare in the direction of the sound engineer, only to find that there wasn't one. The structure of the sound booth had been thought to be so simple that they only needed a setup, and not a dedicated technician.

Blueblood opened his mouth to speak again, and this time, there was no dolphin chatter. In its place was the hooting and hollering of some kind of monkey.

As the hostess made her way to the booth, Blueblood covered the mic to speak with her, only to meow at her. Covering the mic did nothing, meaning everypony heard him. They all began to laugh as the hostess tried her very best to fix the issue with the audio.

When Blueblood next opened his mouth, there were no sound effects, but he was still being pitch-shifted up and down as he spoke.

"In any case," he continued, trying his best to ignore the weird sound problem, "We must try our best to ensure that any and all effort is undertaken here, for the sole purpose of refitting Canterlot's homeless shelter to be able to accept more ponies. The less I see them on the street, the better. I don't want to see any of them ever sleeping outside of a store or restaurant ever again. That is all."

He stepped off the stage and shuddered. They were all laughing at him. He hadn't intended for the mic to break. That wasn't part of the plan. And who had messed with his cue cards? He was in an even worse mood than when he'd started.

Once more, the itchiness returned, and this time with the force of ten thousand supercharged fleas stampeding like cattle. His hooves began twitching as he tried to run away from the event, from the laughingstock he had unwittingly become. He wondered, no, dared to entertain the thought that his public image had just taken a nosedive, and now he would need to work his tail off—euch—to set it more or less back on track.

He rounded a corner, and found himself in the garden's small hedge maze. He meandered a bit into it, until he found a dead-end that he could be left alone in. Less chance of the paparazzi finding him. That annoying rabble was more than enough on any normal day, and if he ever had to meet such dense blowhards again, he might have to take a few parkour classes to escape from them. Then again, the pegasi making up much of the local paparazzi would probably make parkouring a more daunting task… Hopefully, things would never come to that.

Now that he was more or less in a quiet spot, a hoof trailed to his other foreleg to begin scratching those incessant itches, and… wait a minute, why did he feel tattered cloth where there should have been pristine white fur? He glanced at his foreleg, and gasped, seeing that somehow… he was in a fraying flannel jacket adorned with dirt, grime, and what looked like donut sprinkles.

He turned about, seeing if perhaps the rest of his body had been tampered with. Unfortunately, it had—on top of the jacket, he had a worn-out undershirt that felt like stone wool, and a pair of filthy, too-tight jeans that felt like sandpaper. His horn lit, and he shucked the offending garments off as quickly and discreetly as he could, itching through the whole nine yards.

Granted, the action somewhat rumpled his coat and mane, but that was a small consolation to pay for the removal of the street filth. He folded the clothes neatly, sending them away to the ether to give to somepony who could properly dispose of the garments later, and turned to his coat again to see if any fleas actually were jumping about in his coat. After a few seconds, he groaned when he saw movement, and conjured a brush with a fine-toothed comb to start purging the little bloodsuckers out with as much impunity as he could muster.

Fortunately, he’d had the foresight to prepare a small spray bottle, filled with water and a special blend of soap that would remove the fleas while leaving him smelling fresh as a daisy. It even dried quickly and didn’t leave a residue. He applied it liberally to his coat, mane, and tail, and worked it through all of him with his brush and comb. By the dozens, fleas were falling off, and even better, they weren't biting him so much as stomping about, trying to escape their fate.

Soon enough, he was more or less alright again. He sent his tools back to the ether, slicked back his mane with a hoof, and frowned. Seeing as he had left the luncheon on short notice, he probably wouldn't be allowed to show his face again afterwards. However, that was no longer his problem, since he had donated to their cause, and took care to have an exit strategy at all. He lit his horn one more time, and produced a spare ascot to wear—after the last kerfuffle, he would much rather have backup clothes to prevent further embarrassment, and the more he had handy, the better.

Once he had put on his spare, he glanced down upon feeling something wooden and somewhat squishy roll up against his hoof… where had all these corks come from? And why did they have plush fleas attached to them by their mouthparts, with little bits of sandpaper stuck to their legs? He leaned over to one plush and sniffed, knowing his special emergency blend anywhere. He glanced around, seeing that he was now surrounded by the things, but not enough to technically constitute drowning in the mass.

This was starting to look like one of those weird dreams again, except he was fighting plush fleas instead of living, warped trees that had once been equine. He sighed and sent the plushies and corks to the ether, if only to have a clear walking space to the other side of the hedge maze. Better him disposing of these things than, say, an unfortunate pony who was supposed to be maintaining this maze—he wasn't completely heartless, after all. Maybe he could donate the plushies to a specialty shop, anonymously of course. Preferably far away from Canterlot.

He started making his way out of the hedge maze, peeking over every corner to make sure the paparazzi wasn't descending on his tail anytime soon. He knew they'd be eating up his earlier stint like candy, and he was in no mood to stick around for that nonsense. Guards or no, he would have rather had it so that such rabble would have been elsewhere, like Griffonstone or Yakyakistan.

The coast was clear so far, but he dared not breathe a sigh of relief yet. He trotted through the maze, and eventually reached the other side without further incident, and even then he did not hedge bets nor count his blessings—not to mince words, but counting blessings was something the common rabble did for a majority of the situations, and the act was generally used by him when, say, the world was ending again. Or at least, it seemed as such.

And as for hedging bets? Hallmark of a gambler, which his parents had thoroughly, thoroughly taught him not to turn out like. There might have been a few somewhere in his family tree of course, but generally, such branches were best pruned to protect the whole tree from succumbing to such rot. At least his ancestors had sense in that regard; any gamble was risky, no matter what it happened to be betting on. The less said about that topic, the better all would be.

As he found his way out of the maze, he made for the garden exit to rush home, but as he turned the corner, he was absolutely horrified to run into Brace Bedlam and the hostess for the event. “There you are,” smiled Blace, wrapping his leg around Blueblood’s shoulder, coating him in filth once more. Sawdust, boiled linseed oil, and chain grease absolutely destroyed his air of cleanliness. “He’s over here!” he called to the hostess.

The hostess rushed over. “Prince Blueblood, you will be pleased to know that we found nothing truly wrong with the audio. One of our many guests used to be a stage technician before losing her job, and found that one of the wires had come loose. We just had to turn it off and back on again.”

Blueblood couldn’t do much more than nod. He was far too close to Brace for comfort, and he was too close to the party to speak his mind out loud.

“The last speaker should be finishing up right about now,” smiled the hostess. “We really should be heading back.”

The way Brace ushered Blueblood along, by patting him on the shoulder with a smile if he strayed too far off his path, Blueblood was happy to go back to the party. Even if he did hate seeing the poor, touching them was much worse.

Fancypants was waiting for them when they came back. “Charming display of comedy there, Blueblood,” he congratulated, vigorously shaking his hoof. “Your impressions were spot on. Way to keep the attention up as the audio system broke down.”

“Don’t forget his chivalry,” added Brace, rubbing Blueblood’s shoulders. “It takes some real guts to walk up on that stage in an outfit like that, just to show that this fate can fall on anypony. A brave, bold statement.”

“Where did you keep that outfit, anyway?” asked Fancypants, inviting the group to one of the many tables. “I didn’t see you come in with it.”

“He dressed in layers, dear,” smiled Fleur. “Didn’t I say he looked puffy when he came in? He was wearing a body suit over it.”

Great. On top of looking like a hobo on the stage throughout his entire speech about how such ponies needed to disappear, anypony that had seen him before going on stage had thought he was fat. Could this day possibly be any worse?

The answer came with Brace putting both his hooves on Blueblood’s shoulders and leaning in so that their faces were right next to each other. “Smile,” he warned.

As Blueblood turned and pulled away in disgust, a flash graced the table. A photographer that had wanted a picture of the two largest contributors had snapped a picture of him retching in disgust. “Perfect,” smiled the reporter. “That’ll be the front page, I’ll make sure of it.”

“You do, and it’ll be the last time you’ll ever work in Canterlot!” spat Blueblood, jumping to his hooves and grabbing for the camera. “Give me that camera!”

He dove across the table, only for the camerapony to take flight and move out of the way. This was not much of a deterrent for Blueblood, who jumped into the air, trying to grab his hoof. When the camerapony took another picture to ensure he had evidence of the event, despite the witnesses, Blueblood’s fury boiled over. He had to ensure that those pictures were destroyed. He charged up a spell, but before he could fire it, Fancypants grabbed his horn and pulled it aside, firing the blast harmlessly into the afternoon sky.

“What is the matter with you?!” scolded Fancypants. “If you didn’t like the way you looked in that picture, he could have very easily taken a new one. That would even be a reasonable request! “I wasn’t ready, give me a moment to fix up my mane,” or something. I’ve had dozens of photos taken where I blinked in the middle and my eyes were closed. It’s not a big deal!”

“It is a big deal when it’s my image on the line!” barked Blueblood. “You forget your place, Baron Fancypants!”

“You forget your place, Prince Blueblood! You are surrounded by more than seventy ponies, at least five of which are photographers and no less than eight journalists! Asking for that photograph to not be used won’t harm your image that much, but what do you think your image will be when countless eyewitnesses saw you try to cast a spell of attack against a photojournalist who is just doing his job?!”

Blueblood’s eyes went wide as he looked around. The whole garden had fallen completely silent, save for the scrawling of pens on paper from ponies with press passes. Fleur and I exchanged glances before returning our attention to the grand spectacle in front of us.

Thankfully, the silent stares did not last very long. Fancypants turned to the crowd and clapped his hooves together. “What say we move on from this incident and temporarily postpone the interviews? I think I heard somepony say lunch was ready?”

He gestured to one of the caterers to back him up. Lunch was very nearly ready, but not quite. It was about five minutes from done, but if they pretended that the macaroni salad was supposed to be warm and divided the meal into courses, they would have enough time to finish between servings. “Right you are,” smiled the chef nervously.

“Excellent,” Fancypants smiled. “Let’s all form a nice, orderly line and set about enjoying our afternoon, shall we?”

As the ponies began to all file toward the serving table, Fancypants turned back to Blueblood. “I don’t know what’s been going on with you lately, but I don’t want any part of it,” he whispered. “Your skit with the voices and the suit and going back home to change out of your costume was a stroke of genius, but right now, I have to wonder if you being at this event is a good idea after that little stunt. I’m in no place to make demands of you, but if I were guilty of such an egregious faux pas, I would duck away, lay low for a few days, and hire a PR consultant. I recommend you do just that. I will run interference for you here, and work to smooth things over with the press. I will do what I can to stop those photos from printing.”

Normally, Blueblood would be insulted. The nobility of Canterlot was a cutthroat bunch, and if you were asked to leave an event as somepony escorted you out, it was severely damaging, and they’d all talk about you behind your back. Fancypants, though, was a coward. He was known for not engaging in conversations involving rumours about other nobles. He was either a very safe confidant, or he was playing a very long con.

“Fine,” he replied, huffing and walking off, “but only because it was my idea.”