> Slow Fade
>  by Bluegrass Brooke
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> The Offer
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Stay on the sunny side, always on the sunny side.” The dust covered mare sang her favorite tune as she piled yet another box onto the wagon, hooves swinging in time to the melody in her head. No matter the circumstances, Pinkamena Diane Pie always had a song to dance to. Her clear voice broke through the morning stillness of the rock farm like a church bell, “Let us greet with a song of cheer each day, though the moment be cloudy or fair.”  

“Pinkie, stop it!” Limestone stamped her calloused hoof against the dirt, sending a concussion that rocked the wagon. “What’s the point in your stupid songs?”

What bee got in her bonnet? “Awe, but, Limestone, we can’t get this little cloud get us down.” Pinkie drew her sister into a hug, surprised to feel her sides tense up like a board. Though she was the stereotypical “tom colt,” Limestone really was sensitive. “It’ll all be okay, Limestone,” she murmured into her sister’s mane.

“But, it’s not going to be okay,” Limestone’s defiant tone set Pinkie back a step. Her sister stood straight, amber eyes flashing menacingly. “You always say it’s going to be fine, that it’ll all work out, but it never does!”

“It does too!” Sometimes . . . Pinkie turned, staring hard at her cutie mark. Three balloons, three balloons for her three wonderful sisters. No matter what happened, she was always the one to make it all okay. There was no way in Equestria she would let them down, not today and not ever. “Don’t worry about it, Limestone. I told you I’m going to Manehattan to fix this humongous misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding?” Igneous’ harsh voice caused both siblings to whirl around and stare at him. The stallion looked as though he had aged five years in the past month. His lined face broke into a pathetic attempt at a smile. “There’s no mistake, Pinkamena. The lease on the farm’s been bought out, there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“But—”

“—No buts, Pinkamena, there’s no changing the inevitable.” Igneous sighed heavily, placing the bag of tools slung across his back onto the mountain of supplies the wagon held. “Speaking to that pony in Manehattan won’t change what’s been done.” From his harsh expression, Pinkie knew exactly what he was about to say, but she would not let him, not this time. 

“Daddy, listen to me.” Pinkie stood tall, puffing out her muscular chest. “Life's not a guarantee. Isn’t that what you’re always saying?” She was not about to watch the man she admired most in life give up on everything he worked for. “Sure maybe it’s a little scary, but sometimes you’ve just got to be brave.” She snorted, tossing her curly mane, “When push comes to shove, we’re the authors of our own story and I for one want a happy ending!”

He stared at her for a long while, as though processing what he had just heard. Then, slowly, he nodded. “All right then, darling. Do what you will. But, we can’t stay here, not for the moment that is.” His eyes fell onto the house, with a kind of pained longing, “If you think going to Manehattan can change anything, why, I won’t stop you, Pinkamena. You make your own way.”

Pinkie jerked a nod, scooping up her saddlebags. “All right then, I’m going to say goodbye to Momma, Marble, and Maud.” She rushed forward, hugging her father tightly. “Stay on the sunny side, Daddy.”

He chuckled softly, returning the hug. “I’ll try, Pinkamena, I’ll try.”
 



 
For most ponies, a sunny spring morning was something to celebrate. For Rory Scribe, it was an ever present irritant. He longed to close the thick curtains of his office to blot out the oppressive rays reflecting off of his rectangular spectacles. However, it was hardly good P.R. for the head of the Scribe Incorporated's treasury department to be wasting money on unnecessary electricity. So he sat in his high backed chair and stared at anything but the blinding light from the window.
 
The newspaper lay neatly folded out on his desk. Though it was only seven, Rory had already read it twice; it was never for pleasure. Only a fool read the Manehattan Times for the enjoyment of it. Hidden within its overly-biased pages were a treasure trove of industry leanings and hints of underhanded deals if one knew where to look, and Rory always knew where to look.

There was a loud knock at the door, announcing the arrival of his secretary. The heavily-pregnant mare walked slowly towards him with the air of a scared filly about to prod a dragon with a stick. Rory could not stop the smirk from stretching across his young face. His voice was laced with an icy venom, "Well, look who decided to show up this morning."
 
She continued in a tentative whisper, "I'm sorry, Mr. Scribe." The pegasus made a hasty bow, spilling the folder full of documents all over the grey carpet. "Oh my, I'll just," With some difficulty, she managed to stoop down and collect up the papers. "There."
 
Rory raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Continue, Keynote."
 
"Yes, Mr. Scribe. I was stopped in the hallway this morning by one of the President's secretaries." Attempting to withdraw the paper caused the stack to shake violently. Somehow, she managed to pull out the appropriate document. "The President has finalized the deal to purchase Eincorn International. Though," She noted his impatient expression and the paper on the desk, "I suppose you already read about that."
 
"I did." He glanced down at Keynote's paper. The familiar wall of numbers and text announced its use as a proof of financial backing statement. "I assume Father wants this as soon as possible?"

Keynote jerked a nod, mane threatening to spring out of her loose bun. "Yes, Mr. Scribe."
 
Rory sighed, drawing a pen from his desk and scrawling his signature on the document without bothering to read the details. There was precious little he did not sign these days. If for some reason he were against signing it, he would have to have a damn good reason for his father to accept the decision. Rory rarely took that risk. He dropped the pen in disgust. There was nothing more degrading to a pony of his stature than mouth writing. Unfortunately, as an earth pony, he had to make do. "There. Send that off," he spat, still glowering at her.
 
Instead of leaving him in peace, she stared intently at him. Her face was tight with a mixture of determination and fear that Rory had never seen from her. That would have to be stopped. He leaned forward, emerald eyes flashing a challenge. "What?"
 
"I want to discuss my termination." Keynote took an uncharacteristically confident stance, puffing her chest out.
 
Why must she go down that rabbit hole? Rory gritted his teeth, leaning back in the chair. "What about it?"
 
"It's because of my pregnancy isn't it?"
 
"That was not the reason given in your termination notice." His eyes drifted unconsciously to her midriff. If there ever was a mare that deserved a steady job, it was Keynote. She was perhaps the best secretary he had worked with, despite her limitation. However, her propensity towards pursuing the truth made her a dangerous liability. It was only a matter of time until she discovered one truth too many, and the consequences of that were well beyond his control.
 
"I know, I know." The mare's expression changed to one of desperation. "I would start back as soon as possible. My husband's out of work, we need the money. Please, Mr. Scribe!"
 
Her incessant begging was like a mosquito buzzing in his ears. Rory sighed, rubbing his temple with a hoof. His words came as a gradual crescendo, "The order for your termination came from the higher ups. I have no say in the matter, Keynote. Get your sorry ass back to work before I terminate you ahead of schedule!"
 
The pegasus scampered out of the room without another word. Rory watched the door shut behind her. He moaned, rubbing a hoof through his slicked down mane. A small tinge of guilt came over him then. Under any normal circumstances, his outburst would have been justified, but this time it felt unnecessarily harsh. He was disgusted with himself for scolding the poor mare. But what was he to do? It was his nature, and that ought to be a good enough explanation for her.
 
Rory took out a pen to begin the morning paperwork. Celestia, how he hated paperwork. Though three financial documents were permanently inscribed on his flank, he wanted nothing to do with them. Nothing made his stomach churn quite like sorting through page after page of finance reports, but he would push through it. As tedious at this work was, he was good at it, and it brought him one step closer to his goal, and that, though hollow, was some measure of comfort.
 



 
Pinkie had seen a lot of buildings; really she had, but nothing could have prepared her for how completely intimidating Scribe Incorporated's headquarters was. The massive onyx structure rose seemingly indefinitely before coming to a vicious looking point at the top. Try as she may to steady her heart rate, she still felt like it might burst at the slightest push. She had to keep moving, if not for her, then for her family.
 
Her hooves echoed against the marble floored entryway. With as much bravery as she could muster, she strode up to the massive front desk. A grey unicorn mare with an unenthused expression was scrolling away on a sheet of parchment with a single minded determination any scholar would be jealous of. It took a moment, but she eventually looked up at her, "Yes?"
 
"I'd like to speak to . . ." Pinkie paused. Who did she want to speak to? "Do you know who's in charge of buying property? Apparently there's been some mistake and our farm's lease was bought up." Mistake was an understatement, it was a fiasco. If she did not sort this mess out, their family would likely have to split up to make ends meet. There was no way in Tartarus she was going to let that happen on her watch. 

"Uh—huh." The mare's deadpan expression rivaled even Maud's. "Do you have an appointment?"
 
Is she serious? Pinkie slapped a hoof to her face, "How could I have an appointment if I don't know who to talk to?"
 
Apparently this was logical to the secretary, because she nodded slowly. "Okay. Let me see if anypony has an opening today."
 
Urgh! Pinkie was itching to get this whole mess over with. It was no fun going to such a boring place. As soon as she got the farm back, she would throw a big celebration party in the barn, that was the way to celebrate.
 
"Here we are." The mare's eyes grew as wide as saucers, darting from the paper in front of her to Pinkie.
 
"What?"
 
"Nothing." She cleared her throat, continuing in her monotone, "Mr. Scribe is available this afternoon if you'd like."
 
"Mr. Scribe?" Pinkie's heart began to race and she thought it might burst then and there. "But isn't he the pony who runs this entire place?" Her hooves stretched out dramatically to emphasize the point.
 
"No." The mare did not seem amused by her gesticulations. "Mr. Scribe not President Scribe. He's the president's son and head of our treasury department."
 
"Oh." Pinkie clutched her chest, glad she would not have to deal with that stress. "So what's a treasury department head do?"
 
"He manages all the money into and out of the company." Her lilac eyes darted to the dusty pink saddlebags slung over her back, and dirt encrusted hooves. "You're new in town, aren't you?"
 
Wow. She’s good! "Yeah. I just came from Ponyville."
 
Her mouth opened as if to say something, but remained as stoic as ever. "I'll write you down for three thirty."
 
"Thanks!" Pinkie's eyes followed her pen's progress across the paper. Her writing was beautiful, much better than hers ever could be. That was to be expected, unicorn writing was almost always easier to read than mouth writing.
 
"Name?" The pen tapped rapidly against her notepad, as though waiting for something else.
 
"What?"
 
She blew a strand of silver forelock out of her eyes. "Your name."
 
"Pinkie Pie; Element of Optimism at your service." Pinkie danced in place, tossing in a touch of confetti in for good measure. Her self-made title always made her family and the ponies of Nickerlite smile and laugh. 
 
The mare’s eyes darted to the confetti strewn floor with a look of purest distain. "Lila, element of pick that shit up or I'm calling security."
 
Pinkie's stomach dropped out from under her. Nopony ever responded to her dance like that, maybe she was just cranky. With all the air of a kicked puppy, she scooped up the confetti and threw it in a nearby trashcan. "All done."
 
"Good." Lila levitated a slip of parchment into Pinkie's hooves. Before Pinkie could thank her, she grabbed her hoof, "Don't get him angry, and for Celestia's sake make yourself presentable," she hissed, eyes darting pointedly towards the elevator.
 
"Right." For some reason, the mare's harsh stare was starting to make her sweat. "I'll do that." She turned around, walking back out the doors. Gee, I hope he's not as grouchy as her. That was scary!




 
Numbers, it was always numbers. It was the language of business, the only language his father understood and the one language he despised more than anything else. But, if he did not speak numbers, he was not permitted to speak at all. That was a lesson Rory had learned years ago and one he would not soon forget. So he sat, compiling the numbers to say just what he willed them to.
 
A loud knock against the door broke his concentration. What now? He snapped back, "Yes? I'm busy."
 
Keynote's tentative voice came from behind the wood, "Mr. Scribe, your three thirty appointment is here."
 
Appointment? I didn't make any appointments. It appeared that the front desk got ahold of his schedule again. What poor sap do I have to break today? "Send them in." A pink earth pony mare walked slowly into his office, eyes darting this way and that. Judging from her balloon adorned cutie mark and overly impressed expression, she was not from Manehattan.  A predatory snarl stretched across his face. This could be fun.
 
"Hiya, Mr. Scribe. I'm Pinkie Pie." The mare literally hopped over to his desk, holding out a hoof. When he did not take it, she let it fall back to the carpet. "Boy am I glad to talk to you. There's been this humongous misunderstanding."
 
Rory raised an eyebrow. Somehow I doubt that. "Yes?"
 
"Well, you see," If her tone of voice was anything to go by, he was about to be in for a long winded explanation. "My family has this rock farm near Nickerlite. We've worked on the land for years and years. But, rock farming's not too profitable, so our family's still paying off the lease for the land a little at a time." She giggled, "But there's been this silly mistake. See, the mayor and town council said that your company bought the lease. But that's impossible 'cause we have the lease. I was kinda hoping you'd fix this whole mess."
 
So that's it. Strange, I didn't take her for a rock farmer's daughter. Rory gave one of his cold laughs. This would be far too easy. He leaned forward on his chair, placing his hooves on the polished surface. "You seem to be under a delusion, Miss Pie."
 
"Delu-what now?"
 
"A delusion, Miss Pie. A fantasy constructed in order to deny reality." He continued, glaring at her from behind his spectacles. "There is no mistake, Miss Pie, Scribe Incorporated has indeed bought the lease for your precious little rock farm. We have paid the entire balance in full, I signed the paperwork myself."
 
The mare's smile shattered like a thousand pieces of glass. Her mouth opened and closed, and her eyes began to glisten. "You can't be serious. It's some kind of joke."
 
"Joke?" He snorted an unfeeling laugh. What was with this mare? Did he look like the type to make idle quips? "I do not joke, Miss Pie. I tell the facts. And the fact is that your family no longer owns that farm."
 
"What would you do with the farm?" Pinkie gave a challenging stamp of her hooves.
 
"It's part of our vertical integration strategy. We control the raw material, we control the prices. Your farm is host to a vast store of mineral reserves." Rory shrugged, "Honestly, I don't care whose farm it is as long as it increases our profit margin."
 
"You're a big bully!"
 
Bully? The word was a familiar one to Rory. It was often used by ponies in desperate situations. They felt the world was somehow unfair and that by tagging the perpetrator of that injustice as a bully they might somehow be justified. Pathetic. Simply pathetic. "The world is neither fair nor just, Miss Pie, it simply is. You may take it as a responsible adult or bemoan the point like a spoiled child."
 
The mare stood quivering for a while, tears beginning to stream down her muzzle. Rory contemplated calling security to remove her, but thought better of it. That would go down in the reports, and his father would certainly bring it up at the next meeting. He could see it now, the treasury department head who was too pathetic to control one whimpering little mare.
 
"I'll do . . ."
 
His ears perked up at that. He had not expected her to continue. "I'm listening"
 
Her shaking slowed, and she stood up straight, eyes full of determination. "I'll do anything! Anything in the world if you'll give us back our farm."
 
Rory could not help but be impressed. Generally, when ponies made that statement, it was groveling on the floor. But this mare, this mare had a kind of fire in her, a fire he had not seen in years. It was oddly refreshing. Perhaps, just perhaps he might make use of her, at the very least, it might prove interesting. "Very well, Miss Pie. I shall see to it that your family gets their precious farm back."
 
"Really? You mean it?"
 
"Oh yes." My but she is gullible. Rory tapped his hoof against the desk, wondering just how far she would go for her precious family. "I'll need your full name."
 
"Pinkamena Diane Pie." She cocked her head to the side, eyeing him suspiciously. "Why do you need to know?"
 
"Legal reasons." Rory withdrew a sheet of paper from the desk and began to scrawl on it with a pen. He did so for a few minutes, then took his personal seal and pressed it to the paper. It was official enough for any lawyer's fancy now. He motioned the mare forward. "Here we are, Miss Pie, a legally binding contract that states that I, Rory Scribe shall return your Nickerlite rock farm into Pie family possession once more."
 
Pinkie breathed a sigh of relief, then glanced up at him. "That's it?"
 
"Oh no, Miss Pie. We haven't gotten to your end of the bargain yet." Rory tapped the paper with his orange hoof. "In this contract, it explicitly states that you, Pinkamena Diane Pie shall serve as my personal secretary as long as I see fit. That you shall not seek another's employment while in my service, shall adhere to all dress codes and policies that I establish, shall not speak of this contract to another living soul, and that you will faithfully keep any sensitive information you might discover about your employer to yourself. Is that understood?"
 
"I guess," her voice held the slightest hint of apprehension.
 
Now we'll see how desperate you are. He smirked, slowly withdrawing the contract. "This is my one and only offer, Miss Pie. Refuse and your family will lose the farm."
 
Pinkie gulped, looking between him and the paper. Then, she slammed a hoof against the desk. "I accept."
 
"Smart girl." He signed the paper and tossed her the pen.
 
With only a moment's hesitation, she scrolled her name at the bottom. Then, she looked into his eyes. "Why do you want an optimism pony as a secretary anyway? You need cheering up?”
 
The very idea disgusted him. Optimism pony? Well that explains the ludicrous cutie mark. "No, Miss Pie. I have my reasons." Rory cleared his throat, "You will start work at seven am sharp three days from now. In that time, you will close out any former employment and make arrangements for your personal belongings to come with you to Manehattan."
 
"WHAT? I can't go to Manehattan! I live on the rock farm." A visible panic filled her eyes. "They need me! Who will put a smile on their faces?"
 
"I don't care." It was amusing to see how he had shattered her entire world a few simple words. How remarkably easy it was, and how satisfying. "Once you signed that contract you gave up such luxuries!"
 
"I . . . I" Tears started to spill down her cheeks. "But my friends, my family."
 
He shrugged, "Break ties with them. You are pursuing a career in Manehattan, that is all they need to know."
 
Her hoof struck the floor so hard the desk shook, "No! I won't and you can't make me!"
 
My, but she was confident. That would have to be fixed. Rory slid the chair back, standing for the first time. A familiar stinging pain radiated up his right foreleg, but he bit it back. He walked around the desk, his distinct uneven gait making a soft tattoo against the carpet.
 
She watched him, and cringed a little. Rory knew what she was looking at. His leg was badly twisted and warped into a permanent forward bend. The sight of her looking made his blood boil. Why was it always the first thing anypony noticed about him? He so despised it. "Miss Pie, you have once again fallen under a delusion."
 
"Oh have I now?"
 
"You told me a few minutes ago that you would do anything to save that precious little farm of yours."
 
"That's right." She tossed her head defiantly, "What about it?"
 
Rory gave a cold chuckle, "My how naïve you are. I gave you a good, reasonable offer."
 
"Really? I don't think so!" She spat the words like a curse, visibly bristling.
 
Before the mare had time to react, he pushed her back against the carpet. Compensating for his weak limbs, he targeted her pressure points with all his weight to immobilize her.
 
Pinkie’s eyes looked pleadingly into his. "Stop it. You're hurting me," she murmured.
 
"Am I? Too bad!" His harsh voice echoed around the office. He lowered his head until his hot breath mixed with hers and whispered, "I could have easily asked for this. Then what would you have done?" Before she could protest, he pressed his muzzle to her cheek, rubbing his face against hers.
 
Pinkie began to sob, starting to give a credible struggle. Seeing that his little display might cause an outburst, he released her, standing straight again. There was a fear in her eyes that had not been there before. He laughed coldly. "You asked me why I wanted you as a secretary. I'll tell you the reason, and it's right before me."
 
He allowed her to stand, "You are innocent, you've lived your whole life sheltered from the realities of life. Every aspect of your life is dictated by the mistaken assumption that the world is 'good' and ponies naturally want to do the right thing. In essence, Miss Pie, you are a living delusion."
 
"I'm . . . I'm not."
 
Rory snorted, "Really? What do you believe I was going to do to you just now? Can you say that for a brief moment, you did not think I would force myself upon you as a stallion?"
 
She shook her head, "No! I knew you wouldn't. Nopony would do something like that. You just scared me." Upon seeing his disbelieving expression, her eyes focused on the ground. "All right. I didn't want you to kiss me like that. That's something you do with somepony you love."
 
"Is that all you thought I'd do? Celestia you're dense." Another surge of pain coursed through his leg. His little show had cost him. He decided to finish up their tête a tête. "I want you as a secretary so that I can watch your innocent delusion crumble piece by piece. End of story."
 
Pinkie looked stricken with panic. "I'm not under a delusion. You are!" It was obvious that his little conversation was taking effect, however. Her eyes focused on his, "What if I tell the police? Then what?”
 
He could not stop the smirk from stretching across his face. “The authorities? My dear, we own the authorities!”

“No you don’t! Nopony does.”

“Really? How naïve are you?” He jerked his head to the window and the view of Manehattan beyond. “This city and every pony in it has a price. Shove enough bits their way, and even the police will turn a blind eye.”

Her confident expression faltered for an instant, "But it’s not right. I’ll . . . I’ll tell the princesses then, they’ll believe me."

Rory gave her his most dangerous glare. This was an excellent opportunity to watch an idealistic mare being brought down to reality, to watch her slowly tear away at the seams. But, to enjoy the rose, he would have to clip the thorns. "You know fire is a dangerous thing, Miss Pie."
 
“Fire?”

"Yes, it takes no favorites, consuming everything in its path. I wonder what it feels like to be slowly cooked to death in the flames? It can't be pleasant." Rory savored her slowly dawning expression of horror. "I can see the headlines now, 'Pie Family Burned to Death in their Own Home.' Or, my personal favorite, 'A Tragic Accident: Pie Family Killed by Their Own Rock Tumbler.'" Oh yes, that had done it.
 
He watched her slowly slink back towards the door. "I . . . I won't tell. Don't hurt them."
 
"As long as you keep your end of the bargain, Miss Pie," his words were laced with venom.
 
There was no more confidence left in the mare’s voice now. "I will."
 
"Good. I'll see you three days from now, Miss Pie. Don't be late." Rory watched her slide out of the room. The moment she left, he collapsed onto the carpet, gripping his leg. It took every ounce of self-control he had not to scream in agony. Shouldn't have bent it. Laying on the floor, he began to wonder why. Why had he done that to her? Never in his life had he constructed such an elaborate way to make another pony's life so miserable. He took a sick satisfaction in that knowledge. The moment he had dreaded his entire life had come to pass. He, Rory Scribe was exactly like his father.

> The New Secretary
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Most ponies in Nickerlite seemed bent on the idea that the Pie family was anti-social. The truth was, with all the work to be done on the farm there was precious little time to walk all the way to town to chit chat. As such, Pinkie’s entire world had revolved around her family for as long as she could remember. Though her optimism and boisterous attitude went over well with the townsponies, she had few opportunities to spread the cheer on a wide scale. Needless to say, it was more than a little overwhelming to be thrust into an entire city full to bursting with the meanest ponies Pinkie had ever met.

Since her arrival yesterday morning, only two ponies had smiled at her. Two in all of Manehattan! It was downright unnerving. One on one, she was certain she could make anypony smile, but not in huge masses like this. Her eyes darted across the bustling scene in front of her. Hundreds of ponies darting to work, and nopony bothering to spare even so much as a quick hello. Just pushing, shoving, yelling, and grumpy mumbling. 

“Out of the way!” A burly earth pony nearly knocked her to the pavement. Pinkie cringed, adjusting her saddlebags. In them was every possession she could afford to take with her, which admittedly was not much. Her family was far from wealthy, and so it would be up to her to make her way. 

Arriving at the base of Scribe Incorporated’s headquarters, she had a sinking sensation this was not going to be as easy as she originally thought. As it was the beginning of the work day, ponies filtered in and out of the swinging glass doors like the swarm of ants that gathered at the edge of the family barn. Stepping inside just made the situation worse. The cavernous entry room was full to bursting with chattering ponies, causing a nearly deafening racket.

As soon as she could, she veered down a side hallway to the stairs. Blessed silence greeted her as she walked inside the dimly lit stairwell. Thank Celestia. Slowly, methodically, she made her way up the stairs and up and up. Finally her hooves met the landing of the seventeenth floor. Seventeen floors! A few days ago, she never would have imagined that was possible, but here she was. Today Pinkamena Diane Pie was starting her career as a secretary for the largest company in Manehattan.

The long hall felt like the mouth of a great cave, ready to swallow her in one great gulp. It took a few seconds of staring at the massive oak doors before she garnered the courage to push them open and step inside. She was greeted by the furious clicking of a typewriter. Pinkie grinned broadly at the mare behind the desk. “Hiya, Keynote!”

Keynote looked up at her, mouth hung open like a fish. “Miss Pie? What in Equestria are you doing back here?”

“Uh . . .” Seriously? “Don’t you know?”

“Know what?” 

“Well,” Pinkie jerked her head to the door on the opposite end of the room, “I’m starting work as a secretary today. So I guess that makes us secretary buddies!”

Rather than the expected smile, Keynote frowned deeply, looking down at the typewriter. “There must be some mistake, Miss Pie. Mr. Scribe needs only one secretary, and at least for the next few weeks, that means me.”

Really? Pinkie gesticulated around the pristine office, “But, Mr. Scribe said I had to come in today and not to be late.”

Keynote rolled her amber eyes, “We’ll just see about that.” Getting shakily to her hooves, she strode over to her as if they were about to have a duel. “Come on, Miss Pie, we’ll clear up this little misunderstanding.” 

She led her to the door, and without even knocking, swung it open. “Mr. Scribe, we must have a word.”

Mr. Scribe looked every bit as grouchy as he had three days ago. His ears laid flat against his head as they approached. “And just what in Equestria is that,” he pointed to Pinkie as if she were some kind of wayward Diamond Dog, “doing in my office?”

“That’s what I want to know, Mr. Scribe.” Keynote eyed her with a look bordering on resentment. “She claims you’ve hired her as a secretary, but that’s simply ridiculous. Of course you wouldn’t hire some child from the country as your secretary.”

Mr. Scribe smirked, leaning back in the chair. “Miss Pie is not mistaken, Keynote. I have hired her as your replacement, you are to train her.”

Pinkie couldn’t help but wince as Keynote started to shake like a little filly. “You can’t be serious, Mr. Scribe!”

He raised an eyebrow, “Do I look like I’m joking, Keynote?”

“No, Mr. Scribe.”

“Good, now that that’s settled,” he motioned Pinkie to come closer, “I’d like you to explain why in Equestria you showed up to work at my office in such a state, Miss Pie.”

“What state?” Pinkie spun around in circles, looking herself over. Her coat was practically dust free, and she had even run a comb through her mane. Heck, her hooves were almost pink after the scrub she had given them. 

Mr. Scribe clapped a hoof to his face. “Really, Miss Pie. I have an image to uphold. What image do you think you are projecting at the moment?”

“One of utmost optimism,” she proclaimed without hesitation.

“Yes, optimism and poverty. By Celestia, take a look in the mirror. Get yourself,” he gestured at all of her, “presentable before noon. I want a clean, professional outfit, a tight bun, the whole nine yards. I won’t have our image sullied by your . . . rustic preferences.”

“Okey dokey then!” Pinkie made to hop away, but froze in place. Oops, almost forgot. “Uh, Mr. Scribe?”

He rubbed his temple with a hoof, “What now?”

“I uh . . . I kinda don’t have any bits to buy clothes with.” She chuckled sheepishly. “Could I maybe borrow some?”

For an instant it looked like he might chuck his paperweight at her, but he just nodded curtly. “Very well. However, you will repay them with interest, Miss Pie.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a small pouch of bits. Just as she was about to take them, he placed his hoof atop them. His eyes met hers in a look of sudden realization, “Do you have lodgings, Miss Pie?”

“Lodge-what now?”

“A place to stay,” Keynote supplied curtly, continuing to avoid eye contact with her. 

“Oh, nope! I slept in that super big park last night.” Pinkie grinned, remembering all the lovely ponies with cardboard forts she had hung out with. “They’ve got everything there! Like trashcans with fire, all kinds of games, and really interesting food.”

Mr. Scribe stared at her as if she were two rocks shy of a rock tumbler. “Uh-huh.” Sighing, he took a slip of paper from the desk, scrawling something on it with his pen. Folding it, he stuffed it into the bag and handed the bits to her. “There. Talk to her tonight, and she should be able to set you up.” With an imperious wave, he dismissed them.

Pinkie slipped the pouch into her saddlebags, hopping out of the office ahead of Keynote. As soon as they had closed the door behind them, Pinkie breathed a long sigh of relief. “Wow, that was crazy, wasn’t it, Keynote?” 

“Sure,” there was a bitter tone in the mare’s voice that set Pinkie’s hairs on end. 

“What’s wrong?”

Keynote looked down at her dusk blue hooves, frowning, “I just . . . I was hoping that Mr. Scribe would reconsider letting me go.”

“Letting you go?” Pinkie’s heart lurched at the words. They were not new to her, in fact she had heard them countless times before. Igneous would hire some wayward drifter, and just as sure as the water cascaded over the falls, they would fall short of expectations. Then it was that inevitable talk, as flat and rehearsed as any script. ‘Sorry, but we’re going to have to let you go.’ Just like that, they’d be gone. 

Her eyes looked sadly into Pinkie’s before focusing on her desk. “Mr. Scribe told me the order came from the higher ups. I’ve only got a few weeks left, and my husband’s out of work,” she murmured, avoiding eye contact.

Without hesitation and before Keynote could protest, Pinkie wrapped her in a tight hug. “It’s okay, Keynote, it’ll all work out, you’ll see.” It was the same kind of speech she gave her family, and admittedly, it did not solve a lot. However, sometimes the best medicine was just knowing that somepony out there cared. “You’ve got your husband and you’ll have your foal soon, and I’m sure they’ll always love you.”

“Yes, but, what if I can’t provide for them? What then, Miss Pie?”

Pinkie took a step back, voice rising. “Let me tell you something, Keynote, something Daddy taught me over and over. Life’s not set in stone, there’s bound to be a hiccup here and there. But,” she placed a hoof on Keynote’s back, “you’d be surprised where those setbacks can take you if you’re open to the possibilities. Who knows, losing this job could lead you to an even better one.”

Keynote’s laugh tinkled around the office like a set of windchimes. “Guess you really are an optimism pony, Miss Pie.” She cleared her throat, looking at the mountain of paperwork stacked on the desk. “Why don’t we start your training? Then, we’ll take an early lunch and get you some decent clothes.”

“Awesome!” Pinkie sat down on the spare chair, watching Keynote gather the necessary supplies. Though, this time there was a clear, happy swing to her step. Yup, still got it, Pinkie, still got it. 





Would you look at that. Rory stared wide eyed at page two-hundred and thirty-seven of the annual report as if it were a particularly gripping passage in a thriller novel. Though it was sent to him four months ago, its contents were far from obsolete. In fact, at that moment, the report was nothing short of timely. The article in yesterday’s paper may have been “dull as dirt” to the average Manehattan reader, but it had sent shivers up his spine. 

Six months. He had been tracking that scumbag for six months, and he finally had him pinned down. Embezzling funds from the company one minute and professing his charitable donations the next. It would be easy, far too easy to work his “diplomacy”on the scrawny rat of a stallion. Once that was accomplished, he would have more than a little political currency to spend at his leisure. 

A sickening familiar green aura surrounded his door, and Rory just managed to close the report and scramble to his hooves before Storm Scribe strode into his office. The tall, ebony stallion glided over to the desk in that imperious manner he always used. “Well, it seems you have been keeping busy, Rory.”

“Yes, President. Though I always keep busy,” Rory made certain to lace the words with as much contempt as he dared.

Storm sniffed disapprovingly, but said nothing more on that subject. Rather, he levitated the chair over and sat facing him as it it was his office Rory was barging into. “What happened to the Troxel research fund?” Though he said the words with a neutral, almost bored tone, Rory knew better. The stallion was furious, and if he did not respond appropriately, there would be trouble.

“The fund was . . . mishandled by the project manager.” Despite the disturbing intensity flashing in Storm’s eyes, Rory knew better than to look away. “I have fired him of course and the funds have been reinvested.”

Storm raised an eyebrow, “Reinvested? By whom?”

“I’ve assigned Farthing to the job.” Rory could not help but admire the cheerful stallion and his uncanny ability to repair the damage to just about any financial disaster. “He’s a good pony, he’ll make it right.”

“A good pony?” Storm’s voice rose ever so slightly, and Rory felt his stomach drop. “Do you think I hire ponies because they are ‘good,’ Rory?”

“No, sir.”

A loud thud echoed around the office as Storm slammed his hoof against the hardwood. “No indeed! I don’t give a damn about their moral tendencies as long as they don’t interfere with my company,” he emphasized the word as if Rory needed a reminder. “Is he good with finances?”

“Yes,” Rory choked, trying to steady his now quivering legs, “the best of the best, sir. He’s saved over six projects from tanking last year alone.”

“Good, good,” Storm practically purred, leaning back in the chair. For a moment, he stared out the window, making his eyes glisten like the emeralds they so resembled. Then, slowly, he turned back to him, “How many hours?”

“Sir?” What’s he playing at now?

Storm tapped a hoof impatiently against the desk. “How many hours have you been giving to the company a week, Rory?”

“Eighty-five,” he murmured, pawing at the carpet.

“Why only that?”

Rory’s stomach churned. It was obvious where Storm was headed, and he might have well been trying to stop a train for all the good his protests would do. “I . . . I take Sundays off, sir.”

“That’s right,” his voice was full of that blood chilling venom he reserved just for their conversations, “and do you see me taking Sundays off?”

“No sir.”

“Precisely.” Storm leaned closer, an all too familiar smirk of satisfaction creasing the corners of his mouth. “So, tell me, Rory, why does my son get to take a day off while his father, the President of the company works every day?”

Rory gritted his teeth, glancing unconsciously down at his warped leg, “I need the rest, sir.”

“Rest?” The smirk turned into a scowl, “Are you trying to imply that a healthy young earth pony needs more rest than a middle aged unicorn? How pathetic are you?”

“I—”

“There is to be no discussion, Rory. You will either work on Sundays, or make up the fourteen hours you are so carelessly throwing away each week.” Storm got to his hooves, “I don’t think that is an unreasonable request.”

“No, sir.” Rory waited for the stallion to leave, but he just continued to stare fixedly at him. What now? “Yes?”

“I have found you a new secretary. She’s a unicorn from a tolerably wealthy family.” Storm started towards the door, “I’ve had enough humoring your preferences for pegasi and earth ponies. She’ll start on—”

“I already have a new secretary,” the words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop himself. However, now that he was committed, he might as well make it count. “She’s from a good family herself.” A good rock farming family. “I’m quite satisfied with her.” Really, who could be satisfied with a country bumpkin like her? “So, I won’t be able to take you up on that, President.”

Storm actually gaped at him. It would have been comical if Rory had not known the stallion better. “You found a secretary? I told you I would handle the matter.”

Rory smirked a little himself, “What, are you telling me that the overly busy president of our company needs to take the time to find his son a secretary? How pathetic do you want them to think you are?” Oh, he was in trouble, but he could have cared less. The look of utter contempt on his father’s face made it all worthwhile. 

“You . . .” he hissed, looking practically murderous. However, to Rory’s amazement, he merely spun around towards the door. “Very well. I must say I will enjoy the show. I’m certain she’s just perfect for the position.” Without another word he exited the office, slamming the door so hard the walls shook.

Rory breathed an involuntary sigh of relief, then, before he knew why began to laugh. “Celestia above, the look on his face . . .” Gaining composure, he limped around the desk to retrieve his chair. The implications of their conversation began to sink in as he settled down to the report once more. Fourteen more hours a week, how was he going to manage that? He sighed, turning his attention to the task at hand. Numbers, it was always numbers . . .





“Look at that!” Pinkie darted over to yet another storefront display, eyes glistening like a foal in a candy store. She might just have been in one with the ridiculously extravagant window displays along the street. They had nothing like the pieces of artwork that made up Manehattan’s primary form of advertising. “Do you see that, Keynote? They’ve got little paper birds everywhere!”

“Miss Pie, do try to contain some of your excitement,” Keynote mumbled, eyeing the now gawking ponies around them with an expression bordering on apprehension. 

Pinkie felt her face heat up. Oopsies, got a little excited. With one final look at the Spring display, she trotted over to Keynote’s side once more. “So, where are we going first?”

“Sheer’s.”  Keynote set off at a surprisingly brisk pace for a mare with a baby on the way. “We’d best make good time, Miss Pie. It’s a fifteen minute walk, and we can’t be late getting back to Mr. Scribe’s office.”

“Right! But,” Pinkie’s eyes caught sight of the ocean of clothing stores around them. “Why don’t we shop at these stores? They’re closer.”

Keynote snorted, rolling her eyes. “Because politics, Miss Pie.”

“Politics?” The only time she heard that word was when her father would grumble about how unfair the rock prices were. ‘Politics, always with the politics. Everypony for himself, I swear . . .’ She never bothered to ask him what “politics” meant, but assumed it had to do something to do with greed. “What do you mean?”

There was a long pause while they waited for the signal to cross the street, then Keynote spoke in as soft a voice as possible without being drowned out by the constant hum of conversation, “Politics is the engine of Manehattan, Miss Pie. One cannot simply act of one’s own volition.”

“Voli-what now?”

“Volition.” Keynote sighed, “Listen, I’ll tell you the basics, and you’d best pay attention or you’ll end up in deep water.”

Pinkie’s hooves shook a little at the dark expression on Keynote’s face. Whatever she was going to explain, it seemed as though it would be far from pleasant. “Okey dokey then.”

“Very good. You see that,” her hoof gestured to an intimidating brick department store across the street, “That is Prescot’s. The store is owned by Prescot Incorporated, also known as Scribe Incorporated’s top business rival. They’ve been arguing over the rights to the Main street storefronts for years now.”

“Really? Why can’t they just share?”

Keynote shot her a particularly exasperated look, “Miss Pie, do you honestly think ponies like Mr. Scribe partake in ‘sharing’ willingly?”

Pinkie thought about that for a moment. “Well . . . yeah, I mean, everypony wins if you share. That’s what Momma always says.”

“Well, in the real world, Miss Pie, it’s everypony for himself. If you can’t outdo your competitors, you yourself are outdone.” Keynote’s soft amber eyes focused on a boarded up store, “There’s no sympathy in Manehattan, it’s cut and dry, eat or be eaten, win or lose, there’s no middle ground and there never will be.”

The speech was starting to make her feel queasy. There was no way so many ponies thought like that, was there? It sounded like something that would be in a drama, not in an an inescapable reality as Keynote claimed. However, looking around at the stores, the cold stares of the ponies, and the strange, almost forced distance between them, she had to wonder if the pegasus didn’t have a point. 

“Now then, Miss Pie, because of the competition, a single pony can’t make it on their own. Therefore, they align themselves with whatever company, gang, or union they can.” Keynote glanced around them, as though double checking that nopony was listening, “I’m going to tell you the important ones, it will be your job to keep them straight in the future.”

“Okay.” Pinkie listened to the long winded explanation, mentally filing away the information. It was a lot to take in, but she knew she could handle it. The street gradually grew less crowded as they neared Sheer’s. 

Once they arrived at the massive open doors, Keynote pulled her aside. “So, who owns Sheer’s?”

“Scribe Incorporated.”

She jerked a nod, “Correct. Now why don’t we shop at or associate with Trottingham’s?”

“It’s owned by the South-Town Gang leader Phineas, and he’s been on the President’s bad side for five years now since he failed to pay a debt.”

Keynote gave her a soft smile. “Correct. I think you shall do well, Miss Pie. Now come along, we’ve got to get you presentable before our break is over.”

“Okay!” Pinkie trotted into the store behind Keynote, mulling over their conversation. With all these connections and dealings, it sounded like Manehattan was one big spider web. And she had landed smack dab in the center of it. 





Rory popped yet another pill, getting shakily to his hooves. Not even his regular abuse of painkillers was enough to slow the constant radiating pain in his warped limb. He limped over to the door, trying to decide if it felt good to stretch or horrible to bend his leg. Stepping out into the office, he collided with Keynote. His stomach churned when she staggered, and he reacted instinctively to catch her. Unfortunately, it was his bad leg that caught her. 

Gritting his teeth from the pain, he gently pushed her upright again. “Sorry, Keynote. I didn’t see you.” His eyes darted to her midriff, “Are you all right?”

Keynote looked genuinely taken aback. “Yes, Mr. Scribe, just fine.” Her eyes fell to his now quivering leg, hung limp in the air, “Is your leg hurt?” Before he could stop her, she reached out and stroked it in a motherly fashion. 

Rory winced, gritting his teeth to stop the string of curse words threatening to come out. “It . . . it hurts a little, but it’s not your fault,” he managed to force out. 

Another voice started him back a step. Pinkie hopped over to them, and he could not help but gape.The mare’s disheveled mane and tail was now brushed to a sheen and her hooves scrubbed spotless. It seemed Keynote managed to find just the right outfit, complimenting her azure eyes with a light tan blouse. “Hello, Miss Pie.”

“Hiya, Mr. Scribe!” She puffed out her chest, allowing the light to create a halo over her mane. “Am I ready for duty now?”

“You . . .” For some stupid reason, Rory found it hard to look into her eyes, “Much better, Miss Pie.”

Keynote sniggered into his hoof, “Yes, I thought we should show you our results.”

“Yay, results!” Pinkie trotted around the room like some little filly on parade. 

Rory rolled his eyes. Honestly, would it hurt her to act like an adult? He limped over to the door, “I’ve a meeting, Keynote. See to it that Miss Pie learns the ropes.”

“Yes, Mr. Scribe.”

Without another word, Rory left the mares to whatever trouble they were bound to get into next. Maybe he should have taken Father’s secretary after all. Then again . . . He smiled to himself. She does clean up nice.





Walking through Manehattan at night was about as close as Pinkie had ever come to walking on another planet. Once the natural light had faded from the sky, it was replaced by a cheap, artificial glow. Neon lights, street lamps, lights in the windows, and even lights on the taxis. It seemed that nopony wanted to see the moon, or they were afraid of the dark. Whatever the reason, it made finding the address scrawled on the paper all the easier. 

After walking for what felt like hours but was likely closer to half an hour, she came to the right street at last. The dimly lit alley made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, but she took a deep breath, striding towards the flickering orange neon light ahead. A few rats scurried around her hooves as she stepped over the broken glass and stinking trash coating the old cobblestones. Pinkie was not one going to be deterred and continued until she stood under the sign. “Madame Jazelle’s Respite? Wonder what that’s about . . .”

With only a second’s hesitation, she opened the faded door and crept inside. The moment she entered, she was assaulted with a perfume laced smoke. Its potency nearly sent her to her knees. They definitely didn’t have stores like this in Nickerlite. After some adjustment, she looked around at the hallway she was standing in. The lush carpet under hooves was far from worn, and even the obviously dated walls had a fresh layer of wallpaper. The hallway led to a door with “Private” written in golden letters. To the side was a dim, flickering light beckoning her closer.

Then she heard it. A light, ethereal voice drifting in from the room. Pinkie had heard ponies that could sing, but never had she heard something like this. The female voice was soft as a summer breeze, and yet it carried, wrapping itself around her ears. At that moment, all she wanted was to stand there, and soak it in, letting it seep into her bones like the healing medicine it was. As it did, Pinkie found herself no longer worrying about the day’s events or even the message of the song. All she knew, all she cared to know was that everything would work out.

And then it stopped. The sound of clapping hooves followed the silence, and Pinkie was compelled to take a look. Inside the room were hundreds of candles encircling a moderately large room with a bar to the side and a low stage in the center. The carpeted floor was filled to bursting with stuffed couches and chairs around variously sized tables. Each and every one of the ponies seated was staring transfixed at the creature standing on the stage.

Pinkie had never seen anything like her in her life. At first, all she could do was stare transfixed at the horns, both of them. Nearly as long as her legs, curved ever so slightly back, and such a deep, pure shade of black that it would put any of their finest ebony to shame. Then her focus traveled down to her face past her kind, equally deep black eyes, and muzzle so dainty that it would put the finest featured mare to shame. 

It was out of that dainty muzzle that came yet another melody, just as beautiful as before. This time, Pinkie moved closer, watching the way the singer sway gracefully in time to the beat despite having a rather stocky, muscular body. Before she realized it, she was standing close to the stage, gaping at her. If there were angels, she was certain this . . . whatever she was . . . would be one of them. 

The song was over disappointingly fast, resulting in another round of applause that Pinkie was all too eager to join in on. Then the singer raised her bangled hoof, silencing them instantly. “Thank you my little ponies, thank you.” Despite her exotic appearance, her accent was decidedly Manehattan. “As always, it is a pleasure to entertain you. However, as it is Tuesday night, I am afraid we must close early.” She winked playfully, “I need my beauty sleep you know.”

After a few whistles and cat calls from the stallions, the ponies began to shuffle slowly out of the room. Pinkie sat patiently on the floor, watching them clear out. It was a little awkward to barge into somepony’s bar and demand “lodging” as Mr. Scribe called it, but she was out of options for the moment. 

The singer slowly made her way down the steps, humming to herself. Looking at Pinkie, she stopped, staring wide eyed at her, “Hello. I don’t believe we’ve met. This your first time here, honey?” 

“Uh . . . yeah, yeah it is.” Pinkie held out a hoof and the stranger took it. “You must be Jazelle.”

She laughed, just as light and airy as her songs had been. “Indeed I am. And you are?”

“Name’s Pinkamena Diane Pie, but you can call me Pinkie.”

“It’s a pleasure.” Jazelle glanced around at the now empty room. “What brings you to my home, Pinkie?”

Home? She lives in a bar? “Well, my boss, Mr. Scribe sent me.” She drew out the piece of paper Mr. Scribe had scribbled a note on. Despite the temptation, she had not read that bit, only the address and name. 

“Hmmm.” Jazelle read the note, nodding as she went. “Pulling on favors like always, Rory. Typical.” 

“Rory? Who’s that?”

Jazelle stared blankly at her, “Mr. Scribe. It’s his first name.”

“Rory?” Pinkie giggled at the name. It sounded more than a little old fashioned. “Gee, that makes him sound old!”

“But you must admit, it does fit him. Geeze, he needs to learn to relax.” Pinkie was a bit surprised to see a sad look flicker across Jazelle’s face before vanishing again. “So, you’re friends with Mr. Scribe?”

“Friends might be going a touch far. Rory does not have time for friends.” She huffed, starting towards the bar, “He thinks they tie him down.”

“That’s silly, everypony needs friends.” 

Jazelle laughed, pouring herself a shot from one of the bottles lining the back of the bar. “Right you are, Pinkie. I tell him that everytime he comes in here to play for me. He never listens, but I keep him around.”

Play? Pinkie’s ears perked up at the familiar word. It seemed odd to connect it to someone as grouchy as Mr. Scribe. “Like card games or something?” 

“No, he’s a musician. And a damn good one at that.” Jazelle sighed, taking the shot in one quick gulp. “He’ll come and play his accordion sometimes, though he’s just as good with the piano,” her head jerked towards the grand piano resting on the stage, “Wish he’d quit that awful job and work for me, but nope, he’s always got something to prove, always has.”

Something to prove? Pinkie was starting to feel like Jazelle was venting her frustrations to her. Normally she would not complain, but she was tired and really hoping for a nice bed to sleep in. “So . . . do you know where I can find a place to stay? Is that why Mr. Scribe sent me to you?”

Jazelle barked a laugh, “Sure do! You can stay with me, Pinkie. I’ve got a spare room I rent for cheap, and Rory knows it. That’s the only reason he’d send you to little old me. Say, why don't you blow out those candles and we’ll head up there to chat?”

Pinkie hastened to do just that, and in a matter of minutes, they were left under the few dim electric lights hanging over the bar. With a quick wink, Jazelle led the way towards the hallway. As she walked, Pinkie could not help but stare at her strangely shaped body. It was like a cross between a deer and some kind of animal she had read about in a travel book. “Say, Jazelle?”

“Yes?”

Her face felt incredibly hot as she stammered the words, “Can I . . . can I ask you what you are?” 

Jazelle laughed loudly again. “Don’t be shy, I get that question a lot. I’m an oryx. Sort of like a deer from the same land the zebras come from.”

“Oh, so, what are you doing in Manehattan?”

“I was born and raised here!” Jazelle’s hooves did a lively dance step the until they came to the door by the stairs. “You aren’t defined by what you are, or even by where you come from, Pinkie.” She turned to face her, winking in a knowing sort of way, “What defines you is your character, don’t ever forget that!”

“He, he. Yeah, your character,” Pinkie muttered, following her up the stairs. What was her character? Was she a good pony? In her hometown and on the farm, she had always been seen as one. But, Manehattan was something else entirely. These next few months and possibly years would test her. Test her in ways she never even imagined possible. She could only hope it would be a refiner’s fire. 





> The Way It Is
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pinkie trotted into the office, swinging the bag like a parade baton in front of her. “Mission accomplished, Keynote!”
 
The mare looked up from her desk, smiling in that gentle way of hers. “Good work.” Her eyes darted to the decorative wall clock above Mr. Scribe’s door. “You made good time.”
 
“Sure did.” Pinkie allowed the bag to fall to the desk with a metallic clunk, “The new ribbons, as requested.” It was still difficult to call the boring black strands laced with ink “ribbons.” Ribbons were not new to Pinkie, in fact, she used them a lot. But through all the parties, town festivals, and sewing club meetings, she had never seen ribbons like these. And then there was that thing.
 
Whoever invented typewriters had to be a secret supervillian, or at least a pony with a very bad sense of humor. The darn machine was more than a little convoluted to use. The buttons had to be pressed in just the right way to make the words come out in just the right order. If one letter was off, she would have to start over or cover it up, something Keynote stressed was very, very bad news. As Treasurer, Mr. Scribe was not fond of “throwing money out the window” because of his secretary’s blunders.
 
“So, Pinkie, ready to give it another shot?” Keynote got to her hooves, motioning for her to sit.
 
With all the air of a filly going to detention, Pinkie sat on the poofy chair and stared down at her nemesis. “So we meet again, my old foe.”
 
Keynote’s soft giggle drifted into her ears, “Yes, well, I felt the same when I first started. Now, why don’t you add the new ribbon? It will be good practice.”
 
“Uh . . . okay.” If typing was complicated, it was nothing compared to loading the touchy machine. After a few tries and Keynote’s gentle encouragement, she managed to successfully load the ribbon. “There, done.”
 
“Excellent, now for the letter.”
 
Pinkie’s eyes fell to the loopy cursive mouthwriting in front of her, a note from one of the accountants. It was her duty to transfer the hieroglyphics into something legible for Mr. Scribe. That was easier said than done. Really, it was the worst mouthwriting she had ever seen. “Uh, Keynote, could I maybe . . . maybe work on one of Mr. Scribe’s letters instead? It’s only my fourth day on the job.” Mr. Scribe had an almost artistic calligraphy, looking closer to magicwriting than mouthwriting.
 
“Sorry, Pinkie, but I only have so long to teach you.” Her hoof patted her reassuringly on the back. “I know it’s hard, but I want to make sure you’re prepared to take over.”
 
“Right, I’ll try again.”
 
For the next hour, Pinkie worked on typing practice while Keynote shuffled files around and made appointments. Half of a secretary’s battle appeared to be scheduling the myriad collection of business meetings Mr. Scribe had to attend while juggling smaller one on one meetings with the ponies under his supervision. It took more than a little talent to keep track of exactly where Mr. Scribe would have to be at any given point.
 
So, when the door to the hallway swung open thirty minutes ahead of schedule, they both jumped. Poor Keynote actually took to the air, small wings somehow keeping her aloft. “Mr. Scribe?”
 
The stallion looked towards her, raising an eyebrow, “Are we keeping files on the ceiling now, Keynote?”
 
“No, sir.” Keynote flew down in front of him, blocking his path. It was hard not to laugh at the stern expression stretching almost across the mare’s chesnut face. “You’re back early. You’re never back early.”
 
Mr. Scribe rolled his eyes, pushing Keynote gently to the side. “I do not have time to listen to you state the obvious, Keynote.”
 
Keynote’s eyes widened, “Time? Do we have to change the schedule around?”
 
Time for backup. Pinkie stepped forward, putting a hoof on Keynote’s shoulder. “She does kinda have a point, Mr. Scribe. We’ve got to fix your schedule if you’re changing stuff.”
 
The scowl perpetually plastered on his face deepened, “Fine.” He raised his bad hoof off the ground, “There’s been some opposition to the fourth street project.”
 
“Again? But, we resolved that months ago!”
 
“I know,” Mr. Scribe grimaced, glancing towards the window and the bustling city beyond. “They’ve got Milo on the case, and we all know what that means. They’ve called a hearing for this afternoon.”
 
“Milo?” Who in the hay is Milo? Before Pinkie could demand answers, Keynote elbowed her hard in the ribs, hissing something along the lines of ‘I’ll tell you later.’
 
Their employer rubbed his temple with his good hoof. “Cancel all my appointments. No doubt he’ll have me arguing the same damn point for hours while he tells sob story after sob story.”
 
Pinkie made to speak, but Keynote elbowed her again. Seriously?
 
Keynote took her overly professional stance. “And what shall we do after that, Mr. Scribe?”
 
He bit his lip, eyes darting from Keynote to her as though calculating the risk. “I have three letters that need delivered in person. You’ll go without your uniforms, understood?”
 
“Yes, sir.”
 
“Good.” As if dismissing the need for further conversation, he opened his office door. To Pinkie’s surprise, he stopped halfway, turning back to them. “You can go home as soon as you’re done with that.”
 
“Seriously?” It was impossible to contain herself with that news. She did a happy victory lap around the room. “Thanks, Mr. Scribe!”
 
“Yeah, whatever,” he mumbled, going inside his office and slamming the door.
 
“Wooo! We’re going home early.”
 
Rather than overflowing with excitement, Keynote looked about ready to cry. Pinkie hopped over to her, putting a hoof on her back, “What’s wrong?”
 
“Nothing really, it doesn’t have anything to do with me.”
 
“Huh?”
 
She let out a heavy sigh, “That project Mr. Scribe was talking about, it’s . . . well, if I’m being truthful I’m not a fan of it.”
 
Pinkie’s heart skipped a beat. It was as close to opposing Mr. Scribe as the mare had come these past few days. “What’s bad about it?”
 
“Well, it’s a big construction project. Scribe incorporated has bought all the land necessary. But,” her eyes darted pointedly to Mr. Scribe’s door, “there’s ponies living in apartments on that property. The project will throw them out of their homes.”
 
Out of their homes? Just like he did to us! Ever since the first day she met him, Pinkie had not respected Mr. Scribe. Who could respect a pony who tossed families out of their homes whenever it suited the company? Now she was starting to wonder if she could even trust him to keep his end of the bargain. “They can’t do that! Besides, they’ve got that Milo guy on their side, he’s worth something right?”
 
Keynote shook her head, “Milo Coltfax is the best prosecuting attorney in Manehatten, probably in all of Equestria. But, even he can’t battle with Scribe Incorporated and win.”
 
“But, what about those ponies? They can’t take away their homes!”
 
“They bought the land legally, Pinkie. There’s nothing anypony can do about it,” she mumbled, almost as an afterthought.
 
Pinkie stamped her hoof so hard the desk shook, “Why would a famous attorney like him take the case if it was hopeless, huh?”
 
“Because, Miss Pie, it’s all part of the game.” Mr. Scribe’s icy voice made her skin crawl. He was leaning against his office door.
 
“What game?” She strode forward, glaring challengingly at Mr. Scribe. The stallion stumbled back a few steps. Forgetting that she was supposed to keep her cool, Pinkie snarled at him, “Games are for fun. There’s nothing funny about throwing ponies out of their homes. You’re a horrible pony, Rory!” Oops. Pinkie flinched at her breach of etiquette.
 
Rather than snapping back or pushing her to the ground like before, Mr. Scribe’s ears flattened submissively as he backed away. “Sorry . . . there’s . . . there’s nothing I can do, Miss Pie.”
 
Pinkie could only gape as this bully was actually quivering from a few words she said. But the fear in his eyes was far from satisfying. There was no logical reason for him to be so scared of her, after all, she wouldn’t hurt him. She felt her face heat up. “Sorry, Mr. Scribe. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”
 
“It’s . . . it’s okay, Miss Pie.” He scooped up his briefcase, limping over to Keynote’s desk. After placing three envelopes on it, he turned back to her. “I will say this, Miss Pie. Milo Coltfax has been after the President for as long as I can remember. He nearly got him thrown in jail once. But,” he looked almost crestfallen, “Father made an example of him. Tore his whole life apart from what I’ve heard.”
 
“It took a few years, but he gained his second wind. Figured he had nothing to lose anymore, so he’s dedicated his life to becoming the thorn in the company’s side.” His hollow laugh echoed around the office, “Milo knows he’ll never win, but that doesn’t stop him from dragging us into every case he can. Run our lawyer fees through the roof,” he added as a kind of afterthought.
 
Before Pinkie could ask any more questions, he walked out of the office, leaving them alone to their thoughts. Still a little shaken, Pinkie looked her mentor in the eye, “Why . . . why was he so scared? Is that normal?”
 
Keynote looked frozen in place, staring at the door as though a fascinating painting were nailed to its surface. “I’ve never seen him act like that before.”
 
“Maybe I’m just scary.”
 
“Maybe . . .” she trailed off as if lost in thought. Then, Pinkie felt Keynote clap her on the back. “Come along, Pinkie, we’ve got some mail to deliver.”
 



 
Sludge. It was a substance nopony wanted to familiarize themselves with, and one Pinkie most definitely did not want plastered to her hoof. Mud was all fine and dandy, she was used to that. But sludge was just gross. She tried to calculate just what combination of waste, runoff, and trash had come together to form the particular concoction they were trudging through. Then again, it probably was best not to know. “Say, Keynote?”

Keynote looked over at her comfortable position several feet above the surface of the alley. “Yes?”

“Why are we going to a place like this?” Her hoof gestured to the stained brick buildings, complete with barred and boarded up windows. Their last two stops had landed them inside a banker’s office and an upscale jewelry shop. This seemed like the last place a pony like Mr. Scribe would frequent.

“Business, Pinkie.” Keynote’s eyes focused on the peeling green paint of a nearby door. Landing beside it, she motioned her close, “This is it.”

Pinkie raised a skeptical eyebrow, “Uh, Keynote, that’s just a random door to an abandoned house.”

Keynote smirked knowingly, raising a hoof and tapping it against the door. Five fast taps, two slow, one loud, one soft. The door swung open, revealing a tall earth pony stallion with slicked down hair a duck would have been jealous of. “If it isn’t Keynote.” His lined silver face broke into a predatory grin. “Welcome.”

“Mr. Shine.” Keynote followed the stallion inside, motioning Pinkie to keep up.

The interior to the building smelled heavily of mold and some kind of weird smoke. Whatever it was managed to churn her stomach worse than any stale tobacco she could remember. As they continued down the narrow hallway it thickened until it became a thick miasma that gripped her nostrils with a nearly overwhelming intensity. They veered off into a side room that seemed to be the source of her discomfort.

All around them were moldering chairs and couches with ponies draped across them like clothes on a line. Pinkie had seen ponies who were tired, even ponies who were drunk if she hit Nickerlite at the wrong time of day. These ponies were on a whole new level. Their eyes were glazed over, as if dead to the world. Perhaps they were. In any case, it appeared that they did not remember or did not care to remember who they were. All they seemed to care about was smoking pipes full of strange leaves and releasing as much of the toxic substance as they could in the process.

Their blank stares were more than a little creepy and she found her side pressing to Keynote's for support. “What’s wrong with them,” Pinkie whispered, trying to avoid the stare of a wizened unicorn with half an ear missing.

“Later,” she hissed through gritted teeth, eyes still focused on their guide.

The stallion led them through a small door at the end of the room. Thankfully, the smoke’s density lowered to the point where she felt comfortable breathing again. They followed the new hallway until it came to a stop at an intricately carved mahogany door. Well that’s weird.

Once again, a series of knocks was tapped against the wood by the slick maned stallion. With a smooth, swift motion, the door opened to reveal another stallion. This one more closely resembled an old grizzly bear, but Keynote did not seemed bothered by him. Their guide nodded, motioning them inside.

Once they entered, the grizzly pony slammed the door shut and stood in front of it as if daring them to try and escape. Pinkie tried to control her now pounding heart as she turned to stand beside Keynote. The room was nothing like she had imagined. For one, they were no longer standing on stained wood floors, but on a plush carpet. Expensive wallpaper adorned the walls, accented by equally expensive looking paintings.

Everything’s so fancy. From the chandelier to the massive desk in front of them, there was nothing inside the office that would suggest it was worth anything less than a good chunk of bits. Pinkie was so focused on the finery that she almost missed the hidden door swing open to reveal a portly magenta unicorn sporting an appropriately extravagant suit.

The fat on his legs jiggled as he trudged over to the high backed chair and settled in. “Keynote, what a delightful surprise.” Though he said the words with an almost cheesy hospitality, his grey eyes dug into theirs with a predatory focus. Pinkie felt her hairs bristle. Every little signal he was giving off told her that he was not the type of pony to be trifled with. Maud would have called him “bad news.”

Keynote withdrew the envelope from her saddlebags, “I have a letter from Mr. Scribe for you, sir.”

He tapped the desk imperiously with a flabby hoof, “Put it there, dear.”

With a stiff, almost unnervingly formal motion, she placed it on the desk. Once it was there, she bowed her head, stepping back to stand beside Pinkie again.

The pony’s eyes did not leave them the whole time, still glowering in that disconcerting way. “Who is this?” Judging from his pompous tone, he did not approve of her tagging along with Keynote.

“Mr. Scribe’s new secretary, Pinkie Pie.” Keynote shot her an encouraging smile, “I couldn’t have asked for a better replacement.”

Pinkie flushed, staring the stranger in the eye, “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

A strange, almost hungry smile contorted the layers of fat around his face, “The pleasure is all mine, Pinkie.”

Pinkie hated the way he said her name. It was as false as his smile and devoid of any trace of sincerity. “We shall see if you live up to expectations.” He turned his attention back to Keynote, “Inform Mr. Scribe that my offer still stands, and,” his eyes darted to the door, “that I’m willing to give him a most excellent discount.”

Keynote stiffened at the last words. “My employer doesn’t need your ‘discount,’” she spat. Without another word, she turned around and strode to the door with a stiff, almost ritualistic precision. Pinkie followed suit, doing her best to mirror the pegasus’ movements. The guard pony stepped aside, growling something under his breath as they passed. Their guide was waiting for them when they stepped into the hallway.

Not a word was said as they traced their steps through the building. Even after they left to stand in the relatively fresh air, Keynote remained silent. Pinkie glanced nervously into her eyes, “Uh, Keynote?”

“Let’s go.” 

Pinkie followed her down the filth laden alley. The silence between them seemed to pull at her until it became almost unbearable. Finally, Keynote pushed her over to a darkened corner of a side street. Keynote’s eyes started sadly into hers, “Sorry, Pinkie. I should have warned you about that.”

You could say that again! Pinkie glanced back towards the building, “What was that place, Keynote? Who were those ponies?”

Keynote bit her lip, “That’s Philippe Dufaux, he runs the East Side.” 

“Runs the East Side?” The east side of what? The city? How could any civilian run the entire east section of Manehattan. “What do you mean, Keynote?”  

“He’s part of the mob,” she hissed through gritted teeth.

“The mob?” 

There was a moment of silence as Keynote gaped at her. “You don’t . . . you don’t know who the mob is?”

“Uh . . . nope. He, he, sorry.”

“Urgh.” Keynote stamped her hoof flinching as it became coated in filth. “The mob, Miss Pie, is organized crime.”

“Organized crime?” An involuntary giggle came at the thought of organized crime. “What? Do they stack stolen stuff in neat rows or something?”

“No, Pinkie,” Keynote deadpanned. “Organized crime is no laughing matter.” Her eyes fell to the dilapidated buildings around them, “Imagine an organization with layers upon layers of complexity. Its only purpose it to further its own agenda. They don’t care who they hurt or what they take on the way.” 

The blood rushed to Pinkie’s ears. “Why doesn’t somepony stop them?”

“Who’s going to stop them, Pinkie?” Keynote leaned in close, soft eyes turning nearly as cold as Mr. Scribe’s, “They own the East Side, either outright or through coercion. They even own the police force and the government, at least parts of it. If anypony made a move, they’d bribe or silence them, whatever’s easiest.” 

“That’s wrong! That’s not the way it’s supposed to work.”

“What’s supposed to be doesn't matter anymore, Pinkie. What matters is this,” She spoke slowly, as if explaining an obvious point to a child, “This city is run by one thing, Miss Pie, and one thing only. Greed. It doesn't matter what’s in the best interest of the populous, what matters is what’s in the best interest of those in power. You're either working for them, or against them.”

She longed to argue, to fight against the point, but could not bring herself to do it. From what she had seen, Keynote’s words were close to the truth. It was impossible to deny that this city was corrupt, and the ponies within it lost. But, Pinkie could not bring herself to believe the situation was hopeless. “Maybe, Keynote, maybe,” she murmured.

For a while, they stared at each other, as if lost for words. They could use a change of subject. “Say, Keynote, what was that place we went to? What was wrong with those ponies?”

Keynote twitched, but spoke in a more gentle tone, “It was an opium den, Pinkie.” 

“A what den?” 

“An opium den,” her voice lowered until it was scarcely more than a whisper, “it’s where ponies go to smoke opium. The stuff’s illegal, but the organized crime tends to run the dens as they’re incredibly profitable.”

“Why? It’s just grass isn’t it?”

“No, it’s a special kind of herb. When smoked, it causes hallucinations among other things.” A sad almost pitying expression came over her as she looked back the way they came. “It’s an addiction, Pinkie. Once you start using it, you can’t really stop. Ponies will give up all they own to keep on using it.”

“What? That’s crazy!” There was no way that a plant was worth throwing everything away for. “Why would they do that?”

“It’s . . . it’s not a black and white situation, Pinkie. Opium doesn’t just give hallucinations, it allows a pony to forget who they are, what they’ve done. There’s no worry if you can’t think.” She paused, apparently contemplating another point. “It’s also an incredibly powerful pain reliever. Ponies who are sick or dying, they’d go crazy with the pain. So, they take the lesser of two evils.”

Dufaux words rang in her head. ‘Inform Mr. Scribe that my offer still stands, and, that I’m willing to give him a most excellent discount.’ The dots suddenly began to connect, “He was offering Mr. Scribe opium? Why?”

“Surely you've noticed already, Miss Pie.” 

“Noticed what?”

“Mr. Scribe’s leg. It,” she bit her lip, “it’s not just an inconvenience, Pinkie. He’ll act like nothing’s wrong, hell, I only found out because I walked in on him one time.”

Though it felt like she knew the answer already, Pinkie had to ask. “What?”

“Mr. Scribe lives in constant agony, Pinkie. It’s not just a little ache when he walks.” Her voice shook ever so slightly, “I doubt there’s a time when he isn't hurting. For him, an offer like Dufaux’s . . . it’s tempting. He knows what it would do to his mind, and I doubt he’d ever knowingly succumb to it, but if he’s pushed too far, he might do something stupid and that’s just what Dufaux’s waiting for.”

“Why does he want Mr. Scribe taking opium?”

“Dufaux wants an addict. Addicts are easier to work with. They can be bribed with far less effort than a pony in their right mind.” A small smirk parted her dainty muzzle, “Mr. Scribe is a notoriously difficult pony to bribe, and I guarantee you his price would be more than what Dufaux could pay. So, he wants an easy access pass to the power and influence Mr. Scribe wields.”

Politics. Why’s everything in this stupid place about politics? Pinkie snorted, starting down the road again, “Great, so Mr. Scribe’s just another mob boss, huh?”

“No, Pinkie.” Keynote trotted alongside her despite the filth coating the street, “Mr. Scribe is an oddity here in Manehattan. Certainly ponies work for him when it suits their needs, but he never keeps permanent ties with any of them. He’s a one pony operation. There’s no friends or family, nor any other handles an enemy could get a grip on.” 

Pinkie had listened to the speech with some interest. It made a lot of sense considering Mr. Scribe’s actions, but there was something about it that bugged her. Handles, huh? Her mind drifted back to her family and friends in Nickerlite, to their home and all they had accomplished together on the farm. By Keynote’s terms they’d be “handles,” but was that such a bad thing? Her mother was always saying that nopony could go through life alone. And yet, here was Mr. Scribe doing just that. “Lonely,” she murmured under her breath.

Keynote turned to her, “Did you say something, Pinkie?”

“No . . . nothing at all.”





Rory hated hearings. They had to be the most blatant waste of time known to pony kind. One had to sit or stand as the case may be for hours at a time listening to story after story specifically worded to garner the jury’s sympathy. However, sympathy only went so far. In the end it was fear that would win out, and fear was the very lifeblood of his father’s company. True to his irritating nature, Milo had upped the sympathy to a near noxious level.  

Rory stood, listening to yet another story and giving yet another dry and rehearsed response. It was better that way, a trick he had picked up through months of legal headaches. All he had to do was buy time until the strings were pulled and the case abandoned. Today however, there would be no strings pulled, there was no need. They had already been pulled some time ago. Nopony in their right mind would vote against Scribe Incorporated on this project, a fact Milo Coltfax would know full well. Despite that, Rory had been forced to suffer through an hour and a half of sob stories with no apparent end in sight. 

Generally he was intent upon the stories, they told a lot more than the surface pity party. It was a window, a window into Milo’s thought process and just who was siding with him. Once he found that, all he had to do was apply the necessary pressure to tear Milo’s support structure out from under him. But, as he listened to some elderly couple ramble about their “poor flower shop,” the words began to blur together. 

His leg continued to shake as it had for the majority of the hearing. Recent projects and the new hours had taken away any opportunity he had to rest his leg, and it was now painfully swollen. It was nearly impossible to focus on anything but the overwhelming fog in his head. The courtroom had long since blurred together, and it was all he could do to listen to Prescott’s rant.

The wiry lawer was screaming at Milo in his usual theatrical manner.  His jabbing arguments and unwillingness to back down made him the ideal lawyer, but he was far from an ideal pony. Every time he was hired, Rory would be forced to listen to him explain exactly what he had to say as per his father’s orders, as if he were too stupid to remember the protocol. 

Prescott seemed to care less about Rory’s opinion on any given case or hearing, as he was loyal only to his father. Rory was sure the scum would have drunk his own piss if his father asked him to. That made convincing the brownoser to listen to reason nearly impossible. Today was no exception. Despite repeatedly telling him that he needed occasional breaks because of his leg, the pony had just kept going.

As he droned on, Rory began to feel genuinely sick. Before he knew how he got there, he had sunk to his knees, quivering. Dammit. Rory knew the consequences of showing his disability in public all too well, a fact his father pounded home whenever he so much as requested time to go to the doctor. Despite his continued efforts to rise, his legs simply wouldn't respond.

“Mr. Scribe?” Prescott’s venomous tone made his skin crawl. “Get up,” he hissed, jabbing a hoof into his ribs as if that would magically force him to his hooves.

Rory closed his eyes, unable to bring himself to explain the situation. It hurt and he was tired, so tired. Couldn't they see that? Just a little rest, then I’ll be fine. Just a little rest. A light, kind voice drifted into his ear, this time at his level. “Come on, you need to get up, can’t rest here.”

He felt himself being hoisted gently up and braced for the pain from his hoof taking on the weight, but it didn't come. Whoever had grabbed him was somehow keeping the weight off. Rory did not care who it was as long as they kept the pressure off his leg. Slowly, the pony guided him to the closest bench and allowed him to lie down. His vision was still blurred, but he could see outlines now at least. “Thanks,” he murmured, too tired to say much more. 

“No problem,” the voice sounded oddly familiar, though Rory couldn't remember who it belonged to. “Sorry about that, I didn't realize how long we’d been going at it.”

Going at it? He shook his head, bringing the world slowly back into focus. His heart sunk when he realized who was standing in front of him. “Milo?”

“That’s right.” Milo’s lined face stretched into a broad smile. Rory never understood that about him. He had been his father’s nemesis for years, and yet he was always professionally polite to him in the courtroom and out. There was no doubt in Rory’s mind he was up to something, and he was not about to grow complacent over a few niceties. The powder blue unicorn leaned in closer, “Rory? Are you all right?”

Rory twitched. Nopony called him that save for his parents and apparently his imbecilic secretary. And yet, Milo always did, as if it would somehow make Rory trust him. All it really served to do was irritate him to no end. “I’m fine.” He tried to hide his shaking limb with his good one. “I don’t need the sympathy of some washed up old fool.”

Milo flinched, taking a step back. “Very well,” his tone became icy, “though I wonder who’s the real fool here.”

Before he could argue, Milo strode over to his tall, aging secretary and set off. Good riddance. 

Rory grimaced when Prescott advanced towards him like an angry timber wolf. “What was with that display, Mr. Scribe? Do you have any idea how much headache you’ve caused the president with your little stunt?”

Stunt? I’d like to see how you’d react standing for an hour and a half on a bad leg. You tell me if you could avoid a little stunt or two. He knew better than to snap back, any words he said would be repeated to his father, best not to throw Prescott a bone. Closing his eyes, he rested his head across his good leg. Celestia he was tired.

“Are you listening to me?”

No, you halfwit and I’ll keep it that way. Though, the weasel had a point. He’d collapsed in front of an entire courtroom like some kind of fragile valley girl. No doubt that would make it into the papers. His father wouldn't let him hear the end of this one. 

Rory could already play through the conversation. ‘You damned idiot! Do you realize how much your little screw up cost? I could replace you any minute, boy.’ It would go on like that for an hour, Storm declaring him a pity seeking whore. There would be no mention of the fact that it had been an accident, that it had been his father’s new hours that caused the problem in the first place. Oh, no, he could do no wrong. Rory gritted his teeth, blotting out the lawyer’s rant as he inevitably would do to Storm’s. There was no point in fighting back, not yet. For now, this was the way it would be until time or the inevitable gave him the opportunity he needed. 





> The Other Talent
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Chapter 4 - The Other Talent


Ponies continually sought friendship knowing full well that their existence remained as fragile and fleeting as a spring frost over Central Park. Such idealistic notions of companionship and trust shattered like a cheap liquor bottle against the unavoidable wall of reality. As his father demonstrated time and time again, fear and coercion had a cataclysmic effect on such “unbreakable” bonds of loyalty.

Rory long accepted that no colt or filly in the school would ever approach him as a friend. In their minds, angering him very well might translate into poking the dragon of Scribe Incorporated with a stick. Even the dimwitted masses were not so naïve to Storm Scribe’s unquestionable authority in Manehattan. Horror stories pulsed through the papers on a weekly basis. Families torn apart and scattered to the wind, blacklisting for jobs, and the list went on. It sounded all too overblown, but Rory wholeheartedly believed them and so did the others.

As a reflection of their fear, not a single one of the fillies or colts even considered the possibility of bullying him. After all, one wrong move and their family could lose everything. Sometimes Rory longed to understand their world, to be included in whatever interactions that made the cogs of their daily lives turn. But such musings proved as futile and fleeting as grasping the wind. For the present, his place was on the side, living vicariously through the lives of his classmates. 

“Rory.”

Rory twitched, recognizing their teacher’s airy voice. He looked up from his favorite spot under the oak tree to be greeted by Miss Twinkle’s over-large glasses. The elderly mare had a habit of popping up and irritating the hell out of him whenever he searched for peace and quiet. “What?”

“You ate your lunch already?”

Rory rolled his eyes. Would it kill her to change her spiel? “Yes, Miss Twinkle.” His hoof patted the empty paper sack beside him. The bag had not seen a crumb of food in two months, though she didn’t need that little detail. “I snuck some during class,” he added in his best apologetic tone. The routine never ceased to make the poor sap fold. 

“I see.” Her lavender eyes drifted to the large polo shirt covering his sides, “Are you sure you’re getting enough to eat?”

“I’m sure.” Sure I’m not. Rory watched a nearby filly trotting towards her friend, carrying a giant apple in her mouth. Why must she parade it around like that? Sighing, he patted the texbook resting between his hooves. “I’ll be fine, Miss Twinkle. I need to study this bit,” he prodded the passage on Time Square’s history. “It’s rather important.”

“Good to hear you’re keeping up your studies, Rory.” A broad smile stretched across her plump faced, causing her to resemble a rather delighted golden chipmunk. “I just wanted to check up.”

Rory nodded, a holding a smile of his own, as gaudy and false as the gilding on his father’s department stores. The moment she turned away, it broke into its usual frown as his attention fell to the afternoon display.

Whoever invented lunchtime was either an idiot, or a mastermind preparing the next generation of thieves and backhanded business ponies that made up Manehattan’s life blood. More corruption could be documented at the lunch circle than at any other point in the school day. Be it for good or ill, the schoolyard ran on an ever-shifting power structure Rory documented daily.

Today’s development turned out to be Base Clef’s basket of homemade cookies which he promptly distributed to the members of the band table. Pathetic, there’s no point in wasting your assets on those imbeciles. The trick to power, at least in the schoolyard was kowtowing to the right ponies when you had the currency. Those connections and favors proved valuable assets when the need arose. 

Food was certainly the primary means of currency, but grades played a significant role as well. Whenever the obligatory pre-test panic washed over his classmates, Rory would suddenly come into existence again. He quickly capitalized on the opportunity, and, unlike his classmates, he kept records of everything. 

The favors proved useful when he needed food after Mother forgot to feed him or during his “fasts” resulting from one blunder or the other. There were no tests in the near future and though his stomach ached from hunger, he refused to waste any of his currency. He had eaten yesterday evening, he could wait, he always did. Wait and watch the wheels of politics turn. As long as he played his cards right, they would continue to turn for him.





‘Ponies are the same wherever you go, Pinkamena.’ The parting warning from her mother had proven itself more than a little difficult to believe. Selfish when they should be selfless, angry when they should be reasonable, secret when they should be open, and rude when they should be polite, Manhattanites represented everything wrong with the world. And, Mr. Scribe stood as a monument to just that. 

The cold-eyed stallion left no quarter for “emotions,” preferring instead to drive progress with subtle slights, barked orders, and the occasional threat. It took the heart right out of her, and Pinkie knew it did the same to Keynote. Was it really so much to ask for a kind word now and again? Apparently so.

As the days passed, Pinkie began to take note of the stallion’s distance. Not a single casual exchange, not so much as a hello for two weeks. His isolation meant little to her at present, but it stung whenever she imagined the next few years working alone without so much as a professional nod. Of course there was always paperwork. Hours, and hours, and hours of paperwork. That and errands, lots and lots of errands. Today's happened to be fetching two boxes of typewriter paper. 

Keynote turned to her in the elevator, “Pinkie? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing much, just wondering.”

“About?” 

Pinkie bit her lip, watching the little dial point to the floor numbers as she did whenever she took the boring ride up to the seventeenth floor. “Mr. Scribe. Why hasn’t he talked to me? Did I make him mad or something?” Though, as far as she could tell, he resided in a perpetual state of anger. 

Keynote giggled, adjusting her bun. “I highly doubt that. I’m still here to take the blame, remember?”

Pinkie winced at the statement. It might be true, but that didn’t make it fair to Keynote. The mare deserved a lot more credit than she had received so far. “It’s my fault. I mess up a lot,” she mumbled.

“I know, I know. And, deep down, Mr. Scribe knows. It’s just,” she sighed, pawing at the box lying on the carpet, “he doesn’t understand how to treat ponies. It’s almost like he doesn’t know how to talk about anything but work.”

“Really?”

“Really? I’ve never heard him mention anything about his personal life. And if you want to know the truth,” she lowered her voice to a near whisper, “I don’t think he has one.”

She snorted, rolling her eyes. “Everypony has one.”

“Not Mr. Scribe. You’ve seen his schedule, you know what it’s like. I’ll bet you anything he doesn’t leave the office until at least ten o’clock, and you know he’s always there before us.”

“Wah? Really?” A small pit formed in her stomach at the thought of working so long in a place like this. Her Dad worked a lot, but he loved his job, anypony could see that. Mr. Scribe? Well, Pinkie was beginning to wonder if he loved anything at all, especially his job.

When the elevator stopped, they scooped up their respective boxes and shuffled over to the office. Keynote started when she looked up at the clock. Pinkie followed her gaze and gasped. “Wow! Is it almost eleven thirty already?”

“Yes,” Keynote began to prance nervously, “I’m supposed to meet Erlenmeyer for lunch.”

“Then you’d better go,” Pinkie started to push her to the door, “married ponies should go on lunch dates every now and then. I’m sure you’ll have a ton of stuff to talk about.”

“Okay, but can you handle things by yourself?” Her eyes darted to the mountain of papers yet to be filed. 

Pinkie gave her a sharp salute, “No problem, boss!” She watched until her friend reached the door. Just as she opened it, Keynote stopped cold, taking a step back. 

Mr. Scribe walked in, eyeing them with his usual suspicious glare. “What’s the rush?”

“Oh, she’s just meeting Erlenmeyer for lunch!” Pinkie trotted over to stand beside Keynote. If the past few days at the office had taught her anything it was that Keynote really appreciated backup when it came to confronting Mr. Scribe. “I’m going to work on paperwork while she’s gone,” Pinkie added as an afterthought.

For a second, it seemed as though he might protest, but he merely nodded. “Very well, Keynote, I’ll expect you back within the hour.”

“Of course, Mr. Scribe.” With that, she practically flew out of the office, leaving them alone.

Pinkie stared hard into Mr. Scribe’s eyes. Did She dare ask him? Well, it wouldn’t hurt. “Did I—”

“—Can you remain silent?”

Pinkie’s stomach dropped, watching the stallion stare blankly back at her. Wow, he really must be annoyed with me. “Sorry,” she squeaked.

He cocked his head, “For what?”

“For talking so much . . .”

“That’s not what I meant.” His eyes fell to the pile of paperwork on the desk, “Can you remain quiet for a meeting? I need somepony to takes notes . . .”

Pinkie gave an involuntary jump of delight which nearly set the stallion on his haunches. “Yes! Wooo! Does that mean I get to work with you for the rest of the day?”

“I suppose i-if that’s what you want,” he stammered, avoiding her gaze. 

“Do I ever! Give me a sec.” She rushed over to the desk, shoving some paper onto the clipboard, sticking a pen in her bun, and returning in a matter of seconds. Apparently satisfied, Mr. Scribe nodded, turning around and walking out the door.

Pinkie followed him eagerly out to the hallway. Keen not to blow her one chance at getting to know him, she kept silent. He seemed to like that, at least he seemed marginally less irritable when she kept her thoughts to herself. Though, it was incredibly frustrating, especially considering how slow they were walking. 

As they went down the hallway, her eyes fell on his leg. Keynote’s assumption proved true after all. Even the tiny concussion from their hooves against the plush carpet resulted in Mr. Scribe wincing and jerking his leg up. The end result was a jerky, over-exaggerated knee action that looked just about as painful as she imagined it felt.

They got into the elevator in silence as he pressed the appropriate button. Unable to control herself any longer, she blurted out, “What’s wrong with your leg?”

The words immediately sent Mr. Scribe into an irritated scoul. “None of your damn business,” he snapped. 

“Oh . . . okay,” she murmured, avoiding the ever-present glare. What’s the point in trying? The only language Mr. Scribe ever acknowledged was that of silence, curt replies, and cold stares. Manehattan had long-since adapted it as a kind of standard. Ponies aren’t the same everywhere, they can’t be.





Rory so detested meetings. Not that they fell under the category of “unnecessary,” just that they consistently wasted his time. What they discussed revealed but a minute glimpse of what festered under the surface. When it came down to it, agendas for the business translated directly into individual agendas. If he read between the lines, combining those hints with the facts he gathered, a pattern would emerge. Today however, that pattern remained as clear as mud.

After two solid hours of back to back meetings, Rory began to doubt even his focus. Last week’s slip up cost him more than he imagined. Instead of a much needed respite, he was left scrambling to complete the same amount of work while simultaneously juggling the additional conferences. Thankfully, they had about a half hour before the next one and had taken the opportunity to rest in the lounge. A quick glance at his secretary revealed what he already knew. “Are you leaving me, Miss Pie?”

“Huh?” She looked up from the chair across from his. “Naw, I’m just,” letting out a huge yawn, she pointed to the clipboard, “organizing stuff.” 

Rory sighed, rubbing his temple. “Stuff?”

“Yup a doodles, all kinds of businessy stuff.”

Businessy stuff? I’m too tired for this. Rest, he should be resting. “Cut to the chase, Miss Pie.” Once again, she shot him a perfectly blank expression. Must I explain everything? “Show me the notes, Miss Pie.”

“They’re not ready yet.” She clutched the clipboard like a firstborn child. 

“Please, they can’t be that bad.” 

“Er . . . okay then.” 

The clipboard soared his direction. Out of instinct, Rory reached out and caught it smoothly. He almost laughed at her dumbfounded expression, but that would hardly constitute professional conduct. His eyes met the paper and widened, “Miss Pie, what pray tell, is this?” 

“What?”

Rory raised the board, prodding the childish doodles with a hoof. “It’s nonsense! How do you expect me to make use of this? What about the data? How am I supposed to use the numbers if you neglect to write them down?”

The mare rolled her eyes clean over. “I have the numbers!”

“I don’t believe you,” he deadpanned. “If you know them, then tell me how much the Ulan research cost the company last month.”

“One thousand, two-hundred and twenty-three bits,” she chimed, smug look plastered on her face.

What? Rory blinked, “What about court fees for last month?”

Pinkie rolled her eyes, “Three-hundred, eleven bits.”

“What was Roth’s proposition?”

“To cut the pay of the research managers and apply it to the new research project.”

Rory couldn’t believe his ears. “So, you memorized it all? Everything?”

“Yup a doodles!”

“Is that some kind of special talent?”

She giggled, waving the thought away with a hoof. “Not really, just, I’ve always been good at memorizing stuff. Seems silly to write it all down, you know?”

“I suppose . . .” That memory of hers would undoubtedly come in handy, all that remained was to harness it. His voice took on a commanding tone, “Miss Pie, from now on, you will record everything and I mean everything you remember from these meetings.”

She moaned, running a hoof across her bun, “Why?”

“You might be able to memorize everything, but I sure as hell can’t.” 

“Urgh, okay then.” Without a moment’s hesitation, she snatched up the clipboard and began to write furiously on the paper.

Good, now I can get some rest. Rory closed his eyes, willing the pain to dissipate and knowing full well it would remain. At least there was some comfort in the fact that he would not have to focus entirely on the meetings. This new secretary might prove herself useful yet. 





Work on the rock farm ran from sunup to sundown six days a week. Despite that, their parents always emphasized the importance of a solid night’s rest and good food. Pinkie always imagined that was the practice everywhere, but Manehattan quickly proved her wrong yet again. She flinched as the clock above Mr. Scribe’s door chimed nine. 

The day’s notes had turned into a mountain rather than the unassuming stack it started its life as. By the time they returned to the office around six, Keynote had left for the day. Mr. Scribe demanded she remain to finish up the notes. Normally, Pinkie would have protested, but, if they were not compiled tonight, she might mix the names and words around. Five meetings were enough to confuse even her near perfect memory. 

With a satisfying clink, the pen fell to the table. “There! Finished.” Eager to actually get home, she scooped up the papers and trotted over to Mr. Scribe’s office.

A dim light danced off the walls of his spartan office, making it even more depressing than usual. She made it nearly to his desk before Mr. Scribe seemed to notice her. He dropped his pen quickly, sitting up straight, “Finished?”

“Yup!” Pinkie scooted the papers onto the desk, trying not to topple over her hard work. “Can I go home now?” Knowing Mr. Scribe, Pinkie had expected a curt reply, instead, the stallion stared blankly at his desk. “Mr. Scribe, can I go?”

“Sorry, Miss. Pie. Thank you. I-you can go home now.”

“Sure.” A sudden, unfamiliar urge washed over her as she stared at her employer. Throughout the day, Mr. Scribe’s leg appeared to be the only thing bothering him. Now, that didn’t appear to be the case. Pinkie knew about physical overwork, it happened all the time to her father, but she never considered the possibility of mental overwork. “Maybe you should go home too.”

He looked up from his papers. “Huh?”

She pointed to his quivering hooves. “You’re in pain, you’re tired, and you’ve been around work for too long.”

“I know,” he mumbled, pushing aside the financial reports. “But what am I to do about it, Miss Pie? I’ve been ordered to increase my hours, Father expects me to perform all my Treasurer duties on top of these blasted meetings, and I’ve my own people to manage.” An unfamiliar, almost pleading tone took over. “I need rest, but I can’t afford it, Miss Pie. There’s nothing you or I can do about it. So please, leave me be.”

Pinkie opened her mouth to argue, but stopped herself. What would yelling at the stallion accomplish? Reality didn’t break down because of a few motivational words. From Mr. Scribe’s description, the situation appeared nearly impossible to change, at least at present. “Did you eat something?”

His ears perked up, “What did you say?”

“Did you eat something? It’ll help you focus more if you do.”

“Why would you ask that?” 

“Just, I haven’t seen you eat anything all day. You’ve got to be hungry, right?” 

“I uh,” Mr. Scribe tapped the desk, softly with a hoof, “I haven’t felt like it.”

Pinkie leaned in close, setting him back in the chair. “That’s when you need to eat the most. If you don’t you’ll get really sick. Dad passed out once because he didn’t eat anything all day.”

“I’m used to it.”

She rolled her eyes, “Really? Wait here, okay?” Before he could protest further, Pinkie darted out of the office, grabbed her saddlebags, and cantered back over. “Here we go!”

He raised an eyebrow, “Come to show me a motivational rock?”

 “Nope.” She nuzzled open the bag depositing a bag on the table and a small jug. “There we go! I made some muffins with Jazelle this morning. I didn’t finish them, so they’re all yours. Try one, they’re good!”

Rather than looking surprised, or offended as usual, Mr. Scribe looked genuinely embarrassed. “I . . . I’m all right.”

“Nope, not getting out of this one. Try it!”

He opened the bag, pulling out a chocolate muffin. His eyes fell to hers in an unamused expression. “Healthy, Miss Pie.”

Pinkie snorted, “They’re not supposed to be healthy, silly. Go on and eat it, it’s a treat!”

“I . . . I don’t like eating in front of ponies,”  he murmured.

Huh? “Why not?”

“I have-have to bring my face to it or pick it up with my hooves  . . .”

“So? You’re an earth pony, that’s normal.”

Mr. Scribe’s ears lay flat, as his face grew even redder. “Not-not for my family. They don’t appreciate my eating like that.” 

Pinkie never fathomed that any pony would starve themselves simply because they didn’t like the way they ate. How silly is this guy? “That’s stupid! Here, I’ll eat with you.” She picked up the muffin, splitting it into two even pieces. Leaning forward, she took a big bite out of her own. “There, nothing to it!”

The hesitation in Mr. Scribe’s eyes almost scared her, as if he expected to be struck down where he stood for committing such sacrilege as eating like a normal pony. “Mr. Scribe, I won’t tell anypony you know.” 

He nodded slowly, and ate the muffin as she had. After he swallowed, he glowered at her. “Happy?”

“Yup!” Pinkie hopped over to the door, humming as she went. “Don’t forget to finish them, Mr. Scribe.”

“Sure, whatever.”

Pinkie’s pace slowed as she left the office towards the elevator. Something about their conversation sent an icy chill down her spine. Why did he resist eating so much? It was obvious he was hungry. Geez, did he think I was going to laugh at him or something? What am I, five? 





Rory stood outside the door to their apartment, legs quivering. School had let out late, and that would undoubtedly lead to a barrage of accusations. There was no use fighting the inevitable, so he opened the door and crept inside. 

He walked down the hallway, head hung low. His stomach ached at the smell of casserole. Glancing inside the kitchen, he noted his mother setting it on the table. Her eyes met his, daring him to ask. “You’re late.”

“Yes, mother. We had a meeting after school to plan the carnival.”

“Carnival? What a waste of time.” Storm’s cold voice made Rory jump. The stallion pushed him to the side with a hoof and strode over to Starlight. “Go to your room and finish your homework, Rory.”

“Yes, sir.” Of course he finished his homework at school, but arguing with him would be the worst possible move to make, especially if he wanted to get fed tonight. “I’ll do that.”

As soon as he entered his room, he jumped on the bed, pulling out his treasure from underneath the pillow. Most colts in school found the mouldering adventure book written some hundred years prior to be a snorefest, but Rory knew better. It served as a gateway to another time and place, away from the monotony of school and life at home. 

Two hours passed before the doorknob shone in Starlight’s amber magic. The mare sniffed in that haughty manner she reserved especially for Rory and her business rivals. “Come.”

Rory leapt off the bed, trotting to keep up with the tall mare’s slender legs. Her coat glistened like spun gold in the dim light of the living room, a sure sign that another modeling shoot was happening tomorrow. “So, you going to shoot tomorrow, Mother?”

“Indeed.”

They moved to the kitchen and Rory stood in his spot on the tile, fighting the urge to see what she was getting. Mother hated to be watched, a fact he learned the hard way. There was a soft chink as his dish was levitated to the tile. Rory frowned, noting that there was even less than this morning. Still, he would not complain. He stuck his muzzle into the plain oatmeal like the dog the metal dish was designed for. 

In a few seconds, he finished, licking the bowl clean. He looked back at the mare and she took the dish in her magic, tossing it to the sink. “Disgusting, eats like a cow,” she murmured under her breath. 

Rory flinched, but said nothing. His eyes fell to the magically locked fridge where the rest of the casserole probably was. 

“What are you looking at, ingrate?”

“Nothing, Mother.”

She sighed theatrically, “Honestly, you’re such a glutton, Rory. Though I suppose it comes with the territory . . .”

The words stung, but Rory kept silent. There was no point in fighting it. As long as he could remember, his parents refused to allow him to eat with them. They used to allow him to eat at the table by himself. Father suggested the dish a few months ago, and Rory hadn’t been allowed to sit at the table since. 

“Thank you mother.” Of course, he was anything but grateful for the amount he received tonight, but if he neglected the courtesy, she would “forget” the following evening. He turned around, walking back to his room, planning on reading the section about the fruit trees one more time before bed. 

> The Game
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Manehattan never slept, but the night invariably brought out the worst in ponies. What stayed hidden in the shadows during the day became perfectly acceptable during the night. Rory never found it disturbing, merely fascinating. A collision of moral obligations with the carnal desires of the flesh. So he watched them as he did every night on the way home. 

The nameless faces did not acknowledge his presence, due to either fear of his position or a silent acceptance as one of their own. More than once he had been tempted to stop, if only for a bit of conversation. But, what conversation could one have with an addict but their addiction? He needed no more temptation to join them. 

Rory envied them in a way. He knew they felt no pain, held no cares but for the next shot, the next bottle, the next high. All blissfully unaware or unconcerned with the mechanisms that ran this hell hole they called home. How he longed for such ignorance, craved the freedom they possessed in spades. The freedom to do what they willed and the freedom not to care about the consequences.

He paused outside his red brick apartment complex, once again reminded of how dreadfully gloomy its chipped stone and peeling paint made it appear. The inside stunk of booze and trash, and, judging from the crescendoing voices in 2-A, they would be treated to yet another visit from the police. Groaning, he limped up the flight of rickety stairs to his own flat. 

The dim electric lighting of his home illuminated the nearly empty room. Spotless as ever, but without so much as a single personal item. Just the way it needed to be. No possessions, no leads, no leads, no handles. His eyes fell to the kitchen, but he shook his head. He ate enough thanks to Miss Pie’s obsession with feeding ponies. Though, the muffins had been a most welcome treat. Rory could not remember how many months it had been since he ate something as frivolous as baked breakfast pastries. 

He glanced at the utilitarian wall clock above his bedroom door. One o’clock. He had to be up in four hours. That thought alone set his stomach churning. However, there remained more work to be done. Reluctantly, he carried his briefcase over to the small bookshelf stacked with financial textbooks. Pulling the correct volume, the lock released, and he stepped into his real work space. 

The walls of the converted walk-in had been plastered with papers, photos, news clippings, reports, and whatever other information he needed. Hundreds of strings wove an intricate tapestry that in essence highlighted every political connection that mattered in Manehattan. And today Miss Pie had granted him the opportunity to add a few more. The game was afoot, and Rory very much doubted he would get any rest tonight. 





“You're leaving next Friday?” Pinkie exclaimed, nearly dropping the stack of notebooks in her hoof.

Keynote nodded, “Yes, well, the baby’s due in three weeks and my term of employment ends next week.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “But that means I’ll be in charge of,” she gesticulated wildly around the office, “all this. What if I mess up?”

“Then Mr. Scribe will correct you as he did to me.”

Correct me? Pinkie grimaced at the thought of being on the receiving end of yet another of Mr. Scribe’s lectures. “He’s been super cranky lately, Keynote. What if he just explodes at me or something.”

Keynote raised an eyebrow, “Mr. Scribe does not ‘explode’ at anypony, Miss Pie, he threatens. Which—if you want to know my opinion—is far worse.”

Pinkie set the notebooks on the desk. “Was he always this grouchy?” Pinkie’s mind flashed back to the past three days following Mr. Scribe around to various meetings. The stallion had not spoken a single non-work related word to her, and even those were few and far between.

She closed her eyes as if lost in thought. “Well . . . no. He’s generally much more forgiving.”

“Forgiving?”

“Well, he’d be irritated, but he didn’t go lecturing me as he’s been doing to you lately. I think his new responsibilities are getting to him.”

Or his hours . . . Pinkie had never seen a pony function so well on so little sleep. “Guess I’ll just have to turn his frown upside down, won’t I?”

Keynote gave a weak giggle, “Perhaps.”

The door to the office opened and Mr. Scribe walked weakly inside. He seemed a touch surprised to see them. “Keynote? Miss Pie? What are you doing here? It’s nearly six-thirty.”

“Finishing up some paperwork, sir. But, it’s done now,” Keynote added as if Mr. Scribe had demanded why it took so long.

Mr. Scribe nodded, waving his bad hoof to dismiss them. “Then leave, I’m not permitted to pay you overtime.”

Keynote grabbed her saddlebags and trotted out of the room leaving Pinkie alone with Mr. Scribe. Just as she started out the door herself, he held out a hoof. “Just a moment, Miss Pie.”

“Yes?” Please no more paperwork! For once she wanted to start her weekend at a reasonable hour. 

“That third acquaintance I had you deliver the letter to, do you remember him, yes or no?”

Third acquaintance? Her heart skipped a beat. Dufaux! “Ye-yes.”

“He has invited you to attend the races this Sunday with me.”

This Sunday? “But I’m—”

“At this point in our relationship, it would be considered quite rude to refuse.” Mr. Scribe leaned in closer eyes deadly serious. “I should not like to offend a pony like him.”

Pinkie gulped nodding. “Okay, guess I can go . . .”

“Excellent.” He stood straight, walking towards her office. “Eleven o’clock sharp, Twelfth Street Downs. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t.” Pinkie watched him leave, pit forming in her stomach. What business did a mob boss have with her anyway? Then, a new, strange thought crossed her mind. Going out to the races with Mr. Scribe on a Sunday. Did that count as a date? Her hair bristled at the thought. Mr. Scribe had to be the last pony in Equestria she wanted to go on a date with. 





Twelfth Street Downs turned out to be quite the interesting set-up. Nestled between a bed of skyscrapers, bordered by two incredibly busy streets, and somehow maintaining the feel of a better, bygone era. Pinkie’s heart leapt at the only patches of grass she had seen in Manehattan outside of Central Park flanking a massive stone entryway with multi-colored flags. Maybe her optimism had gotten the best of her, but she looked forward to exploring the place in closer detail. Though, true to her word, she’d meet with Mr. Scribe.

I wonder if he dresses the same when he’s not at work . . . Her question was answered almost immediately upon spotting Mr. Scribe standing sullenly next to the entrance. Well, I guess it’s not exactly the same. The stallion had omitted his usual suit jacket, wearing a sleek dress shirt the exact same shade as his eyes and a boring brown tie. Not exactly ballpark getup, but at least he made some attempt.

She trotted over to him, putting on her best grin which he returned with his characteristic scowl. “Good morning, Mr. Scribe!”

“Is it?” he said in a mocking tone before starting off without a word. His eyes flickered to her mane for an instant before looking straight ahead. “You left it down.” Not a compliment, but not a complaint either.

Pinkie almost giggled when she realized what he was trying to do. “That’s not how you have small talk, Mr. Scribe. It’s more like this,” she marked pace with his uneven gait. “Sooo, you’re wearing a green shirt, that’s pretty cool. You know, I think it really suits you. Why don’t you wear them more often?”

Mr. Scribe just stared wide eyed at her as if she had lost all sanity. But, he stammered, “I-I don’t want to look like Father.”

“Oh! So he wears green a lot?”

“All the time,” he snarled, looking around at the gathering crowd they were now walking through. After a few minutes of walking—or in Mr. Scribe’s case—limping through the covered entryway and betting booths, they came to a sunlit passage and strode into daylight once more.

Pinkie gasped before she could stop herself. The grassy track had been lined with a beautiful white fence that wrapped its way around a grassy field in the center. Bleachers on either side of the passageway though old, sparkled in the midday sun like diamonds. Of course there were a lot of ponies clad in business suits and a few shabby looking ones lining the fence, but that did not stop her from admiring the view.

“Are you coming, Miss Pie, or do you intend on gawking all day?” Mr. Scribe had already started up the stairs on the left bleachers.

Pinkie trotted after him, catching up in no time at all. As they climbed the stairs, she noted for the first time how wickedly warped Mr. Scribe’s leg was. It did not only bow out to the front, but bumped and jutted at odd angles all the way down, looking like some foal’s jigsaw puzzle gone wrong.

Mr. Scribe followed her gaze, then turned away as if embarrassed by it. “Sorry. I-I should have probably worn the jacket. Just, it was hot and—”

Pinkie giggled, dismissing the thought with a wave of her hoof. “You don’t have to be sorry, Silly. I’m sorry for staring. It’s just . . . I guess I can understand why you walk like that better now.”

Mr. Scribe nodded, still avoiding eye contact. “I wish I didn’t,” he breathed.

They continued up and up the bleachers for a few minutes at Mr. Scribe’s painfully slow pace. But, eventually they came to a large box where the two sides of the bleachers intersected. Here they stopped, and Mr. Scribe knocked on the door. It swung open to reveal the same slick maned stallion that had greeted her and Quill at the opium den. He nodded, stepping aside. Reluctantly, Pinkie followed suit, hoping rather than believing it would be an enjoyable time.





Rory hated the very idea of working alongside Phillippe Dufaux. However, at this stage in the game, he needed the kind of leverage that only a mob boss wielded; somepony to go outside the law when the situation called for such measures as often it did. To this end, he had set out to align himself with the one boss who had the guts to defy his father on a regular basis.

Unfortunately, Dufaux enjoyed a particularly frustrating game of his own. One based on false civilities and ‘events’ meant solely to size up whoever peaked his interest that undoubtedly had been his motivation behind dragging him to this glorified casino. What worried him more was that he insisted on his bringing Miss Pie.

Oh, he knew exactly why he did it; to test if this new secretary was a ‘handle’ of his. The same test had been done on Quill, and he had no doubts he would pass with Miss Pie. Rory did not hold on to anypony, especially not some secretary.

For the first half hour or so, Dufaux paraded him around to his various contacts. False introductions were given with false smiles and he moved on. The crowded room stunk slightly of Dufaux’s specialty product, though the amount had no real effect other than causing a headache. It did not take an expert to see Dufaux’s purpose with it, and Rory took satisfaction in not jumping at the bait. His leg hurt, but he’d saw it off himself before he took to opium.

Dufaux had finally permitted him to rest on one of the lounges, and Rory took the opportunity to analyze Dufaux’s words. The stallion wanted him on his side, wanted him like a stray dog longed for a bone. Having a powerful inside connection with Scribe Incorporated had been a dream of his for years. But, Rory knew he didn’t trust him, not yet. A probationary period to judge his sincerity, that’s what this amounted to.

The obese stallion went on and on about his athletes, bragging on his ability to fix the race however he wanted. All steam, trying to see how easily impressed I am. Pathetic. You’ll have to do better than some cheap races to get my attention. Rory inwardly groaned as Dufaux began yet another speech on his ‘operations’ in the east side. I don’t give a damn about your opium dens . . .

A high pitched squeak jerked his attention to Miss Pie. The mare’s ears were lying flat against her head as three of Dufaux’s ‘companions’ harassed her. He had to sit on his tail to prevent it twitching irritably. The poor girl likely didn’t know how to deal with idiots like them. They were giving her a hard time too, harder than they had for Quill. Though he tried to drown out their jeers and her protests, it proved nearly impossible.

Focus, Rory, focus. She can take care of herself. She’s a rock farmer after all. One good kick would silence them. But he knew better than that. Knew that she feared him more than she hated them and would not dare lift a hoof against the ponies he had been trying to get an in with. For some stupid reason, that reality tore at his heart worse than it ever had with his other secretaries.

The girl’s optimism had proved incredibly annoying, but he hated to see it quelled by a few low lifes. Let her dream for now, the truth would come to her in time. For the next hour and a half, he endured mob politics, gambling, opium smoke, and the constant harassment of his secretary. All the stress had started to make him nauseous. He should be resting in bed as he did every Sunday, not listening to all this.

Deciding to put his hoof down, he turned to Dufaux, “Forgive me, but I must leave. I have a personal meeting to attend to, and I imagine my secretary would like to go home.”

Though he looked severely put out, Dufaux waved a flabby hoof, “Very well, my boy. I look forward to hearing from you soon.”

Rory jerked a nod striding as confidently as his leg would allow outside the door, Miss Pie hot on his hocks. After they had gone a few steps, Miss Pie turned to him. Though her ears were pinned and she practically quivered with anger, a large quantity of tears had flooded her eyes. “Why didn’t you do anything? You saw them, why?”

Don’t look at me like that. Rory cringed, looking down at the ground. “It’s all part of the game, Miss Pie.”

“Well it isn’t funny!”

Before he could caution against showing any sign of weakness, the mare took off at a dead gallop. Rory didn’t even humor the possibility of going after her. He had not even trotted in four years, let alone run.

His ear swiveled behind him as Dufaux made his way towards him. “My, my, my. Miss Pie seemed quite upset. Whatever did you do to her?”

Rory wheeled around so fast that Dufaux actually took a step back. Realizing his reaction, Rory quickly turned back, restoring the façade. “I wonder,” he growled.

“You know, I found myself quite fond of that secretary of yours, quite fond of her indeed. My friends especially . . .” Though his voice remained as light as always, Rory could practically feel the venom in them. “I do so hope she is okay. A pretty mare wandering around the streets by herself, who knows what might happen.”

Rory grimaced, feeling his limbs shake as Dufaux’s hoofsteps faded until he returned to the box. His heart pounded so fast he might be sick. Nopony had yet dared to touch his secretaries, knowing they would get no reaction out of him. For Dufaux to come out and announce it like that . . . He saw her as a handle, he had to. Why? She was just another secretary; a useful one, but still an employee, nothing more.

Rory limped down the bleachers, dying to get home and forget all about this mess for a few blessed hours. No matter how much his mind tried to focus on Dufaux’s connections, it always fell back to the mare cringing in the corner. Stallions ought to protect mares, but he had just stood there and allowed her to be harassed, as good as abandoning her. What kind of stallion am I anyway?





Light from the setting sun shot through the alleyway, transforming its filth coated surface into a fiery stream. The natural gilding did not impress Rory in the slightest. He, like the rest of Manehattan knew better than to see a shady back alley for anything more than what it was. 

Pretty much sums me up. The longer he stared, the more his resolve wavered. His stomach churned in an unwelcome display of nerves. What’s wrong with me?

Why had he come here in the first place? He should be at home resting his dangerously swollen leg. Instead, he had come all the way out here to apologize. Apologize for something he could not stop, and could never change. Still, he felt inexplicably obligated to do so.

With a deep, collected breath, he opened the door and stepped inside. Rory nearly gagged as the incense laden air obstructed his senses. Leave it to Jazelle to quite drown her clients before they even got to the bar. 

Rory limped along the hall, veering off into the empty seating area. Candles of varying sizes rested on shelves and littered the tables, though they had yet to be lit. Jazelle stood in the far corner by her low-lying stage, adjusting the knobs on an outdated sound system. 

True to her nature, Jazelle had herself so absorbed in her work that she did not even register his approach. Rory paused a few feet away, clearing his throat. The oryx did a pirouette right into her stage. Then, scrambling to her hooves, she turned to face him. “What’s the big—” Her challenging glare melted into stunned disbelief. “Rory?”

Rory could not help but grin at his friend’s idiotic expression. “Really? Who else would I be?”

Without so much as a warning, Jazelle bounded over until her muzzle was inches from his. She gave a scream of delight, prancing in place like some over-excited filly. “It’s so good to see you! Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for my musician.”

His stomach lurched. Music . . . In it he could escape from reality and forget who he was and to whom he belonged. Jazelle understood that well enough and always encouraged him to come out. And yet, with work the way it had been, even a few minutes were too many to spare. “I-I’ve been busy.”

Jazelle snorted, “You’re always busy, Rory. What’s new?”

“I-I . . .”

Those understanding eyes of hers drifted to his swollen limb as they tended to. “What did you do to yourself?” Jazelle breathed in that soft, almost pleading way she used whenever discussing his leg. 

“Father. He’s . . . he’s having me add fourteen more hours on. That on top of meetings and running my department. I’ve hardly had time to sleep, let alone lie down.”

Jazelle stared piercingly back at him, “Rory, you need to quit. You should have quit years ago! I keep telling you to come play for me. You know I wouldn’t let you starve.”

The mention of food made him tense. “I’m not some damn stray, Jazelle!”

“Rory, please, I’m not saying that. I just want you to be happy. You’re miserable and you’re working yourself to death!”

“I’m not-not miserable,” the words came out as fragile as butterfly wings. “I can’t . . . I . . . I have never known happiness, not in the way you have. If I started now and lost it . . . it would hurt more.”

Jazelle pinned her ears, “You’re a damn fool, Rory Scribe. Maybe you are a stray, sticking around some drunk hobo that beats you. And for what? You don’t gain anything from it!”

Rory gritted his teeth, turning to leave. “I’m tired of you pretending to understand me.”

“Well, somepony has to try!”

He started back the way he came. Just a foolish idea. What had he to gain from coming here? Jazelle’s hooves clattered as she closed the distance, blocking his path. “What now?” he growled.

“Why’d you come here if you didn’t want a lecture? You know I give you one every time you drag your sorry ass here.”

No avoiding it, huh? “I came to apologize,” he flatlined, watching the surprise ripple across her dainty features. “To Miss Pie.”

Jazelle mouthed something before managing, “What did you do to her?” 

Rory rolled his eyes. What? Am I a serial tormentor of mares now? “How would you imagine me capable of doing anything like that to her? She’s a rock farmer! Celestia, the only reason I pinned her down in the office was surprise.” Oops.

“You what?”

Rory flattened his ears, feeling his face heat up. “Well . . . I-I wanted her to know her place—”

Jazelle’s voice rose to an earsplitting level. “No. You wanted to intimidate the girl! How could you act like him? After what you’ve been through . . .”

“It’s all I’ve ever learned! How do you expect me to repay kindness when all I’ve ever been shown is hate?” Rory felt his heart racing out of control. What did she know? What did any of them know? “Cruelty is the only way ponies will listen to me, Jazelle.”

Her ears drooped even lower than normal as she turned away. “No, it is the only way you are willing to try.” She sighed heavily, “Leave, Rory.”

He did not hesitate for an instant, walking as quickly as his bad leg would allow. This whole idea had been a waste of time and energy. There was nothing to apologize for. I am the way I am. She’ll need to learn that herself.





Starlight draped herself across her expensive chaise lounge, paging through her magazine with a frown. The new girls were decent, but they did not have the ‘flair’ she needed to one-up that upstart bitch at Prescott’s that had yet to learn her place. Given time, she would learn the hard way as her predecessors had before her. 

Her eyes fell to the golden clock above her mantelpiece. Midnight. He should be back soon. She glanced around at her bedroom, admiring the various fineries her money and influence had brought her. Even her four poster bed had elegant gold and silver leafing winding its way up the carved surface. 

My soul for a kingdom, she mused to herself. How dreadfully poetic.

The sound of a door opening some distance away announced her estimate had been spot on. She watched the figure glide down the hallway, onyx coat nearly hidden amongst the shadows. “I would have a word,” she demanded, rather more imperiously than usual. 

A stallion formed from the darkness as he stepped two strides into her room. Two strides and never a hoof more. His attempt at mimicking respect failed miserably. No, he granted her the space as one grants a tiger its cage. “What?” he growled, cold eyes darting around the room, them back at her. “You don’t stay up this late.”

“Well, I don’t usually have to speak with you, now do I?” Starlight laced the words with her own brand of honey, the kind that she knew irritated him to no end. How she savored it! “You’re—” she paused, deciding against the first term, “the treasurer has cut my modeling budget. I thought you were keeping a better eye on him.”

Storm stamped his hoof so hard the floor shook. “I keep him well under my hoof, mare. It was by my orders he did so.”

“Whatever for? Prescott’s had hired earth pony models, swaying my customers with his so called ‘equality scheme.’ How am I to top it if you won’t let me hire earth ponies as well?”

“That scum Prescott can do as he pleases. I shall not sully Scribe Incorporated’s public face for the sake of your ‘fancies.’” He wheeled around, stopping when his body had almost been devoured by the shadows. “Your funding will return when you restore your profits.”

With that, he left, as silently as he came. Starlight shut the door, careful not to slam it. That would have been quite the foolish mistake on her part. Sighing, she strode over to her bed, sliding under her silk sheets. As expected, Storm would not make a move. However, he was not the only pony who could bend their ‘treasurer’s’ hoof. Starlight giggled to herself. Quite literally.

> Sentimentalism 
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------


Rory lay under his favorite tree in Central Park, undeterred by the half-melted snow soaking his belly. Despite the chill and the damp, Rory found the snow infinitely more preferable to his room. Though he could live without the ‘display.’






All around the open field, fillies and colts were racing and playing a variety of snow games. As today marked the last day of school and the start of winter holidays, everypony logically wanted to celebrate. Even though he generally frowned upon such outward exuberance, Rory found himself actually wanting to join them.






Of course, he could no more expect an invitation than he would a kind word from Father. Even if they did not recognize him—a rather long shot—they would certainly see his condition. Though nearly nine years old, Rory had yet to hit a second growth spurt like the other colts. His lank frame had only gotten more sunken in and he had not gained so much as a half inch in six months.






It did not take a professor to know the reason why. Rory knew it full well. Though he was a growing earth pony, they refused to feed him any more than he had been as a five year old. He tried to explain that he needed more food, but, after his latest request left him in the box for three days, he dared not ask again. Rory shook his head. No need to worry about a factor he could never hope to change.






Maybe he’d get on, or, maybe he wouldn’t. At this point, he just wanted to watch the happy strangers and forget about life for a while. Rory got the distinct impression of looking at a moving painting. Does that make me a painter? He chuckled half-heartedly to himself. I wish. 






After a time, the sound of a small child’s cry spraypainted a black streak across the picturesque scene. Rory’s heart sank as he saw a toddler crying beside a now decapitated snowpony. No! Don’t do that. Stop, you need to stop. If he cried, then his parents would come and—






Rory gritted his teeth as the colt’s mother came galloping over. A familiar, blood-chilling sensation came over him. Please, don’t! He didn’t do anything wrong! Miraculously, the mare did not scold, but got down on the snow beside the colt, hugging him tight. 






What? Why did she—he’s a unicorn, yes that’s it. But, Rory could see even from at least twenty feet away that the colt was an earth pony just like him. And yet, his unicorn mother hugged him as if he weren’t. 






The blood rushed to his ears as he watched her hug and rock the colt like he was the most precious creature in the world to her. His little green hooves wrapped around her neck, and, though he dripped snot all over her done-up mane, she continued to smile.






Rory closed his eyes, trying to control the shaking of his limbs. Why was that colt worthy of being held on like that? He had been a better toddler than that crybaby. Quiet, polite, non-argumentative . . . fearful. Just the way they wanted him to be. So why didn’t they ever hold him like that? 






I did something wrong, I must have. Rory got to his hooves, realizing for the first time how cold he had become. When he got home, he would take a short shower— they didn’t like him taking baths anyway—and then he’d read in his room. They liked that. And, if he was exceptionally lucky, she would speak to him just a little softer . . . 












Three hours. Over three hours of waiting for her to come home. When she did, it was straight to her room as always. Another hour later, she emerged, dressed in a shimmery dress and mane in an elaborate net braid. Rory knew he should be quiet and let her come to him, but he really wanted to see her before she left. 






He trotted over to her position beside the living room mirror.“Good evening, Mother!”






She twitched, swishing her tail. “What have I told you about shouting, Rory?”






Oops. His heart lurched. “Sorry, Mother. I just wanted to say hi.”






“Really?” Her harsh voice chilled him to the bone. “You just want to know if I’m going to feed you. Such a glutton, always obsessing over food.”






Rory’s stomach churned so violently, he thought he might be sick. Glutton. The word perpetually slapped on every time he so much as mentioned food. I’m not a glutton. He hated food, hated its necessity, and the way it made them angry at him. But he couldn’t live without it. So why were they so bent on keeping it from him? 






Starlight started towards the door, but he blocked her way. “What?” she snarled without so much as looking at him. “You have given me your little greeting and will not receive your dinner until I return.”






“I-I—” Spit it out, Rory! “I wanted a . . . a hu-hug before you go . . .”






This time she did look at him, but it was not with her usual disinterest. Her face contorted into one of purest disgust. “And why would I sully my coat with your filthy germs?”






The words scraped at his heart. “But, I saw a unicorn give her earth pony colt a hug today,” he blurted out. “She was happy. Maybe it’d make you happy too.” 






Starlight’s disgust only deepened. “Nothing about you makes me happy, Rory.” Without another word, she strode quickly out the door, slamming it shut with her magic. 






Rory stood rooted to the spot, quivering weakly. Every ounce of anticipation had vanished, and he wondered why he even thought it would work. Slinking back to his room, he collapsed on his bed. His eyes fell to the textbook, willing it to turn into something edible.






Yeah, maybe he was a glutton after all. But he couldn’t help it. What else could he think about? Lying in the virtually empty room with its blank walls for days at a time, knowing full well how much trouble he’d be if he wandered out of the room, let alone their apartment. Now he would spend yet another winter break without so much as another living creature to talk to. 




She hates me . . . she’s always hated me. What had he done wrong? Every day he did exactly what she asked him to do, and yet he never so much as received a pat on the shoulder for it. Nothing but a harsh word and—he shuddered—the box.






Rory gripped his chest tightly. It did little good to fill the need, but it felt nice all the same. Closing his eyes, he imagined what it would be like to be hugged. To be so close to another pony that you could feel their heartbeat, smell their breath, and share in their warmth. Maybe he’d experience that someday, but for now all he had wanted was a pat on the head, a kind word, and a little attention. But, even that had proved too much to ask for . . .
















Rory jolted awake, looking around at the darkened room and groaning. Glancing at the clock, he noted the time. Two twenty-five and he had to be up in less than three hours. Not again. His stomach churned and ached, but he ignored the familiar inconvenience. You’re not hungry, Rory. Go to sleep . . .






Lying in the dark, he allowed Jazelle’s words to play over and over again. Acting like Father . . . not giving ‘kindness’ a try. How could she even talk like that? He had tried being kind, tried plenty of times. It always ended in disaster. Jazelle lived under the assumption that, somewhere deep inside everypony, lay the potential to be good. Idiotic sentimentalism. Some ponies never had that potential to start with.






If he had been born with it, in time he would have learned to be a good child. Learned how to play, how to be helpful and genuinely polite and how to please them. Instead, he had only grown worse until even those fools accepted the fact that he never would be ‘good,’ at least not in their eyes.






A stabbing pain in his stomach preceded yet another wave of nausea. Rory realized that he had not eaten anything yesterday and next to nothing the day before. Reluctantly, he got to his hooves, wincing as his leg made contact with the hardwood. 






In the dim light filtering behind his blackout curtains, Rory opened up the cupboard. He withdrew a bowl, filling it with beet pulp and soaking its contents in water. Then, after adding three large scoops of weight supplement—the ‘extra strength’ stuff that never really worked—he took a seat.






It took a few minutes before he had the motivation to eat some of it. Rory grimaced as he took a few mouthfuls, keenly reminded of how much he looked like a dog. ‘Disgusting earth pony.’ The words echoed around the apartment as if magically magnified.






Every part of him wanted to stop there, but his stomach hurt. He needed to eat. Once again, he tried, managing a few gulps before grimacing and pulling away. The apartment faded into the background, replaced by his mother standing in the hallway. ‘Such a glutton, always obsessing over food.’ 






I’m not obsessing. Though, his affirmation did little to quell the disgust he felt at the thought of eating. Glancing down at the half-finished bowl, he stood, limping back to the room. I’m not a glutton . . . I’m not. 






He curled back up under the covers, exhaustion drowning out the now dulled pain. A familiar, quivering sensation started in his legs and worked upwards. That overwhelming need for pressure, any pressure, caused him to grip himself until it hurt. It'll be okay, it'll be okay. You don't need them and they'll never need you .  . .



> The Other Scribes
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Pinkie, what are you doing?”

Pinkie glanced at her mentor, still seated at their desk, then back at Mr. Scribe’s door. “Do-do I have to, Keynote?”

She rolled her eyes, adjusting the pen perpetually stuck behind her ear. “It’s just asking for a signature, Pinkie, not a date.”

Date? A shudder ran down her spine as her mind flashed back to yesterday’s fiasco. Mr. Scribe had just stood there and watched as those creeps jerked her around. So much for chivalry. I definitely don’t want to date him.

“Pinkie?” Keynote stood, walking carefully over to her. “What’s the matter?” She made to raise her chin, but Pinkie pulled away. After a long pause, Pinkie felt the mare’s hooves wrapped around her in a big hug. “Mr. Scribe took you to see Dufaux, didn’t he?”

She could only nod, fighting back the tears. Those stallions that stunk like opium and booze brushing against her coat, Mr. Scribe’s cold stare . . . How could anypony be that cruel? 

“It’s alright, Pinkie, it’s alright,” Keynote soothed, rocking her like a foal. “The same thing happened to me.”

“It did?”

“Mmmhmm. But, you know, those ponies never harassed me again.”

Pinkie pulled away, searching Keynote’s soft eyes for sincerity. “Why?”

“Mr. Scribe calls it a ‘test.’” Her ears lowered. “Though it’s a no good, lousy trick if you ask me,” she snarled.

The question that had been swimming around in her mind for days bubbled to the surface. “What if they kept going, Keynote? You know, really . . . really tried to hurt me,” she breathed. “Would Mr. Scribe have stopped them?”

Keynote looked genuinely taken aback. “I-I don’t know . . . He-he’s not a . . . not a—”

“Nice pony?” Pinkie supplied dryly. “Yeah, I kinda got that much.”

“You shouldn’t say that, Pinkie. He’s,” she bit her lip, glancing at the office door, “he’s never learned how to be good. After working for him for a few years, I’ve started to wonder if . . .”

“If what?”

“It’s nothing much . . . I doubt you’d understand.”

The blood rushed to her ears. Why did everypony around here assume she was dumb or oblivious just because she chose to think of the positives? She pulled away, glowering at Keynote. “Don’t coddle me.”

“Fine.” Keynote motioned her closer, voice lowering until Pinkie could barely make it out. “After you scared him like that the other day, I started to put the pieces together, and . . . I’m wondering if he had some trouble in the past . . .”

Her blood ran cold. Trouble? “Wha-what kind of trouble, Keynote?” She gasped. “He wasn’t in the mob or something, was he?”

“No, I doubt that. Though,” Keynote sighed, lowering her ears, “all the time I’ve known Mr. Scribe, he’s always been . . . ‘off.’ A normal pony would never be able to dream up half his schemes. You’ve seen how he  manipulated the situation with your family’s farm just to make you miserable.” 

The weight of his body on hers, his hot breath against her cheek . . . Pinkie felt unwelcome memory choking her once more. “Not a normal pony, huh? Yeah . . . I kinda agree.” No normal pony took pleasure in hurting someone they never met before. “He’s messed up.” 

Keynote’s reply came out almost bitter, “If he is, it’s by no fault of his own.”

“What do you mean? Everypony’s responsible for their own actions!”

“Yes, but . . .” She glanced at Mr. Scribe’s door, then turned back to her. “Have you met the President?”

“No.” What’s he got to do with anything?

“Pray you never do.” Keynote visibly shuddered. “Storm Scribe is the worst pony ever to darken the earth with his shadow. He has no concept of compassion, no moral inclinations. The only business he concerns himself with is furthering his own agenda."

“What—”

“Listen, Pinkie. I am not denying that Mr. Scribe is responsible for what he does. However, I know more about him than you and . . . he’s not a bad pony.” The mare’s voice softened to a nearly motherly tone. “He has a good heart, and, under any other circumstances, I believe he would have turned out just like you or me. But, how can we expect him to treat any of us with kindness, respect and compassion if he’s never been shown it himself?”

Pinkie lowered her ears, “I’ve shown it to him plenty of times, Keynote! And I’m sure you have for ages now. If he really was a good pony, he’d learn a thing or two.”

Silence, then Keynote shook her head. “Pinkie, you grew up with a good family and so did I. We can’t understand how difficult it is to break years of conditioning.”

“If he really wanted to change, he could. He’s just making excuses to be mean.”

“Let me put it this way, Pinkie.” Keynote leaned against the filing cabinet. “Have you ever been to a greyhound race?”

“Er . . . no.”

“Well, those dogs are born athletes with the potential to do a great number of things. They are often kept in small kennels, and let out only for the races.”

Pinkie’s heart sunk. “And those ponies get away with that?”

Keynote shrugged, “Yes, but that’s not the point. All those dogs have an amazing amount of potential and not just for racing. However, they’ve lived their entire lives in crates. So, when they are given a little bit of freedom, they tear up the courses and make money for those very ponies who keep them trapped inside that kennel.”

“That’s awful,” she squeaked.

“Yes, but they don’t see it that way. You could give them the option to run from the track, but not many would take it. They consider the track ‘freedom’ and cannot even begin to comprehend a life without it or their crates.”

“So . . . you’re saying Mr. Scribe’s like those dogs?”

Keynote smiled sadly. “Yes. I imagine his father treated him much like those dogs as a colt. His whole world has always revolved around the President and the President’s goals. Working in his own department is the closest thing to freedom that stallion’s ever known.”

She took a long, slow, breath before continuing, “It doesn’t matter how much kindness we show him or how much we introduce him to the world outside. If he doesn’t believe he has the freedom to act of his own accord, he never will.”

It made sense, but the pill was a bitter one to swallow. “So there’s nothing we can do?”

“No . . . not really.” 

The door swung open and they both jumped. Mr. Scribe’s unamused expression greeted them. “What are you two doing? I’m not paying you to loiter about!”

Keynote nodded, flying back over to the desk. That left her rooted to the spot, staring into the eyes of the last pony she wanted to talk to. Still, she had a job to do. “Could you sign this paper?” she squeaked, holding out the small letter. 

Mr Scribe grumbled something along the lines of, “wasting my time,” but signed the paper regardless. “There, happy?”

“Yup.” No. Her eyes fell to his briefcase resting on the floor. “I thought there weren’t any more meetings today.” It was nearing five o’clock, after all.

He sighed, looking out the window at the evening commute. “Not a meeting, Miss Pie. I have an appointment with Father to discuss . . . something.” With that, he scooped up the briefcase and strode to the door. Pinkie could have sworn she heard him mumble, “Whatever the hell that is . . .” before he left.

Pinkie looked at Keynote, receiving a shrug in return. Great, now she could add ‘forgetting’ appointments alongside ignoring potential rape to Mr. Scribe’s long list of transgressions. And to think after this Friday, she’d be dealing with Mr. Moody all by herself. 





The President’s office of Scribe Incorporated lived up to its owner’s reputation to say the least. An ostentatious display of superiority had collided with the stallion’s unyielding ruthlessness to great effect. The black marble walls of the expansive office shone in the late afternoon sun, yet another reminder of the last pony he wanted to talk with.

Walking—he dare not limp—to the desk, he regarded the secretary. As cold and unfeeling as Storm, the elderly unicorn never ceased to make his blood run cold. She regarded him out of the corner of her eye and Rory understood it as all the acknowledgement he would receive from her.

Without another word, he went to the sturdy mahogany door and knocked. A green light surrounded the door as it swung open. Rory dared not hesitate, though his entire body felt numb as he entered. 

He stood on the plush emerald carpet, focusing his attention on the unicorn juggling five sheets of reports. Don’t interrupt. If one rule had been drilled in his head from foalhood it was that. So Rory waited, standing as still as his quivering limb and exhaustion would allow. 

Time passed as his father’s “test” wore on. After almost fifteen minutes, Storm Scribe lowered the papers to his desk. Then, with that superior smirk he reserved for earth ponies, he drawled, “Good of you to show up, Rory. You’re at least fifteen minutes late.”

Rory twitched. I was here on time and you damn well know it. But, this office belonged to his father, and, as such ran by his rules. “Yes, President.”

Storm Scribe leaned forward, levitating something from his drawer. With a jerk of the head, he motioned Rory closer. Reluctantly he joined his father, glancing at the newspaper article resting atop the desk. His blood ran cold. I though he wasn’t bringing that up again . . . 

“What is this?” Storm’s voice kept its artificially patient air.

“A news article about . . . about my slip up the other week. I didn’t think they’d write one so long after it happened though.” Look him in the eye, Rory, look him in the eye. The longer he stared at the unfeeling emeralds, the more his confidence shattered. 

“I have addressed this issue in the past, Rory. Do you recall the condition I had for hiring you?”

“I-I . . . yes, sir.” 

“Well?”

“I’m never to go to the hospital or doctor regarding my leg and,” he gulped, forcing himself to focus on Storm, “I’m not to show my disability to anypony, particularly the media.”

“Exactly,” Storm purred. “Tell me now, how did this,” he pounded his hoof against the desk, sending an echo throughout the office, “happen?” 

“I was . . . sick, sir.”

Storm shot to his hooves so suddenly, Rory jumped instinctively backwards. All trace of collection had vanished, replaced by a familiar, manic glint. “Sick? Are you that pathetic? I don’t do around collapsing when I’m sick!”

Your leg’s not smashed to hell . . . 

“Let’s try this again. Why did you collapse, Rory?”

“I had to stand for the whole hearing, sir. Between that and the new hours I—”

“So it’s my fault, is it?” Storm’s voice continued to crescendo. “Is it my fault you lack the ability to deal with a little pain and perform the essential functions of your job?”

A little pain? A little pain? What did that bastard know about the agony he endured day after day? The words left before he could stop them, “I wouldn’t have any pain to deal with if you hadn’t done this to me in the first place!” 

Oh hell . . . It took all the courage he had left not to cower as Storm walked around the desk. He lowered his head, allowing the wickedly sharpened point to glisten in the sunlight. “What was that, boy?” he snarled.

“Sorry, sir, I—” 

There was no time to react. With a flash of magic, Storm knocked him to the ground, pressing all his weight on the leg. Under any other circumstances, he might have been able to internalize the pain, but the shock and force of it all made that quite impossible. He let out a unmasked scream of agony, writhing under the unrelenting pressure. 

“You were born a cripple, just as you were born an earth pony. You’re as good as a carthorse’s bastard to me, boy! Despite that, I have so graciously given you a position of power in my company. Then you have the gall to suggest that it is my fault you cannot tolerate a little pain? You don’t know what pain is,” he snarled pressing against his leg still harder until Rory felt it might snap. “This is pain! Know the damned difference.” 

With that, the pressure released. Rory lay on the ground, sobbing like an idiot. Storm’s cold voice rung in his ears, “You will not repeat your mistake again. Do I make myself clear?”

“Ye-yes, sir,” he gasped. For a moment that felt like an eternity, he lay there, struggling to rise. By some miracle, he managed to stand and limped towards the door. 

“Rory?”

Rory turned slowly around, glowering at his father. “What? You’ve proven your damned point.”

Storm’s horn lit up as a small vial arched into the air and froze a few inches from his muzzle. Rory took it, reading the label. Morphine? “Sir?”

“This is all you will be receiving from me. I will not hear of another incident again, understood?” Rory jerked a nod, starting to move when Storm cleared his throat. “One more thing. You will fire Farthing tomorrow.”

“What?” He can’t be serious! Farthing had to be the best financial consultant out there. If it had not been for him, several of their multi-million dollar projects would have tanked by now. “He’s far too valuable to dismiss, sir.”

Storm Scribe smirked. “You should have thought of that before you gave us your little ‘display,’ Rory. Tomorrow, and you shall do it yourself, is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.” As fast as he could given the circumstances, Rory limped out of the office and down the hallway. Once he had made it well and clear of his father’s office, he sunk down, leaning against the wall.

Carefully, he lifted his sleeve and examined the damage. No bruise, but the top of his leg felt swollen. No broken bones. Celestia knew how he would have managed a broken bone on top of everything else. Bone did not heal overnight, and, with the constant strain on his legs, it would be months before it even had the chance to. 

Groaning, he pulled out the vial. Morphine, huh? It had been the first serious painkiller he ever received and for that he was grateful. However, its effects would be too strong to be of use during the day. At least he would be able to sleep now . . . 





Pinkie balanced the pencil on her muzzle, glancing around the spotless office. Thanks to her motivation and Keynote’s efficiency, they had completed their duties for the day. However, Mr. Scribe never allowed them to leave early unless he dismissed them personally.

Due to the wait, Pinkie happily chatted away with Keynote until the heavily pregnant mare had become too tired to keep the conversation going. So they sat in their respective chairs, watching the minutes tick by on the clock. 

Then, with a crack like thunder, the door swung open. What the? Mr. Scribe never opened the door like that. Sure enough a pony that was most definitely not Mr. Scribe strode inside the room. Pinkie could only gape at the newcomer.

The palomino unicorn’s coat and mane had been brushed and oiled until it quite literally shone. The frizzless hairs, detailed makeup, and the long, summer dress she wore fell nothing short of perfect. However, the cold, condescending glare put Pinkie immediately on edge.

“Where is he? I would speak to him at once,” she commanded with all the air of a Queen addressing the serfs. 

Keynote slunk forward, ears lowered submissively. “He’s out, Mrs. Scribe. Had a meeting with the president . . .”

Mrs. Scribe? She’s his mother? Pinkie found it quite hard to see any family resemblance other than the attitude. 

“A meeting with Storm?” The mare gave an icy laugh. “My he does flatter himself. As if Storm has time to meet with him and chat. I’m tired of you sugarcoating the truth, Keynote.”

“But he—”

“He’s gone to get a lecture which he no doubt deserves.” Mrs. Scribe huffed, striding across the room to the window and showing off her long legs and absolutely perfect figure. “I can wait until he returns.”

From the incredulous look Keynote shot her, Pinkie guessed this was far from ordinary. Pinkie almost swore the tension could be cut with a knife. Maybe her optimism would come in handy after all. She bounced over to the newcomer. “Soooo, you must be Mr. Scribe’s mom. I’m Pinkie Pie, his new secretary.” 

Rather than taking the hoof she extended her, Mrs. Scribe wrinkled her muzzle in obvious disgust. “I do not shake hooves with whores.”

What? Did she just call me a whore? Pinkie bristled but forced herself to remain calm. “I think you must be mistaken. I’m a secretary, not a lady of the night.”

Keynote clapped a hoof to her face, moaning. “Pinkie, leave her alone . . .”

Mrs. Scribe however, leaned in, sneering, “Please, as if Rory would hire a pretty young earth pony for anything but that.”

“I’m a secretary!”

“Ooooh, secretary by day, whore by night. You do get around, don’t you?”

Pinkie never imagined a creature as beautiful as her could be so vindictive. Apart from that initial “incident,” Mr. Scribe had shown absolutely no interest in her as a mare. And yet here this complete stranger walks in and acts as if she’s been fooling around with him the whole time. 

The mare gave a high pitched laugh that sounded closer to a cackle. “He must pay you quite well. I can’t imagine a cripple's very good in bed.”

“I’m not sleeping with him!” 

“Then you’re telling me he hired you for your skill as a secretary? Please, look at that ludicrous cutie mark.” She gestured to the balloons as if they were some kind of lewd sign. “Please, you think you’re qualified to be a secretary? He just hired you for your loose morals.”

A familiar, snide voice drifted over from the doorway, “You’re one to talk about loose morals, Mother. What was the name of that prized model of yours that got knocked up by her hairdresser?”

The mare practically growled, striding imperiously over to Mr. Scribe. “You’ll not mention that . . . bitch in my presence.”

To Pinkie’s amazement, Mr. Scribe backed his mother into a corner, ears pinned flat. “And you’ll not speak to Pinkie in such a manner. Miss Pie is the best secretary I’ve had, and I’ll be damned if I hear one more accusation against her honor in my office!”

The mare looked practically murderous, but, simply nodded. “Very well.” Her eyes narrowed to slits, “That leaves the other issue at hoof. You’ve cut my modeling fund.”

“On direct orders from Father. I had no say in the matter.” 

Mrs. Scribe opened her mouth, but her son cut in, “I won’t be ‘intimidated’ by the likes of you, Mother.” 

Every one of them jumped when he raised a hind hoof and kicked the wall so hard it left a gaping hole. “I may not be as ‘convincing’ as Father, but I don’t think you want to be behind one of my kicks.”

Without another word, she glided out of the room, casting one last venomous look at Mr. Scribe before leaving. The stallion strode over to them, looking fundamentally spent. “Well, that was quite the show, eh?”

Keynote jerked a nervous nod, eyes still focused on the wall. “Yes, sir.”

Pinkie flinched when he walked over to her. “Are you alright, Miss Pie?”

“Uh-huh. Why-why was she like that anyway?”

Mr. Scribe sighed, glancing back towards the door. “Mother is always like that, Miss Pie. You’ve done nothing wrong, I can assure you.” He made to walk back to his office, but paused, turning to face her again.

The soft, almost caring smile he wore made her heart lurch. “Ah . . . I-I wanted to . . . to apologize about yesterday, Pinkie. It was wrong of me to,” he gulped, “leave you to those ponies.”

Pinkie? He never called her by her name. That coupled with the shock of his apology left her speechless. All she could manage was a small nod. 

Mr. Scribe bit his lip, as if contemplating a rather difficult problem. “Please be . . . please be careful on your way home from now on,” he breathed.

“Why—”

“There are a lot of cruel ponies in this world, Pinkie. I shouldn’t wish for you to become acquainted with them as I have.” With those parting words, he returned to his office, leaving them alone once more.

Keynote walked over to her, looking as if she had just chatted with a ghost. “Did-did you see that, Pinkie? He apologized and called you by your name.”

Pinkie smirked playfully. “Maybe he’s finally starting to see outside the track.”

“Maybe, maybe . . .”   








> The Acquaintance 
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pinkie could not help but grin all over as she sat behind the desk. The office had been entrusted to her for the whole morning due to Keynote’s doctor’s appointment. Though a little nervous, it felt wonderful to be handed so much responsibility. 

Using the typewriter used to intimidate her, but, as promised by Keynote, it became second nature. She hummed a tune to the mechanical clicking as she worked. Push the left button to scroll through the letters and the right to confirm. Rinse and repeat. 

The work had left her so engrossed, that she failed to notice Mr. Scribe standing in front of the desk until he coughed loudly. Pinkie squeaked, sitting bolt upright in her chair. “Yes, Mr. Scribe?”

“I need you to cancel my last appointment for the day.”

“Your last appointment, sir?” The request, though unusual, would not have concerned her if Mr. Scribe had not looked so tense. “Si-sir? What’s wrong? Is it another meeting with the President?” She refused to call them “lectures” like Mrs. Scribe had.

“No, I-I have some . . . unfortunate business to attend to,” he murmured, glancing out the window to focus on the distant buildings still glistening in the early morning sun. Shaking his head, he turned back to Pinkie. “That aside, there is one more task I need completed.”

Task? His latest “task” had involved shuffling around boxes of paperwork for over an hour. Lovely . . . just lovely. Still, she gave him what she hoped passed for a polite smile. “Of course, Mr. Scribe. What can I do for you?”

Mr. Scribe gave a theatrical groan so uncharacteristic that it sent her into fits of hysterical giggles. “What-what’s so horrible?” she managed, wiping the tears from her eyes.

He gaped at her for a moment, before bursting out laughing himself. High pitched, pleasant, and a far cry from any other noise he had made before. The gesture filled her with the kind of warmth that seeped into every fiber of her being. It had not been the laugh itself, but what it represented. That he had the capability to be a happy, normal pony if only she could bring it out. 

“It’s far from horrible, I can assure you. Quite the opposite, really.” Mr. Scribe glanced at the clock. “When Keynote returns, I need you to drop this document," he withdrew a manilla envelope from his briefcase, depositing it on the desk, “to Milo Coltfax. The address is on the envelope.”

“The Milo Coltfax?” Pinkie couldn’t control the squee of delight. “He’s like this super cool legendary prosecuting attorney, isn’t he?” She bounced up and down, scooping up the envelope. “Ooooh! I’m super duper excited to meet him!”

Mr. Scribe rolled his eyes, “‘Cool’ is going a touch far, Miss Pie. He’s . . . chipper,” he said the word as if it might give him hives, “but he’s an enemy of Scribe Incorporated, do you understand?”

Pinkie snorted a laugh, which made Mr. Scribe look like a dejected puppy dog. “Sorry, but, enemy? Come on, don’t you think that’s a bit much, sir?”

“I do not.” He puffed out his chest, though Pinkie could see the doubt flickering in his eyes. “He’ll try to get all ‘chummy’ with you, but you shall remain professional at all times, do I make myself clear?”

She saluted, “Yes, sir!”

“Good, now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got ten appointments to get to before noon . . .”

Pinkie watched him limp out of the office, then turned back to the manilla envelope. Milo Coltfax, eh? Eeeeeh! I finally get to talk to him. The one pony in Manehattan that dared stand up to the President of Scribe Incorporated. I’ve got to learn his secret. 





“Huh?” Pinkie stood outside the run-down brick building, scarcely believing her eyes. “This is Milo Coltfax’s office?” All visions of marble walls and glass doors had vanished upon arrival at the trash-strewn entry way complete with peeling gold letters at the top of a battered wooden door. ‘Milo Coltfax: Prosecuting Attorney.’

“Just my luck,” Pinkie grumbled, walking dejectedly up the stairs and opening the door. Inside she was greeted by what looked to be the interior of a slothful paper pusher’s filing cabinet. Hundreds upon hundreds of papers, files, wayward folders, and the occasional newspaper were jammed in pillars all around the tiny office to the point where free movement bordered on impossible. There, nestled between two massive stacks sat an ageing earth pony mare, navy hoof tapping a quick tempo as she read.

Pinkie shuffled over to her, glad to see another earth pony secretary in the city. “Hiya!”

She jumped a little, but held a kind smile as she looked up from the paperwork. “Can I help you, Miss?”

“Sure can!” She rummaged in her saddlebags, withdrawing the envelope. “I’m Pinkie Pie, Mr. Scribe’s new secretary. I was sent over to deliver this to Mr. Coltfax.”

The mare giggled, holding out a hoof. “Good to meet you, Pinkie. My name’s Quill.” With a grace to rival a professional ballerina, the pony wove her way through the maze of paperwork to stand beside her. “Come along, and mind your step, I wouldn’t want you to trip!”

As Pinkie followed Quill she could not help but stare. Here stood a mare with genuine beauty, not the fleeting kind ponies like Mrs. Scribe clung to. Her long, slender legs and graceful neck reminded her strongly of the deer that visited their farm once. Though her silver mane had lost its youthful sheen and lines marred her delicate features, she held a vibrancy that even she had to be jealous of.

Quill glanced behind her, “So, you’re working for Mr. Scribe? How do you like it?”

“Er . . .” How did she like it? A far cry from rock farming, a different world in terms of ponies, and yet, she could not say she hated it in Manehattan, merely that she could not accept its citizens’ views on life. “It’s . . . all right. Mr. Scribe’s a bit grouchy, but my roommate’s super nice.”

“Yes . . . Mr. Scribe has always been on the ‘grouchy’ side.” She sighed, turning back around. “I’ve never seen him smile.”

“Oh he can smile! He did today.”

Her words had an immediate effect on the mare as she froze in place. The incredulous look plastered on her face was beyond comedic. “He smiled?”

“Yup!” Pinkie could not help but feel a touch of pride at that. “Making ponies smile is my special talent after all.” And, given how precious little she used it lately, she would soak it up as much as possible. 

“How in Equestria did you get him to do that?”

“Well, he told me about sending this letter to Milo and he groaned super dramatically. So I laughed, then he laughed.” 

A small smile creased the corners of her mouth. “So he laughed at Milo’s expense . . .”

“Is that bad?”

“No, no, Milo will be happy.” Quill started walking down a narrow hallway, humming a cheery tune now. “He’s always wanted to see Mr. Scribe loosen up. Been telling me lately he’s about to call it quits.”

“Really?” Pinkie waited as Quill paused by the far door, rapping loudly on its grimy surface. 

“What?” The gruff, irritated voice took her back a step. “I told you no more cases! And I’m not doing any for ‘charity’ either.”

Quill rolled her eyes. “Milo, Mr. Scribe’s secretary is here to drop off some paperwork. Do have the common decency to see her.”

His voice changed instantly to one of concern. “Secretary?” The sound of hoofbeats preceded the door opening with a golden aura. “What’s that imbecile thinking sending Keynote all the way—”

The middle age unicorn stopped mid-sentence, staring at her as if seeing some kind of apparition. He bit his tongue, then pointed an accusatory hoof at Quill. “Who the hell is this?”

“I told you, Mr. Scribe’s secretary.”

“Is she the temp?”

Deciding to break up their little scrap, Pinkie stepped forward. “Uh, Mr. Coltfax, sir, I’m the new secretary. Keynote’s . . . Keynote’s not coming back to work for Mr. Scribe. I’m Pinkie Pie, her replacement.”

Milo raised an eyebrow, “What? She told me two months ago she would be back at work shortly after the baby was born.”

“Er . . . yeah, about that . . .” How did she explain the situation? Just as Keynote warned her, everything in Manehattan came down to politics. Surely a pony as intelligent as Milo Coltfax would understand, right? “Politics kinda got in the way.”

Both Quill and Milo started to laugh. Milo clapped her on the back with a hoof. “I think we’re going to get along well, kid.” He stood aside, motioning her to sit down at a small couch in the center of the surprisingly clean office. “Come on in, you too Quill. Let’s sort out the ‘politics,’ shall we?”

Pinkie giggled a little herself, taking a seat. For once, sitting in a meeting didn’t seem so terrible after all . . .





Rory both relished and loathed work. Though he finally had the opportunity to hold a position of authority, every aspect of his life still fell under his father’s control. Freedom? Well, that belonged to those ponies who either did not notice or did not believe themselves under the hoof of another. 

“Freedom” belonged to those residing at the bottom of the power structure who, in their desperation to blot out reality, turned to labels for comfort. They fancied themselves happy there. Rory did not believe he could ever find “happiness” in such an illusion. The naïve clung to illusions and he clung to facts.

Though it pained him to admit it, Rory lived vicariously through those who managed to survive under those illusions. For, if happiness really did exist, it did not stem from the truth. The truth always left one with a bitter taste. Today had been no exception.

Despite his desire—or was it longing—to protect Farthing’s happy illusion, he had been personally sent to shatter it to pieces with a sledgehammer. The look on the pony’s face sent chills down his spine as he busied himself with yet more paperwork. 

‘There-there must be some mistake! What did I do wrong?’
Nothing.
‘Then why—’
I cannot extrapolate further, Farthing. It was . . . an order from the higher ups.
‘I have a wife and kids! What do I tell them when I get home?’
The truth I suppose, or, another or your illusions. They will like that.
‘Illusions, are they? Just because I see the world for what it could be?’

Rory shook the memory loose, trying to focus on the papers. Judging by the brilliant splashes of red and orange light, it was nearing sunset. Despite that and Keynote leaving for the day, Miss Pie had yet to return. 

Dufaux’s smug face drifting to the forefront of his mind. Whatever convoluted reasoning he possessed had led the stallion to view Miss Pie as a “handle.” Idiotic notion. As if I’d let anypony, let alone my secretary become a handle. Hell, he didn’t even allow so much as a single personal item in his apartment for fear of future repercussions. 

In fact, the only personal item he possessed had been stored at Jazelle’s so long it might as well be hers. Rory sighed, surprised at how damn depressed that fact made him. Twenty-four years of living, and only one non-work related item in his possession. Even the vagrants in central park had more than that. 

As he stared down at the paper, he found himself tempted to draw something to cheer himself up. He stopped halfway to the pen upon the realization that he could not even conjure up a “happy” picture. Farthing’s devastated face remained the only picture he honed in on. 

I ruined his life. Yes, it had been upon Father’s orders, but in the end, the blame fell on him. Once again, he had destroyed a pony’s happiness with a few simple words. His stomach lurched. Just like Pinkie, I suppose . . . 

Strange how her name came so natural to him. It had been six months before he bothered addressing Keynote by her name and that had only been because she requested it. So what made this new secretary any different? 

Rory spun the pen like a top, pondering that question. A rock farmer’s daughter, incapable of basic restraint, but irrevocably kind at heart. No matter how much he scolded her, she always returned the next day with a smile on her face. And, he chuckled, she stood up to Mother. Even Keynote cowered when she walked in, but Pinkie hadn’t backed down. Perhaps it was that fire that drew him in.

A quick glance at the wall clock reminded him just how slow he had moved today. Back to work, Rory. 

Just as he made to shuffle around yet more funds, his door swung open and Pinkie strode in. “Heya, Mr. Scribe!”

Rory raised an eyebrow, “Do you have any idea what time it is, Miss Pie?”

“Er . . . seven,” she supplied unhelpfully.

“Indeed. And, what could you possibly have been doing for four hours?”

“Chatting with Milo and Quill. They’re super duper nice. I learned a lot about . . . legalisms . . .” she trailed off, pawing at the carpet. 

It took a moment to realize he had been unconsciously glaring at the mare. Shaking his head, he attempted a smile which probably more closely resembled a snarl. “It’s quite alright. I know how . . . charismatic those two can be. Did you get those papers signed for me?”

“Sure did!” She trotted over, depositing a small envelope on his desk. “Milo said it was a lousy deal, but that he went ahead and took it for his client anyway.”

“How terribly gracious of him,” Rory drawled, picturing the stallion’s ridiculous smile even now. Undoubtedly, that’s how he had reacted. Every time he encountered the prosecutor, it was the same. What possessed him to remain so damn courteous to everypony around him remained a mystery. 

“Yup. He’s super nice. I’m surprised you didn’t tell me about Quill. She’s the nicest secretary ever!”

“Indeed. Well, why don’t you go home and relax? You can get back to work tomorrow.”

“Really? Thanks, Mr. Scribe!” As he watched her walk out, he could not help but long for a little more conversation. His interactions with her had been the only positive note of his entire week. Though, she likely thought the opposite of her time talking to him. 

Rory felt nauseous just looking at the paperwork. In his current state, he could not fathom how he’d finish it all. What he wanted, what he needed was interaction, however fleeting or shallow as it may be. To talk to another pony about stupid, non-work related matters, to make jokes and laugh. 

“Mr. Scribe?” Pinkie’s tentative voice from the doorway made him jump. “Are you feeling okay? You look really sad. Did something happen?”

His heart stopped. She noticed? “Ye-yes. I-Father had me fire one of my best employees today.”

“Really? Why?”

Rory gritted his teeth. “Punishment. For . . . for my slip up the other week.” Why did I say that? Stupid!

To his mixed surprise and trepidation, the mare strode back over to the desk, frowning. “Slip up? What are you talking about?”

“I fell down during that hearing. It had been a few hours, I-my leg gave out,” he murmured, cringing. 

“So he punished you for that?” She stamped her hoof so hard the floor shook. 

Instinctively, he leaned away from her. “Ye-yes. I . . . I deserved it, I suppose.”

“You didn’t deserve it, Mr. Scribe,” she snarled, pinning her ears. “It’s not your fault your leg’s hurt! He should be apologizing for making you stand for so long.”

Rory felt his blood running cold. What was wrong with her? “You mustn’t speak of him like that . . .” He shuddered, imagining the damage Storm would do to her if he had heard her. 

“I’ll call him out as much as I want to!”

Oh she had fire all right, but all the wrong kind. He stood, limping over to her. “Pinkie, you can’t talk about him like that,” he pleaded. “He’s . . . he’s dangerous. If he caught you talking like that, he’d take it out on your family.”

“What’s my family got to do with my opinions anyway?”

“Nothing, but I can guarantee you he’ll make them suffer regardless.” Rory sighed, glancing out the window. “I’ve seen firsthoof what he’s capable of. It’s not . . . it’s not pretty.”

Pinkie relaxed, though the fire in her eyes remained. “Fine. But, that doesn’t make him right!”

“Is there such a thing as ‘right’ anymore?” His words hung in the air, Pinkie regarding him as if he had lost his mind. “Go on home, Miss Pie, and let me deal with Father.”

She slunk slowly to the door, but as she did, a random, stupid urge overcame him. Before he could stop himself, he blurted, “Could I join you?”

“Huh?”

Rory felt his face heat up. What’s wrong with me? “Sorry. It’s just, I haven’t had a lot of company lately,” ever, “and it’d be nice to hear somepony talk. I could walk you to Jazelle's . . .”

For a moment, he honestly thought she would mock him or walk away. Instead, she smiled and nodded. “Sure! That sounds super fun. It gets sooo boring walking back by myself.”

“Excellent. I’ll-I’ll just pack up then.” Rory found himself thanking whatever force possessed him to make such a random request. It had been months since he had the simple opportunity to “hang out” with a fellow pony. And, given the fact that this was Pinkie, he might just leave feeling a little better about today’s mess.





Pinkie had dealt with a lot of weird happenings since her arrival in Manehattan, but nothing topped walking home with Mr. Scribe. So much as seeing him out of the office before dark had been enough to leave her speechless, but she had to walk the whole way to Jazelle’s at his almost annoyingly slow pace.

Of course, he could not help it and she found herself wincing with each jarring step he took. That has to be painful. To break up the monotony, she had punctuated their trip with accounts of her life in Nickerlite, her adventures in Manehattan, and her chat with Milo. Mr. Scribe seemed to like the description of her adventures in the “shantytown,” actually laughing a few times when she went into detail about their cardboard forts.

When she got to Nickerlite, he grew rather quiet. From his dumbfounded reaction, he could not believe that she lived a three hour's walk to town. Though, when she spoke about her parents and sisters, he hardened. That left them in a rather awkward stalemate for the rest of the walk. 

Finally, as they turned into Jazelle’s alley, he spoke almost in a whisper. “How do you do it?”

She turned to him, trying to read his almost stoic expression. “Do what?” 

“Remain so damn happy.” He sighed, looking around the alley. “Manehattan is the worst place in Equestria for a pony like you to be. And yet, here you are acting like nothing is the matter. How can you bear it?”

“I . . . I guess it’s my talent.” Seeing his irritated expression, she continued, “Anypony can do it, Mr. Scribe. I’m really nothing special. It’s just . . . just a mindset. You’ve got to start seeing the positives in life and allowing the negatives to roll off you.”

They walked along for a little while, then he murmured very softly, “What if there are no positives?”

“There're always positives, Mr. Scribe.”

He shook his head slowly, “If there are, I cannot think of them . . .”

“Oh . . .” She had dealt with a lot of sad ponies before, but Mr. Scribe felt different somehow. A part of her knew her usual pep talk would have little effect on him. “Then you make some positives.”

“Easy enough for you to say,” he snarled.

Pinkie found herself growing irritated. “Quit talking like that! You’ll never get anywhere with an attitude like that.”

“Fine.” Though he glowered at her, he said nothing else the rest of the way.

They walked down the incense choked hallway until they arrived at the still empty seating area. Jazelle leaned against the bar, wiping off a glass with a cloth. Upon seeing her, she quite literally bounded over to her. “Welcome back! How was—”

She stopped, eyes meeting Mr. Scribe’s. Her voice turned uncharacteristically harsh. “Come to lecture me again, Rory?”

He twitched, glancing down at the floor. “No, I . . . I needed some company. Miss Pie agreed to let me walk home with her.”

Jazelle regarded him for a tense moment before jerking a nod. “Alright then. But, you’re not sticking around for free. Your accordion's in the back.” She winked playfully, “I expect you to dazzle as usual.”

With a soft grumble, the stallion limped away, leaving them alone. Pinkie could not stop the excitement from leaking out. “He’s going to play?”

“I believe so.”

“Eeeeh! You said he’s super awesome, right?”

Jazelle giggled, “That he is, but he does better with some accompaniment. Would you like to sing with us?”

“But-but I’m not that good. I’m reeeeeally rusty and—”

“You’re not getting out of it that easily, Pinkie. Besides,” her eyes fell to the stage, “I think you might be just what Rory needs right now.”

“What he needs?”

Jazelle clicked disapprovingly. “You know, for a pony specializing in cheering other ponies up, you’re a little slow on the uptake.”  

“But Mr. Scribe hates me . . .”

The oryx’s bell-like laugh danced around the room. “Rory isn’t the type of pony who willingly spends time with ponies he hates. The fact that he left work early just to walk you home should be proof enough that he finds you worth his time.” She shrugged. “Who knows, maybe you can join me on his very short list of ‘acquaintances.’” 

Pinkie giggled, “Acquaintances?” 

“I told you Rory doesn’t have friends, didn’t I? Acquaintance is all we can hope for.”

“Guess you’re right. Acquaintance is better than enemy any day.” Given that she lived in a city of politics, having a powerful “acquaintance” might just come in handy. Pinkie shook the thought away. Great, now I’m getting into politics. Tonight was about making a friend, nothing more, and if anypony in Manehattan needed a friend right now, it was Mr. Scribe. 

> The Songs We Sing
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rory cringed, wrapping his tail tighter around his lank body. Undoubtedly he looked like an imbecile resting under the still leafless tree during one of their obligatory Spring downpours. Every so often, a few students would dart across the campus, eyeing him as if he lost all sense of reason. Reason huh . . . At this point he’d be grateful to keep his sanity.

 Another wave of agony shot through his leg, this time strong enough to send up more bile. Groaning, he lay on his side, allowing the frigid rain to soak through the dull hairs. How long had he been lying here again? Since nine o’clock at least. But he could not move, not yet.

He glanced down at his front legs, one warped permanently forward, and the second badly swollen. The longer he stared, the more hopeless he felt.

Ever since that day, he’d been forced to put an unnatural amount of strain on his left leg. Rory knew it would give out, but not from simply walking to class. By way of a miracle, the fracture had not been compound, but that did not stop the fools insisting they take him to the hospital. He could not even begin to imagine the repercussions of that. 

After somehow managing to make it to the dorms, he set the bone himself. His makeshift splint did little to support his weight, but it at least allowed him to walk. After a week of misery, he had finally swallowed his pride and begged Father to let him see a doctor. 

‘As if you need one. An earth pony that can’t deal with a bit of pain? Pathetic.’ 

‘Pathetic.’ A word easily thrown around by a self-righteous bastard like his father. What did he know about “dealing with it?” He did not spend every waking minute in mind-numbing agony only to have yet more dumped upon him. 

Rory longed to surrender to the pain, but he did not have that right. As the only pony in Equestria capable of taking down Storm Scribe once and for all, such a gesture would be incredibly selfish. It was his goal in life, his true purpose and he would see it through to the end. 

He rolled upright, focusing on the grey blanket above. A different, unappreciated beauty, but one he savored. Years trapped in that apartment without even the luxury of an open window. For the first time in his life, he could lay outside as much as he wanted and he would not waste the opportunity for all the world.

Alone and at peace, the song came as naturally as breathing. Rory closed his eyes, allowing himself to become lost in the words and feel the blessed release if only for a moment. 

“Here in the silence
the world draws breath
and in that moment
I know I’ve found rest”

Rory heard a light, angelic voice join his own. Just another illusion, but he welcomed it.

“Beneath the trees
drops of rain fall and scatter
and sink into the blades

Wash away the pain
wash away the night
and somehow I’ll find
the strength to carry on . . .”

Rory opened his eyes, breaking the spell. Sighing, he stood weakly and froze in place. There in front of him was no angel or apparition. A delicate creature—an antelope he supposed—stood in the rain, smiling sweetly. And I thought I was the only lunatic out today . . . At that moment, he could not help but return the smile. “You have a lovely voice, Miss.”

Her bell-like laugh blended in perfect harmony with the pounding droplets. “You’re not half-bad yourself!”

Rory chuckled softly, “I guess . . . It was kind of my only entertainment as a kid.”

“Sounds like the right entertainment to me!” She walked over to join him under the tree, holding out a cloven hoof. “Name’s Jazelle and before you ask, I’m an oryx.”

“Rory Scribe. Er,” he looked down at his shaking limbs. “Sorry, I-my leg’s broken or I’d shake.”

A small flush colored her sandy cheeks. “Ah, right, sorry.” She looked him meaningfully in the eyes, “So, what’s a pony with a broken leg doing out here in the rain?”

“What’s a musically inclined oryx doing talking to the likes of me?”

“The likes of you?”

Rory rolled his eyes, “Rory Scribe. That ring any bells?”

Her eyes grew wide. “Scribe? You’re not . . . you’re related to the CEO of Scribe Incorporated?”

“He’s my father.” Unfortunately . . .

“Oh . . . wow . . . I, er, never would have guessed.”

Rory half-expected her to retreat like everypony else. But, miraculously, she continued in a conversational tone, “So, what’s your major?”

“I, uh—Accounting . . .”

“Neat! Mine’s Music Education.” She bit her lip as if contemplating something. “Soooo, you interested in joining a band?”

The request came so suddenly it took several seconds to process. “Pa-pardon?”

“A band. You interested? I could use a guy who can actually sing.”

Is she serious? “I . . . I don’t know. I’ve been in a lot of pain lately with my legs.”

“You know, singing’s the best cure for pain, right?”

Rory rolled his eyes, “I thought that was morphine.”

“Yeah, well, aside from the drugs.” She paused for a long moment taking in the surrounding campus. “When you're singing, you put aside all that baggage and focus entirely on the music. You’re free, you know?”

“Yeah . . . yeah I do.” Rory sighed, then, nodded slowly. “I guess I can show up to a practice or two. If you don’t mind an amateur . . .”

Her encouraging smile sent an unexplainable warmth throughout his body. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine. I know the others are going to love you.”

As stupid as it seemed, Rory believed her and, for that moment, the pain didn’t seem all that bad.





Accordions hardly constituted serious instruments. Pinkie had only ever heard them played in the hooves of traveling Polka bands or at festivals. So when Mr. Scribe brought out his accordion, she not only envisioned but expected a lively tune to accompany it. That thought alone left her excited to hear what he’d play.

He limped over to Jazelle. “Happy?”

Jazelle pursed her lips, eyeing Mr. Scribe’s long sleeve button up and accordion with mild skepticism. “You know, you don’t have to wear your suit.”

“What? I took the jacket and tie off.”

“Uh-huh.” She rolled her eyes, “Typical. You know, one of these days I’ll get you to actually wear something casual.”

“Yeah, when I’m dead,” he snarled, taking a seat on the stool beside her. Then, his eyes widened, “Why’s Pinkie up here?”

Jazelle snorted, “You and I aren’t the only ponies who can sing, Rory. She’s damn good.”

“Uh-huh. Suuuure she is.”

The sarcasm in his voice made her giggle. At least he could be somewhat playful. She sat straighter, grinning, “So are we going to play or not?”

Mr. Scribe shrugged, “Fine.” 

With that, he started to play a quiet, slow tune. Jazelle poked him pointedly in the ribs.

“What?” he snapped.

“We’re not at a funeral, Rory! Play an actual song, would you?”

Rolling his eyes, Mr. Scribe raised the accordion and began a lively, swing melody. Jazelle started off singing, and soon Pinkie joined in. As usual, performing with the talented musician made her more than a little embarrassed. But with her kind smiles and encouragement, Pinkie soon found the confidence to sing along.

They sang song after song as the crowd slowly trickled in. Despite Jazelle scolding him, Mr. Scribe did not join in singing a single one though he continued to play the livelier tunes. 

After a few more numbers and a large round of applause, they took a break. Pinkie hopped over to join Jazelle at a table in the back. “Whew, that was a lot of singing!”

She chuckled, sipping the cider in her mug. “You said it, Girlie.”

Pinkie’s attention fell to Mr. Scribe seated at the piano bench. “Well we sang a lot. Why didn’t he?”

“Rory only sings sad songs, Pinkie.”

“Huh? Why?”

She shrugged, spinning the mug in her hooves. “As long as I’ve known the guy, it’s always the same schtick. Can’t really blame him though . . .”

“Why?”

“Well . . . Rory’s never been—never known what it is to be happy, Pinkie.”

Pinkie’s blood ran cold. “That-that’s silly, Jazelle. Everypony knows what it’s like to be happy. I mean, everypony was happy at some point, right?”

Jazelle merely shook her head. “If Rory ever had a happy moment in his life, he never told me about it. Hell, he probably wouldn’t recognize a happy moment if it hit him in the face. With all the shit he’s lived through, it makes sense.”

“What he’s been through?”

Jazelle opened her mouth to speak, but paused when Mr. Scribe’s accordion started up again. This time however, he began to sing in a voice that quite nearly took her breath away.

“In these last fleeting hours
when I cannot see the dawn
still it's you that helps me carry on”

An immediate, unnatural tension marred Jazelle’s delicate features. Pinkie listened as she sung along in a tiny, stiff voice. 

“And yet I know
you have departed
ne’er more to stand by my side”

Jazelle’s flawless voice began to waver as tears filled her eyes.

“The years will pass like summer snow
the sun sink beyond the horizon
and my journey draw to a close

But time cannot erase
the memory of those nights long past
and a love ne'er forgotten”

Mr. Scribe paused there, drawing out of the accordion a melody Pinkie never imagined possible of such an instrument. A mournful, carrying tune that resonated with the deepest part of her. Then in a low voice that made her spine tingle, he continued,

“The songs we sang
the promises made
and the magic of working as one
will remain in this place
long after we’re gone.

Farewell . . . farewell 
until dawn breaks 
and we dance once more . . .”

There was a soft round of applause, though most merely stared at the stallion in wonder. He nodded curtly, walking off stage. Pinkie had been so transfixed by his performance that she almost missed Jazelle’s silent sobs. 

Pinkie turned to her friend heart lurching at the tears streaming down her muzzle. “What’s wrong?”

Jazelle shook her head, murmuring something along the lines of, “That damned Rory . . .” 

Pinkie brought her into a gentle hug, rocking until the shaking stopped. After she pulled away, Pinkie gave her a napkin and a weak smile. “You want to talk about it?”

“Yeah . . . sure.” she sniffed, trying to compose herself. “That song’s . . . it’s his song.”

Pinkie let the words linger in the air for a time before asking, “His?” 

Jazelle sighed, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Our old buddy, Flow Chart. He’s gone now . . .” There was an awkward pause, “cancer. He was only twenty,” she breathed.

“Oh . . . I’m-I’m sorry . . . so you were close?”

“Hell yeah! Me and him . . . we grew up together. He was a special kind of nerd I’m tellin’ ya. But . . . he had a good, kind heart. Nopony could hate that dork for long.” 

Her eyes fell to the stage. “You know, he almost did it, Pinkie. Almost broke Rory out of that cycle he’s stuck in and came as close to being friends with him as anypony could. But, then . . . then he had to go.”

Jazelle’s voice raised an octave, “It’s stupid right? Me getting all worked up over a damn song. But I can’t help it. Every time I hear it I think about that dance . . . and those lighthearted promises he made.”

The table shook as she repeatedly pounded her hoof against the table. “Like he had any right to make promises and smile like that! He knew he was dying. Why couldn’t he just admit he was scared?”

“—Because he didn’t want you to worry,” Mr. Scribe stated flatly. 

Pinkie jumped a little. I didn’t even hear him come over! 

Jazelle snorted, “Well sometimes I want to worry, okay?”

“Really now, what would your worry have done other than make you feel less guilty?” he snapped.

“I—what do you know? You’re just the same as him!”

Mr. Scribe leaned in closer to her, pinning his ears. “So you would rather have me tell you exactly what I’m feeling, is that it?”

“I-I don’t know,’’ she mumbled, looking down.

Pinkie wanted to speak, but bit her tongue. As an outsider, she had no right to interfere.

Mr. Scribe’s voice became as sharp as broken glass. “Shall I tell you about my legs, Jazelle? Would that somehow make you less guilty if you knew the level of agony I endure every day?”

She cringed, “I’m no-not guilty . . .”

“Oh really? Never speaking of your family in front of me, neglecting to mention your perfectly happy childhood for the four years we knew each other in college!” 

He continued his rant, stamping his hoof for emphasis. “Despite your self-righteous assumptions, Jazelle, I wanted to know, okay?” His voice broke, eyes glistening, “To know that somewhere in this world there are parents who actually love their children . . . that some kids did not have to suffer through years of abuse and starvation for simply acting like children or being born the wrong race . . . ”

There was an awful, pregnant silence before he turned away. “The only guilt you should feel is not telling me sooner.” With that, he scooped up his briefcase and limped away. 

Pinkie felt the blood rush to her ears, limbs growing numb. “I-I didn’t know . . .”

Jazelle sighed, getting to her hooves, “And it is best if you pretend not to for the present, Pinkie.” 

Mr. Scribe was abused . . . Suddenly all the pieces began to fall in place around her. Oh, Celestia, what do I do now?

> The Splash Effect . . .
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Note: I have now added the gore tag to the story. This chapter contains actual gore (not my usual soft core stuff), reader discretion is advised.]





Pinkie did not know what she expected after the talk at Jazelle’s, but being ignored by her employer hardly made her list. Two weeks after the incident and Mr. Scribe had scarcely spoken more than a few words to her in a day, always concerning work, though that was no surprise. At the very least, she thought he might find it in himself to send Keynote off on a good note. But no, even that proved too much to ask. 

When she encouraged him to give Keynote a card or letter or even a parting thank you, he grumbled something about “professionalism” before walking away. Then Friday came and went without either of them so much as seeing Mr. Scribe all day. Keynote did not act surprised or troubled, but Pinkie could see she had been disappointed. 

Last week consisted of nothing more than paperwork, notetaking, and errand running for the Treasury Department. Hours a day with nopony to talk to, or stuck in business meetings where she was expected to be “seen not heard.” Every time she tried to speak to him causally, Mr. Scribe would flinch and look away. 

The distance, work, and isolation took the spirit right out of her in remarkably short time. Today’s social forecast appeared to be as bleak as yesterday’s Monday slump. She sat at her desk, finishing the latest in an onslaught of memos. The illegible chicken scratch made her writing look like calligraphy. Pounding out the last few letters, she whipped it off the typewriter and trotted over to Mr. Scribe’s door.

She knocked before striding in. “Mr. Scribe, I have a—” Her heart stopped when she noted Mr. Scribe lying on the floor. Though, once she realized that he had simply moved his office work to the carpet, she relaxed. “What are you doing down there?”

He jumped, head wheeling around to face her. Then, he looked away. “I do not have to explain myself to you, Miss Pie.”

“Miss Pie” again. Would it hurt him to say her name? “Well, I know you don’t have to explain yourself, Mr. Scribe. Buuut, you kinda gotta admit it’s a little weird to see the head of the Treasury Department rolling around on the floor.”

His tail swished irritably as he glowered at her. “I am not ‘rolling around,’ Miss Pie. I am working,” he emphasized the word as if she had questioned his honor as a buisnesspony. 

“Oh the floor?”

He jerked his head towards his warped leg.

“What?”

With an exasperated sigh, he continued in a rush, “My leg is badly swollen because of standing on it too much. I can do nothing to solve that, however, it does lessen the pain and swelling if I lie down instead of sit. Does that answer suffice?” 

Pinkie felt her face grow warm. “Sorry . . .” Her stomach churned as she stared at his warped legs. ‘To know that some kids don’t have to suffer through years of starvation and abuse . . .’ As she had so often these past two weeks, she wondered just how Mr. Scribe hurt his leg. 

“Quit looking at me like that!” he snapped the words so suddenly she dropped the paper on the floor. “I’m sick and tired of my secretary gawking at me like some stray dog to be pitied.”

“Sorry,” she squeaked. “I’m just . . .” her eyes fell to his leg. The words tumbled out before she could stop herself, “How did you hurt your leg?”

All trace of patience vanished from his features. “It’s been like this since I was born,” he growled, shooting daggers at her.

“Like hell it was.” She stamped her hoof. “It has something to do with what you and Jazelle were talking about, doesn’t it?” 

“It’s none of your business, Pinkie! And if you so much as breathe a word about that conversation again, I’ll see to it your farm’s on the auction block the very next day.”

His words echoed around the office, ringing in her ears. All hope of his changing melted around her. “Still resorting to threats I see,” she snapped before storming out of the office. 

She walked into the hallway to stand panting in the lounge area. How could one pony be so cruel one minute and so sad the next? Try as she may to lead by example, Mr. Scribe remained as harsh and unforgiving as granite. Was there even any point in trying anymore? 

Sighing, she turned back to the office but paused at the small mirror hanging on the wall. Not again . . . Ever since she arrived in Manehattan, her mane had gradually lost its volume and curls. Originally she blamed the water, but now it seemed just as likely that Manehattan was trying to assimilate her into the hive mind. Well, at least it’ll be easier to put up now . . . 





Rory tapped his hoof against the papers, attempting to steady his breaths. Stupid mare . . . should have hired a stallion. At least he’d leave me be. For a second he contemplated doing just that, but no, he had brought her here. A whim perhaps, but he felt a stupid obligation to keep her around. Besides, her talent made his life far easier. Let her worry about the data and he would analyze it. 

At this point, any relief from his workload helped. Without Farthing’s brilliant mind on the job, he had been left to sort out situations that never should have been an issue in the first place. Last Friday he had been forced to wander around the north research facility to examine the financial merit of their latest drug. Needless to say the opportunity cost outweighed the benefits. 

Again and again “mandatory” meetings had been set up to discuss paltry matters any college graduate could have handled. Rory wondered about his father’s purpose. Had he caught on to his plans? Not likely, though it made him nervous all the same. If the pieces came into play too soon, the entire plan would be compromised. I’ve worked too hard to let it fall apart now. 

He turned his attention to the immediate problem, a rather substantial discrepancy in the finance report. If not dealt with now, all the blame would invariably fall on him. Rory snorted, looking down at his well-worn suit. As if I’m the type to embezzle funds . . . 

Paging through the report continued to bring nothing more than a migraine. As he scanned through yet another wall of numbers, his eyes fell on a small symbol crammed in the corner; a red E encircled in a triangle. Rory’s blood ran cold. “Dufaux,” he growled to himself.

So Dufaux’s lost his patience after all. 

Resorting to threats might have fit the mold for a mob boss, but Rory refused to allow anypony to threaten him. Far better to be the instigator than the target. The real victim however, would not be him, oh no. That would be far too straightforward. Dufaux fancied Pinkie a handle, a naïve and foolhardy assumption. 

Rory had no “interest” in mares or stallions for that matter. Though he could admire them, the connection stopped there. He needed nopony in his life, let alone some silly rock farmer with all the tact of a razor blade. However, true to his impulsive nature, Dufaux assumed Rory fond of her and had set his sights on tormenting her. 

He cared little for her specifically, but held himself to a standard where his employees were concerned. Rory had vowed to do his damndest to prevent his mistakes whiplashing back on his employees. Not that it always worked—Farthing was proof of that—but the sentiment made him feel marginally at peace with himself. 

This latest statement from Dufaux made his skin crawl. Though he wanted to inform Pinkie of the danger, he could not bring himself to do it. What good would scaring the girl do anyway? He would confront Dufaux in the morning and that would be that. 

His ears perked up at the sound of low male voices in the office. Far too polite to be anyone from the company. Reluctantly, he struggled to his hooves, walking gingerly to the door. There standing in front of Pinkie’s desk were two uniformed police officers. Rory recognized the oldest immediately. “Sergeant McCloud, what brings you to my office?”

The steel grey pegasus wheeled around, talking through his handlebar mustache, “Ah, Mr. Scribe. We have a small matter of business that requires your urgent attention.”

Rory raised an eyebrow, walking over to join the officers. “A matter of business?” 

“Jumper,” remarked the young amber unicorn in a matter-of-fact, almost bored tone. 

“Ah, I see.” Not again . . . Suicides were hardly uncommon within Scribe Incorporated’s staff, though jumpers always left a bitter taste in his mouth. “The Treasury building I suppose?” What other reason would they have for darkening his doorstep at five o’clock in the afternoon?

“Yes, unfortunately,” McCloud murmured. “It’s a rather tall building as you know and . . . well, we’ve got something of a mess on our hooves. We had some office workers identify, but they were too distraught to have a reliable account, so we were hoping—”

“Of course, I’ll go with you then.” Rory turned to Pinkie who continued to stare at them with a quizzical expression. His heart lurched uncomfortably. Leaving her alone at present might not be the best strategy. “Come along, Miss Pie. I will need you to take notes for the detectives.”

Pinkie looked as if she’d rather swallow nails, but slunk over to him, clipboard in hoof. McCloud’s eyes widened. “Miss? Are you sure you’re up to going? This isn’t exactly the most—”

“She’ll be fine, Sergeant. The mare’s a rock farmer, she’s likely seen far worse than this.” I hope . . . 

Slowly they trailed out of the office and towards the elevator. Rory found himself running through potential conversations with Dufaux. The matter had to be handled carefully, or else he would lose one of his lynchpins. 

Some might consider him heartless for not pondering the calamity of a suicide off his building, but they could screw themselves. The poor bastard was dead. Contemplating the loss could no more bring him back then saying “please” would gain his father’s affections. As cruel as it sounded, that was the unalterable truth.





Pinkie found herself fighting two urges so strongly that the end result had been a tense grimace that made her look nearly as grouchy as Mr. Scribe. Part of her wanted to enjoy the bit of liberty and sunshine, but another part dreaded to see where they were headed.

Judging from the hushed silence that had fallen over the police officers, they were into some serious business. She tried to discern exactly what a “jumper” might be. The unspoken law of Manehattan dictated that whatever this almost playful codename represented, it would not be pleasant. Their mention of the building had filled in the blanks, but the end result made no sense.

Jumper . . . a pony who jumped off a building. Surely non-pegasi didn’t jump off buildings! And yet her gut told her that could be the only plausible answer. That raised another question. Had life in Manehattan become so miserable that they felt it easier to end it all rather than struggle through it? Would she eventually succumb to the same end?

She shook her head, trying to focus on the crowded street they were pushing their way through. Once they hit the police tape, her worst fears were confirmed. A few detectives stood inside the makeshift barrier, taking notes and regarding a lumpy black tarp while the crowd parted almost undisturbed around them.

Pinkie shuddered as Mr. Scribe walked under the tape to join the ponies by the tarp. Reluctantly, she followed, doing her best to avoid the red and white jelly scattered over the pavement. An army of flies had gotten to them first, forming writhing black tumors over the food. Where had it all come from anyway?

She stood beside Mr. Scribe staring into his cold eyes. Judging from his tight jawed expression he took no more pleasure in this than she did. After a curt nod to the detective, the tarp was pulled back and Pinkie gasped. 

What remained of the pony lay on the pavement. It looked as if a giant hoof had repeatedly pounded him against the concrete until he stuck to it like gum. His milky eyes stared upwards into the sky, flickering in the sunlight. The worst bit however was the post, generally used for tying up taxi cabs driven right through his chest. 

Pinkie had encountered more than her fair share of awful smells, but this one set a whole new standard. The viscera lay torn and splayed open, spilling over the ribs like some macabre fan and sending waves of a stench so awful she nearly fell to her knees. The post, coated in blood, fat, and Celestia knew what else, churned with a literal blanket of flies. 

She ripped her eyes away from the scene only to stare in horror at the other spots. Not jelly, but various bits of the pony scattered around him like after effects of a spray paint can. Oh, Celestia!

Every part of her wanted to run, but she remained frozen in place. Her eyes fell to Mr. Scribe, hoping by some miracle he would understand how much she wanted to leave and take her. But his attention was fixed entirely on the corpse.
 
“Some splash effect, huh?” The detective remarked as if this pony were nothing more than an interesting piece of artwork. “Reckon he didn’t intend to impale himself though . . .”

Mr. Scribe stepped onto the blood, hooves making an awful squelching noise against the as he moved to examine the body. He made not comment or expression as he swept away the blood from the pony’s cutie mark. His eyes narrowed, “No, I don’t believe he did, inspector . . .” 

Sighing, Mr Scribe removed his hoof from the body, looking the detective in the eye, “It’s Farthing . . . he was one of my own until two weeks ago.”

The police officers grumbled something amongst themselves, sounding almost disappointed. Their young escort snorted, “Lose their job and jump off the deep end . . .” He shook his head, “What a waste.”

McCloud spat, cuffing his hoof against the pavement. “Going to take all night to scrape him off the sidewalk.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Scribe mumbled, more to himself than any of them. With a final, cold glance at the corpse, he started off. Pinkie followed him in silence, past the tape and further down the street. As the distance from the horror decreased, her anger ratcheted upwards. Finally, as they passed the walkway by Central Park, she stopped, stamping her hoof against the concrete so loud, Mr. Scribe did an about-face.

“What?” 

“What? Is that all you have to say, you . . . you . . . bastard!” The venom in her words surprised even herself. “You just saw a pony fillayed on the sidewalk and you just stood there like you were watching paint dry. That was a living, breathing, being a few minutes ago, your co-worker. And you felt nothing? What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Mr. Scribe’s ears lay flat, “I’m an unfeeling bastard, all right? I’m not ashamed to admit it either! I’ve never given a damn about anypony else, so why should I start now?”

“So Farthing meant nothing to you?”

He visibly tensed, looking away. “I do not hold onto feelings, they only get in the way. I appreciated his abilities, nothing more.”

Pinkie felt as if her heart might burst from its rapid pounding. “Is that what you’ll tell his wife and kids, huh? That the only thing you valued about their loved one was his skills? How heartless can one pony be?” 

“And how hopelessly sentimental can one pathetic little mare be?” he snapped. “Feelings will not change the facts! He’s dead, end of story! Pick yourself up and move on.”

The words struck a chord inside her. This pony could not be reasoned with, he could not and would not change. Keynote was right, all he has ever known is his own little world, but he would not leave the track. “Fine. Stay in that cage you’ve made for yourself! I suppose it gives you some comfort.” She snorted, turning away. “I’m going home.”

“You’ve still work to do.”

“I think this counts as a valid excuse!” With that, she took off at a dead gallop knowing full well he wouldn’t come after her. Manehattan might try to make her conform, but she’d join that pony on the sidewalk before that happened. I won’t become like him, I won’t! 





Rory must have stood there for over five minutes, simply staring at the direction his secretary had run. Of all the conceivable outcomes, this was the least likely. The mare had more fire than he ever gave her credit for. Though, the raw, animalistic fury behind her gaze sent shivers of fear up his spine. Pinkie did not know, could not know the repercussions . . . If she spoke to Father like that, it would all be over for her and her family.

Her words, magnified a hundredfold reverberated in his head and he could not help but be ashamed of them. ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ The better question would have been to ask what was right. As far as he knew, he had never been, and would likely never be a “good” pony. 

By her standards, his actions were all wrong and, in the grand scheme of things, that was likely true. But, being “right” took some level of conditioning, didn’t it? To say to oneself, “This is wrong,” one first had to understand what was right. 

Rory shook his head, walking slowly down the street. No, such thinking served only as an excuse for bad behavior. He knew the “right” action, the action Pinkie likely demanded but, for whatever reason, he had chosen to ignore it. The end result had been one of his own making. Perhaps tomorrow he’d consider explaining himself to her in a little more— 

He froze in place, heart catching in his throat. Dufaux’s warning. How could he have forgotten? Rory lurched into a rather reluctant canter towards Jazelle’s. Though a little off-balanced and incredibly painful, he managed to keep the pace a good while before breaking into a trot. His legs screamed, but he pushed through the distraction.

If he did not find her before Dufaux’s goons . . . Rory shivered. That girl might be hell to deal with, but she didn’t deserve that. After nearly fifteen minutes of searching, he found her in a side alley. Unfortunately, she had company.

Two stallions stood in front of her, and, judging from her confident stance, she was ready for a fight.For an instant, he imagined she could handle herself, after all the mare spent most of her life rock farming. Undoubtedly, she played clean. Dufaux however, would not hesitate to pull a fast one. 

Sure enough, Rory noted a third, smaller stallion in the shadows behind her. Dammit! Without really considering the odds or consequences, Rory charged the third stallion just as Pinkie made for the first two. 

The resulting scrap moved so fast, he had next to no time to register the situation beyond dodging the dinner plate sized hooves. Thankfully, his study of pressure points enabled him to target the stallion at just the right spot. With a perfectly aimed kick, his attacker fell to the ground. 

He wheeled around just in time to see Pinkie tossed against the brick like a ragdoll. The resulting crunch made his blood run cold. Rory managed to push him away from her with another well placed kick. His success proved short lived when a heavy hoofed blow knocked him to the ground. 

He made to stand when the same green hoof pressed against his left leg. The stallion’s weight combined with the odd angle at which his leg was bent sent a familiar crack. The pain and shock of having his leg snapped temporarily ceased what little struggle he had been able to put up. 

Just as he thought they might really be done in, the weight against his leg ceased as Pinkie’s hoof sent the full grown stallion flying backwards. There were words spoken, but either by way of pain or shock or adrenaline, he could not hear them. 

Frantic hoofbeats sounded and for a moment, everything was silent. Then, Pinkie’s voice as if spoken through a fish bowl drifted to his ears, “And stay gone!” 

Rory attempted to roll upright but collapsed back to the filth-laden street. Every muscle in his body ached, and it took all the willpower he had left just to breathe. Pinkie’s face appeared in his field of vision and, after staring at her for a while, he realized she had knelt beside him. 

The words ran together again, though he did catch, “What are you doing here?”

“Saving you . . .” 

Her hoof stroked his now-broken leg, sending up a shockwave of agony. He squealed, pulling away from her. Don’t touch it. Closing his eyes, he tried to slow the inevitable resurgence of pain and the crushing consequences of his own folly . . . 
> The Right Thing
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pinkie had heard a lot of awful sounds in her life, but nothing compared to Mr. Scribe’s shrieks of pain as he lay on the street. The noise set off primal warning bells to run or she’d be next. Still, she had to at least check him over.  

Heart still racing from adrenaline, she knelt beside him. The pony’s shrieks had become a sickening groan. Why had he even come this way in the first place? Unless . . . unless he knew she would be attacked. No, that didn’t make any sense, did it? “What are you doing here?”

He looked up at her, eyes unfocused. “Saving you . . .”

So he had known these goons would come after her. Pinkie felt an uncharacteristic rush of anger towards the stallion. Just like him not to mention a little detail like her being the target of an attack. An attack likely instigated by his actions. The longer she stared at him, the less she wanted to help. Why not let him have a taste of his own medicine? He certainly hadn’t earned her help.

Her eyes fell to his obviously broken limb . . . his good leg. The fracture had to be pretty bad judging from how noticeably the bone jutted out. Right above his knee too. It had to be painful. She reached out a hoof, stroking it gently.

Mr. Scribe let out a loud squeal, pulling away. 

Fine, see if I care! She shot to her hooves. “You need to go to the hospital.” I’ll go find somepony to take you there, then I’m gone.

“No,” he moaned. “I can’t . . . Father will . . .”

“Will what? Find out you’ve been a bad boy and have another ‘meeting’ with you?” She knew in an instant she had gone too far. Rather than a response, Mr. Scribe began to shake so badly she thought he might have a fit. He looked up at her, eyes filled with an unnatural, gut churning fear. 

Then, the conversation from Jazelle’s resurfaced once more and it all made sense. Her blood ran cold, legs growing weak. “Your . . . your dad a-abused you, didn’t he?”

Mr. Scribe cringed, looking away. Then, slowly, he nodded. 

Pinkie’s heart stopped. What kind of stallion abused their own colt? If Pa had hurt her like that . . . well, she wouldn’t have stayed around the farm, that’s for sure. Though, the amount of fear and pain in his eyes told her that now was not the time to be digging up old bones. “Why . . . why can’t you go to the hospital?”

“He’d . . . he’d hurt the doctors or their families . . . force them to keep quiet, you know?” He groaned, resting his head on the filth strewn street. “I’m not worth that . . .”

Sounds like he’s as bad as Dufaux . . . She sighed, looking down the now deserted alleyway. Nopony around to take over, and she very much doubted anypony in Manehattan would want to help Mr. Scribe in the first place. “Do . . . do you have somepony I can get to help you?” 

Of course, she knew the answer before he shook his head slowly. His breaths grew more shallow and she could tell from her own body, the adrenaline must be wearing off. Regardless of his going to the hospital or not, the leg would swell fast with that kind of fracture. 

Slowly, she got to her knees, and began to undo his suit. He glowered at her, but was either too weak or disoriented to protest. “Sorry, Mr. Scribe, but I need to get this off before it swells too much.” It took a little maneuvering, but she managed to slip both the suit and his shirt off.

What she saw underneath made her sick. His bad leg had not just been broken in one spot, but the entire limb more closely resembled a gnarled tree stump of old injuries. Moving upwards, she noted thin, eerily similar scars running across his chest as if somepony had taken a blade and slashed him again and again. 

His continued shaking made her cringe. If she was not careful, he’d go into shock. “Come on, Mr. Scribe, we’ll get you to Jazelle’s.” 

He lifted his head, looking at his side before slamming it down again. “Can’t . . .”

“Sure you can. Come on, I’ll help you up,” her voice faltered as his breaths came even slower. Could pain kill a pony? She hoped not. “Mr. Scribe, please get up . . .” No answer. “Rory, get up,” she demanded. 

This time it worked as he rolled upright, placing his front hooves in front of him. His attempts to push himself off the street resulted in another squeal of pain. Pinkie got to her hooves, motioning for him to try again. On his second try, she helped him stand, though he nearly fell over when his hooves took the weight.

Doing her best to support his left side, she turned to him. “Come on, we’ll just get you to Jazelle’s, then it’ll all be okay.”

He shook his head, “No . . . my-my place is closer.”

“Uh . . . okay.” The thought of Mr. Scribe living in this part of town might have been funny under different circumstances. As carefully as possible, she started off down the street with her employer. A part of her dreaded his usual cold observations, but they never came. Instead, he silently pressed his lathered side to her own and limped along without so much as a snide comment. That was a blessing considering their painfully slow progress. 





Generally bad fractures didn’t send Pinkie into a panic, but the fact that Mr. Scribe had a fracture on his weight bearing limb came close. Despite taking over half an hour to walk to the dingy apartment complex, he had managed not to fall even once.

Her eyes fell to the building in front of them, frowning. “You live here?” It looks like Dufaux’s den . . .

“Yeah,” he breathed through clenched teeth.

Shrugging, she helped him up the rickety staircase, avoiding the sundry piles of trash and rats scurrying around the place. They stopped in front of his apartment door and realization struck her. “Er, Mr. Scribe do you have your key?”

In response, he pointed to the symbol painted on its surface in what looked to be blood. An S scrawled over an eye. “Father’s love note,” he murmured. 

“Huh?”

He turned the knob, opening the door into what looked to be a bottomless pit until he flicked on a light switch. Despite being a decent-sized room, Mr. Scribe had almost nothing in it. The only objects she noted were a dusty bookshelf in the corner, a wooden stool, and a grungy old lamp casting a meager halo of light in the otherwise pitch blackness. 

How was the place so dark anyway? Her eyes scanned the room, falling to an off-color portion of the far wall. What in Equestria? The windows had been completely coated in what looked to be tar and blackened still further with heavy darkout curtains. Sheesh, and I thought Maud was a night owl . . .

Before she could register the room further, he dragged her inside, slamming the door shut. She opened her mouth to protest further, but stopped upon seeing the nervous expression plastered on his face. “This isn’t the place to be loitering in the hallway, Pinkie.”

“Er . . . okay.” For a moment, she stood there in silence as he continued to lean against her. “You sure you don’t want me to take you to the hospital?” 

He hung his head, limbs shaking. “No-no . . . but, could you set the leg?”

She grimaced, looking down at the now terribly swollen limb. “Sure, but we should clean it first so I can bandage it after.”

Without any protest, he walked with her down the narrow hallway and into the shower room. In the almost normal light, she could make out just how filthy they were. Her own hooves were coated with the ever-present Manehattan filth as well as a small quantity of blood.

Thankfully, the shower’s tile had been covered in a non-slip rubber mat. Mr. Scribe didn’t even complain when she started to hose them both off or when she scrubbed off the filth coating both their legs with the soap. After a good ten minutes of scouring, Pinkie declared that they were tolerably clean. 

Though he winced when she rubbed the hairs on his leg dry, he remained silent. Judging from the determination plastered on his ashen face, it was his way of dealing with the pain. He leaned against her again as they walked out. 

Mr. Scribe’s bedroom easily won the award for world’s most boring room in her book. A run-of-the-mill bed with grey blankets, a forlorn lamp, more darkout curtains, and an endtable with a few bottles of medicine were the only objects inside it. She helped him onto the bed, watching him lay on his side. 

His breaths had only grown more shallow, occasionally looking as though he might stop breathing altogether. Reaching out, she began to feel his limb, noting where the break had occurred and examining how best to set it. Setting bones was nothing new, but it always made her nervous. Best to get it over with quickly. 

Without warning him, she placed her hooves at the appropriate points and set the bone back in place. The expected squeal of pain sounded, though much softer than it had come earlier. He glanced back at her before resting his head on the blanket. 

“Thanks,” he murmured just loud enough for her to hear.

“Sure.” Pinkie rested her hoof on his withers, feeling his entire body shaking like mad. It did not take a doctor to know the stallion needed medicine. “Hey, Mr. Scribe, do you have something for the pain?”

His eyes fell to the endtable. Trotting over, Pinkie took a long look at the various bottles of over-the-counter pain medications. Her stomach dropped at the sheer number of pills, some spilled out onto the wood, others filling the bottles. Behind them however, one bottle stood out to her, a small prescription vial. Picking it up, she read the label. Morphine. Well, if anypony needed morphine right now, it was Mr. Scribe. 

Grabbing it and the syringe beside it, she came back to him. A quick glance at the label indicated the dosage was by weight. How much did he weigh? Considering how his ribs stuck out, she very much doubted he weighed more than her. Guess I’ll go with my weight. Before he could complain, she drew the appropriate amount out and injected it.

He twitched, head wheeling around. “What did you give me?”

“Morphine,” she sang innocently enough. 

“I can’t . . . I have work tomorrow . . .”

Seriously? “I think this counts as a valid excuse not to come in, Mr. Scribe. Besides, you can’t walk on that leg, not for a few days at least.”

Instead of another lecture, he rested his head once more. Pinkie sighed, stroking his still quivering sides. Give the medicine time to work. In the meantime, she would get him some water and supplies to splint the leg. As she started to the door, Mr. Scribe’s voice stopped her in her tracks. 

“Pinkie?”

“Yeah?”

“I . . .” He flushed, looking down at the leg. “Thank you . . . I-you didn’t have to do this.”

Pinkie giggled. “Of course I didn’t have to, silly. But, I wanted to because . . . because it’s the right thing to do, I guess.”

His hollow laugh echoed around the room. “‘The right thing?’ You can’t believe in that.”

Pinkie bit her lip, walking out the room. The right thing . . . Did such an idea even exist in Manehattan? Even helping Mr. Scribe seemed more of a grey area. Of course she had helped somepony in pain, but, wouldn’t it have been more helpful to take him to a hospital for real treatment? Who defined the ‘right’ course of action in those kinds of situations? She sighed, walking slowly to the kitchen. Forget about it, Pinkie. Just do what you’ve always done and it’ll work out, it has to . . .

> The Heart of the Matter
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rain pounded against the window in wind-swept sheets. Rory did not need to open his eyes to know that it must be around midnight. The pegasi had announced the shower in the paper and never went off-schedule. If only half the saps under his management had that kind of religious devotion to their work. Work . . .

Rory’s blood ran cold, images of that evening’s fiasco darting across his mind’s eye. Farthing’s cold corpse splayed open for all of Manehattan to see, his argument with Pinkie, those thugs . . . Why had he been such a fool? She could have easily handled the situation on her own, but he just had to come to her “rescue.” Some help he had been writhing on the street while she fended them off. And then there was the matter of his leg.

The bastard just had to snap his good leg. Now, not only would he have to deal with the repercussions on Dufaux’s end, but with the unbearable agony in his limbs. Undoubtedly, it would be well over a year before it fully healed and even then the pain would remain. The last time he broke his left leg, he had been left crippled. As run-down and sore as he was these days, he very much doubted he’d have the strength to fight through it. Nothing he said or did now made a difference.

It’s just pain . . . you’ve always been in pain. You’ll have it for the rest of your life so you had better learn to deal with it now. However, at that moment in time, neither limb hurt. In fact, a dull, slightly uncomfortable pressure had taken over his senses. Groaning, Rory opened his eyes to assess the damage.

In the dim light from the lamp, he could just make out a splint wrapped tightly around his left leg. How in Equestria? Then it came back to him. Pinkie. Why would she bother to—

“You’re up!”

Rory nearly started at the familiar, cheery voice. The shadowy outline of his secretary against the doorframe made his heart skip a beat. She stayed? 

Before he could conjure up a viable excuse to dismiss her, she bounded over as if he had returned from the grave. “I didn’t think you’d be up so soon. How are you feeling?”

“Fi-fine.” He quickly averted his gaze to avoid her motherly stare. Seriously, I’m not an invalid. Well . . . okay, maybe a cripple but still, does she have to patronize me?

The bed sunk a little as she settled beside him on the covers. “I didn’t think you’d be up so soon, Mr. Scribe.” Her warm, sweet breath would have fogged his glasses, but they had been removed. 

Oh, how he longed to push the impertinent mare away, but both his limbs were out of commission. So he settled for inching slightly away from her. “Why are you still here, Miss Pie?”

“I . . . watching you,” she murmured.

“You—it wasn’t necessary, you know.” Rory felt a twinge of guilt as her eyes fell forlornly to her hooves. “But . . . I suppose I should thank you. I doubt I could have walked home without your help. And,” he gulped, resting his head on the blanket, “I definitely couldn’t have set that leg.”

“No problem, Mr. Scribe. Though,” she gritted her teeth, “it’s kinda your fault you know.”

“Yeah . . . suppose so.”

Her voice raised an octave, “Why didn’t you have the common decency to let me know some low-life thugs were stalking me?”

“Because you don’t need to get involved with my problems!” For the first time in years, Rory didn’t care about hiding the truth. Having her understand the situation was far more important than his pride at present. “You're too damn soft for this city! I thought I’d change you, make you see reason. But, I was wrong, okay? You’ll never see reason. You . . .” his voice lowered to a whisper, “you can’t see ponies for who they are, Pinkie. You wouldn’t have believed me even if I told you. So I thought I’d fix things before they came after you.”

“Well, you did a piss poor job of it,” she snapped.

He flinched at the venomous quality of her voice. “Sorry . . . I . . . usually Dufaux doesn’t act that quick. I planned on resolving the matter the next day.”

A look of surprise flickered across her face before returning to frustration. “Matter? What matter?”

“Dufaux mistakenly believes I have some level of attachment to you . . .” Rory sighed, closing his eyes. “I have no level of attachment for anypony. You are my employee, and as such, I have a duty to protect you. There the ‘matter’ ends.”

“Oh.” The word was not harsh nor angry, but almost sad. “Wh-why? Don’t you get lonely?”

“Of course I do.” Every damn day. “But, if I got close to anypony, they would suffer as a result. I couldn’t—I can’t do that.” 

The bed sprung back as she stood. He listened to her shuffle with something on the endtable. “I can’t have any more morphine, I’ve—” When he opened his eyes, he was staring at a large bowl of water held in her mouth. 

She placed it on the covers, motioning for him to drink. 

Too thirsty to protest, he quickly took a sip. It’s cold . . .  feels good. Without another word, he drained the entire bowl. His stomach ached a little when he finished, but he felt a little more relaxed. He took a good long look at Pinkie. To his surprise, she looked nearly as exhausted as he felt. “Miss Pie? Did-didn’t you get any rest?”

“No . . .” she looked away, pawing at the ground. “I was worried ‘cause you were whimpering so much. I’ve never ever seen a pony in that much pain before. That and,” she eyed his clearly visible ribs, “I might have given you a bit too much morphine. I didn’t know how much you weighed.”

“So you overdosed me,” he deadpanned, glancing down at his legs. “Well, I can’t really complain. They certainly don’t hurt anymore.”

“That’s good.” She settled back down beside him. “You want something to eat? You’re super thin you know.”

Eat? Rory despised the very word. Of course, he had not eaten in over two days, but it had not reached the point he had to worry about starving. “I’m . . . I’ll be fine, Miss Pie. The water filled me up . . ."

He felt her hoof stroke his back. Generally, he would have pulled back, hell, he wanted to now. However, the gentle quality of her touch made him lean in rather than away. 

“You’re hurt. You need to eat to get your strength back,” she breathed. 

“That would be assuming I had any strength to begin with.” He shifted, avoiding her questioning gaze. “My parents saw to that.” 

“You-your parents? So it wasn’t just your dad?”

“No, though I wish some days it was.” 

“That’s just evil!”

He turned back to her, staring into her eyes. No matter the time of day or the situation, they always sparkled like azure pools. A confidence that had never been broken. In those eyes, there would always be a right and a wrong. Why should he expect her to understand the grey areas? “Evil? Is it really? I wonder . . .”

“Wonder?”

Should he tell her? If he didn’t, she would find out the truth for herself in time, and he far preferred it be he who introduced her to it. “Would you . . . would you like to hear what really happened to my leg, Miss Pie?”

There was the slightest hesitation before she jerked a small nod. 

“It won’t be a happy story. I imagine it might shatter that illusion you live under. Is that okay?”

She bit her lip, “Yeah, that’s why I’m here, isn’t it? So you can break apart my ‘illusion?’”

“I suppose.” For a moment, he considered stopping there, allowing her to leave this godforsaken city and go home. But no, he had made the decision long ago. Miss Pie must fold to reality, and he would be the one to give her the final push . . .





Rory hated gym class. What part of running around the school getting sweaty and public humiliation sounded fun? Every class it would be the same. Try as he may to keep up, he would always tire before anypony else, even the mares. An earth pony colt who let fillies beat him in every game. Father always complained to him about it, labeling it as just another sign of his inadequacy. 

Inadequacy his hoof. Rory knew the source of his problem, but nothing he did would change it. A dish of oatmeal once a day—well, most every day—could hardly constitute a balanced diet for a growing colt. He had not grown so much as an inch in the past year and was smaller than most of the fillies. 

None of them dared to make fun of it for him, they knew better. But, the chances of getting to play with any of them went from slim to nonexistent. They avoided him and he avoided them. The system worked . . . at least for the teachers and his parents. Today proved no exception.

After yet another pointlessly drawn out game of kickball, he had successfully managed to get bludgeoned by no less than five balls. His attempt at kicking one resulted in it gently bouncing off of the coach. The “punishment”—no adult was stupid enough to actually punish the son of Scribe Incorporated’s CEO—had been to organize the gym supply closet for the rest of the period. 

That blessedly, involved little physical effort. Though, even shuffling around the balls and floor hockey sticks proved exhausting. Rory wanted to remove the sticky, overlarge t-shirt covering his sides but knew the kind of trouble he would be in if he did. It hid his ribs, and that was all his mother cared about. 

After gym class, the rest of the day went by in a daze. He heard the teacher’s words, but couldn’t put them together in any logical pattern. As soon as the bell rang, he shuffled outside, watching the other colts and fillies break around him as if he were a rock on the coast. Last year he might have tried to run with them, but not now. 

He took the long route through the park. Technically, Mother had forbade him from stopping on his way home, but she had not specified which route he had to take. So he dragged his hooves as slowly as physically possible, just to take in the fresh air.

Generally he took to pony watching as soon as he entered the park. Today, he focused on not falling over. His legs felt limp and weaker than ever. A week in the box always left him that way. Rory really could not remember what had set them off this time, but Mother had seen to it that he remained locked inside it as soon as he got home each day. 

There would be no discussion, and so he remained silent. Yesterday she had finally let him stay out, only to snatch away his oatmeal when he had not eaten fast enough. 

Rory ran his tongue over his teeth, wincing. Judging from the blackened tips, irritated gums, and nasty smell, they were rotting. Oats had too much sugar and not enough fiber, at least that’s what he read. That caused cavities and the texture weakened the gums. He smirked a little, remembering the big reference book he had gleaned the information from. Not so dumb after all, am I, Mother?

Still, though he had pulled out the worst teeth, eating became more and more difficult. Rory found that he really did not care anymore. If he let himself get sick enough, she’d have to take him to the doctor and they’d have to feed him better. 

Halfway through the park, he stopped to rest. Finding a suitably inconspicuous place between some tall bushes, he watched a group of colts playing on the jungle gym. Really, what a waste. They could have easily been harnessing that energy for productivity, instead, they wasted it on frivolous games. 

The longer he lay there, the less resolve he had to move. He still ached from being forced into that box for so long. And . . . His stomach growled loudly. He lowered his head, focusing on the grass. Grass, huh? Nopony ate grass. Grass was for cows. But they ate it and were healthy. 

Realization dawned on him. Food had been staring him in the face this whole time! Why had he been so dumb? Without hesitation, he lowered his muzzle to the blades, smelling. It didn’t smell all that different from lettuce.

Biting it released a shockwave of wonderful flavors. After years on oatmeal and cashed-in favors, having something-anything different was a treat. His teeth ached, but at least he had food again. So he stood, cropping at the grass and savoring the freedom of having as much as he wanted to eat right in front of him.

The only frustration he found was that it did not come close to filling him up. He had to work for each tiny bite. Soon his gums started to bleed as his jaw began to ache. But the motivation of having something to fill his stomach made him continue. Finally, after what might have been an hour, he stopped, lying down again. 

Rory watched the blood drip slowly from his mouth to the grass. I never thought grazing would be so hard. Groaning, he glanced around him. Though he made a sizeable dent in the patch of grass, he hardly felt any fuller. The tolling of the clock tower made him jump. Oh no. Was it four o’clock already? 

Getting to his hooves, he staggered back to the apartment. By the time he arrived, it was nearing five o’clock. 

Sure enough, she met him at the door, face as stern as ever. “Where were you?”

Rory twitched, looking down at her hooves. “At the park . . . studying,” he added as an afterthought. 

“Like hell you were.”

Rory wanted to explain further. That his teeth hurt, that he couldn’t do well in gym because he didn’t have the energy, but his jaw simply ached too much. 

She leaned down, icy eyes boring into his soul. “Well? What were you doing?”

“I—” he tried to speak, but the blood got in the way, dripping onto the floor. Oh no. His ears lowered submissively as she advanced.

“What? You biting wood now for entertainment? How pathetic are you?”

“No—”Another mouthful of blood, then, “I-grass.”

Starlight froze as if he had let out a string of curse words. “What did you say?”

“I was . . . eating grass. Hungry,” he squeaked. 

“Eating grass?” She barked an unfeeling laugh that chilled his blood. “I knew you were an earth pony pig, but a cow? That’s news to me.”

Without a word of warning, he felt her magic forcibly open his mouth. He whimpered as his jaw stretched until he thought it might snap. After stepping closer, she gagged, stepping back. “They’re rotting,” she murmured more to herself than to him. Then she slammed his mouth closed until his teeth knocked together. “What? Have you forgotten how to brush?”

He bit back the tears, rubbing his now unbound muzzle. “I . . . I brush. It doesn’t help . . .”

She sighed theatrically, looking from his sides to the kitchen. “I told Storm it would cause problems. But he just had to have it his way,” she growled under her breath. 

Rory flinched as she rounded back on him. “You will never eat grass again, do I make myself clear?”

All thought of disobedience vanished at her withering stare. “Ye-yes, Mother.”

“Also,” her voice softened ever so slightly, “you will eat what we do from now on, three times a day. After us, of course,” she added. “I will take you to the dentist tomorrow. I cannot have any rumors starting up . . .”

Rory held back the urge to prance with excitement. Maybe things were looking up after all . . .





“Huh? But why?”

Rory turned to her, nearly chuckling at the dumbfounded look on her face. Really, I haven’t even gotten to the main event yet . . . “Why what, Miss Pie?”

Pinkie lowered her ears, “That bitch fed you oatmeal once a day for years, then all of a sudden, she decides you’ll get what she eats.” She waved her hooves in exasperation. “You keep telling me about all the bad stuff she did, so why was she willing to treat you better without a struggle?”

Rory sighed, attempting to shift his weight to find that there really was no other way to rest given his current limitations. “She’s selfish, arrogant, and takes pleasure in my suffering. However, she-she’s my mother . . . I’d like to believe that she . . . she had some level of concern for my well-being.”

Judging from her sour look, Pinkie did not buy his explanation. However, she leaned in a bit closer. “Did things get better after that?”

“Well . . . yes and no. I wasn’t hungry anymore, but I started to get stronger.”

“Why’s that a bad thing?”

“Father . . . Father didn’t appreciate that.” Rory shuddered at the memory of it all. “Once I outgrew the box, he went back to beating me around.” 

“Back to? You mean he did it before?” she squeaked, gripping her leg.

“Yeah, when I was really little, but Mother thought up the box. Said it’d be more humane. I think she worried about my teachers finding out what they were up to.”

“The box? You keep saying that. Is that a metaphor or—”

“No. It was a box. A simple, sturdy wooden box, painted black with a few small holes for air.” Rory pointed to the hoofboard. “About as long as that but very narrow and low. They locked it with their magic so I couldn’t get out. Kept me in there for hours or days depending . . .”

The blank horror in her eyes made his heart sink. “It’s-it’s okay, Miss Pie, really. I mean, it was painful and horrifying, but . . . I survived.” He gave a weak smile, “It took years of practice, but I can deal with the dark and tight spaces again. It’s just . . . just a bad memory now.”

Tears trickled down her muzzle as her legs began to shake. “That’s horrible. Nopony deserves that, let alone a little kid.”

Rory twitched, looking away. “I know . . . I know . . .”

A silence, then, “So he-he started to beat you after that?”

“Yeah. For a while, it wasn’t so bad. He always picked placed where nopony would notice. But,” he took a long, slow breath. “I was still a colt. And colts can only take so much before they snap . . .”





“Do you know what this is?” 

Rory backed into the closed door of his father’s office, staring at the piece of parchment eveloped in his green magic. “A-a note from my teacher . . .”

Storm sneered in that condescending way he reserved just for earth ponies. “And do you know what it says, Rory?”

“I-I . . . it’s about my cutie mark, sir,” he mumbled, avoiding his gaze. 

“And why are you the only colt in your grade without one, hmm?” 

The words dug at his heart. Rory knew exactly why he couldn’t find his cutie mark. Cutie marks were about finding what made you happy. As far as he knew, he never had been happy.

“Well?” The dangerous, icy quality of his voice chipped away at Rory’s confidence. “Are you really so imbecilic and useless that you cannot find a single talent at the age of ten?”

Rory never felt like kicking his father as much as he did then. “How can I find one? You make me come home at the end of school every day! You won’t let me join any clubs or play with the other colts. You lock me in my room whenever I get back and don’t even let me walk around outside!”

From the moment he let the words loose, he knew there would be trouble. However, he had taken Father’s attitude for long enough. There was no justification for how he treated him. “I can’t find my talent because you and Mother treat me like a prison inmate! If you let me out once in a while I’d—”

“You’d what, Rory? Spontaneously become useful? As if!” Storm advanced towards him, ears flattened. “I could have killed you the moment you were born, but I let you live. You, a filthy earth pony. And your pissing and moaning is all I get as thanks?” His horn lit up, and Rory knew what would come next. 

Not this time. Gathering up what strength he had, he wheeled around and bucked his hooves straight into Storm’s chest. The unicorn took a satisfactory arc, landing in a heap by his granite topped desk. Rory pinned his ears, snarling, “You’re just an arrogant unicorn who can’t do anything without his magic! I’m not going to take it anymore!”

For a moment, Rory imagined he had won, that Storm would finally acknowledge he had been wrong and all would be set right. But, he merely stood, glowering at him with a look that went beyond loathing. An immediate chill went through his spine as the realization of what he had done struck him all at once. 

Before he had time to so much as brace himself, Storm had lifted him in his magic. The pause following this made his heart race. A small smirk parted Storm’s lips right before he made his own move. 

Generally, the magic his parents used was slow and purposeful. This however, came as a great whiplash, so fast Rory did not have time to scream. Storm slammed him against the corner of the heavy desk with all the force of a wrecking ball striking brick. The resulting shockwave of pain made him cry out before Storm repeated the maneuver again and again.

The fifth time, Rory felt the unmistakable crack in his right leg. Then Storm slammed him into the wall, allowing him to drop like a dirty rag. “So,” he breathed, eyes glinting manically, “you want to get physical, do you boy?”

Rory wanted to beg for forgiveness, something, anything to make the pain stop. But, he could hardly breathe, let alone find the words. Storm continued to advance, lowering his head to allow the wicked point to catch the lights outside the window. 

All the years he had been alive, Father never so much as touched him without his magic. It, like so many aspects of his life, had been set in stone. So he was utterly unprepared when the sharpened tip of Storm’s horn dug into his chest. With the motion of rendering a sheet, he dragged it in a great arch. A sharp, searing pain followed the motion of the horn as it slashed again and again. 

Trying to escape led to his being pinned down by his magic. Rory screamed louder than he had in his life, but knew there would be nopony to answer him. Then, just as he started to fade out, a palomino blur charged forward, pushing Storm back. Mother?

Sure enough, the mare stood huffing, over him, horn surrounded by the familiar amber aura. “What’s wrong with you?” she screamed, loud enough to make Rory flinch. 

Storm however, remained as cold and unfeeling as ever. “Do you really have to ask, Starlight?” he practically purred. “There is everything ‘wrong’ with me. You acknowledged that fact and embraced it years ago.”

“So I should have let you kill him? Kill a child who can’t even defend himself? What kind of sick bastard does that!”

“Do not lecture me, bitch!” Storm glowered at him through Starlight’s legs. Rory’s stomach churned at the sight of the blood—his blood—dripping from the horn. “That earth pony filth needs to know his place.”

“He knows it well enough, Storm. Let it go,” the icy determination in her voice startled him. No matter what the circumstance, she had always sided with Father. Now . . . now she had taken his side. 

Storm snarled, taking a step forward. In response, Starlight lowered her own head, equally sharpened horn pointed at Storm’s chest. “One more move, and I’ll gut you,” she growled.   

Silence. Unnerving, unwavering silence. Then he stepped back, eyeing both of them with disgust. “Very well . . . I shall let you play mother, Starlight. But you will not take him to the doctor or I’ll make an example of him, understood?”

Starlight nodded. Then she turned back to Rory. There, stretching across her face was a smile. A genuine, soft smile he had only seen other colts’ mothers give. He started when she slung him over her without magic, walking out of the room.

Despite the shock and pain, he could not bring himself to cry or speak. If he cried, she’d be mad and drop him. Rory did not want to waste the moment on that. For the first time in his life, his mother was touching him as if he were as important as a unicorn. He burrowed his muzzle into her mane, taking in the sweet, honeysuckle laced hairs. 

All too soon, he felt her roll him onto the bed, and just as quickly, the illusion vanished. Pain like he never imagined possible coursed through his body like poison. Celestia, how he wanted to cry out, but he knew better. So he watched her examine him under the light of her magic.

Sighing, she stepped away towards the door. “I will return.” 

Rory waited and waited. Try as he may to stopper the sobs, he eventually broke down. The more he looked at the now horribly bent limb and pooling blood, the sicker he became. It hurt, hurt so bad he thought he might die from it. And yet, no matter how much he begged for them to help, they didn’t return.  

After what must have been over three hours, she came back. A cold, familiar glare had replaced the earlier warmth. She stood over him, lighting her horn. Without so much as wiping the excess blood off the cuts, she began to wrap his chest loosely in bandages. Then, glancing at his leg, she opened a bottle of maroon pills and magicked his mouth open. 

Rory almost never got medicine, but when he did, he took it willingly, after all, it made him feel better. However, having his mouth forced open as she poured what must have been half the contents into it hardly constituted as pleasant. He gagged and pulled back, but ended up swallowing the pills to make her stop.

He panted, gripping his throat. Thankfully, she placed a bowl of water in front of him and he drank. Instead of feeling better, Rory became unnervingly dizzy. “Mo-mother? I don’t feel so good . . .”

Starlight glanced down at him, expression unreadable. “That means it’s working, Rory. Get some rest . . . you won’t be in pain when you wake up.”

“Uh . . . okay,” he breathed, closing his eyes. Something felt wrong about her words, but he found himself too tired to try and figure out what it was. 





Rory stopped there, glancing down at his bandaged limb. Why? Why did telling the truth hurt so much? She had listened quietly, patiently, though her disgust and outrage could not have been more obvious. To somepony like her, it must come as a shock. Perhaps ending it there would be for the best.

“So . . . he broke your leg on that desk and,” she gulped, pawing at the blanket, “cut you with his horn . . .”

“Yes. But . . . maybe, maybe I deserved it. If I had just listened to him I’d—”

“No!” Her volume took him back as did the fire in her eyes. “Nothing justifies a father doing that to his own colt. It’s wrong.” She snorted, “And your mother’s just as bad. That was a lot of medicine! It could have killed you. How can you say she’s not evil?”

There she went again, making the world out to be black and white as always. Rory sighed, glancing down at his warped leg. “Pinkie . . . do you . . . do you realize how much pain I’m in every day?”

“I-well . . . a lot?” she stammered, avoiding his gaze. 

“Ever since that night, I’ve spent just about every waking minute of my life in agony. The leg didn’t heal quickly, and when it did, it continued to break with the slightest irritation. That and Father did not see the need to stop beating me.”

He took a long slow breath, “I’ve had to keep acting as if nothing is wrong and remain fully functional despite the nearly maddening pain. So I took to the pills just to remain sane. I’ve overdosed on them so long, they really don’t work anymore . . . So, yes, it hurts quite a lot.”

“When you say my mother was evil for trying to kill me with an overdose, consider this. Even with her twisted reasoning, she knew what would happen to me. Father . . . Father made it quite plain that he had no intentions of letting me recover. My strength was the only real weapon I had against him, so he took it away.”

“She-she poisoned you so you wouldn’t be in pain anymore?” Pinkie asked incredulously. The righteous anger in her voice had all but vanished now. “But why didn’t she leave? Take you with her and get you treated anyway? That’s what a good mother would do!”

“Maybe, but . . . in her own way, I think she thought that was the right thing to do.” How could he possibly explain this to her? “Mother . . . Mother doesn’t have confidence in herself, Pinkie. She’s weak, and all the ‘confidence’ she puts on is just gilding over the reality. I think she married Father because she saw his confidence and wanted to take some of that for herself.”

He sighed, “She never got any confidence from him. Father relishes breaking her spirit every chance he gets. She feels trapped and powerless to leave. So . . . in a way . . . she’s treated as badly as I am.” 

Pinkie opened her mouth to say something, but he continued more forcefully. “Yes, a mare trying to kill her own colt is wrong, but . . . Mother saw it as the only way to set me free. Despite the odds, I survived, and there her attempts to 'free' me ended.”

The words left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he could not deny their validity. “It might have been better if I,” his throat grew uncomfortably tight, “if I died after all.” As much as he longed to keep his composure, either the morphine or the situation shattered it. 

“Do you know what it’s like? Growing up without ever being touched by your own parents? Not once!” He choked back the sobs as best he could. “Locked in a box and starved when you cried or acted like a child. Continually treated like a dog, all the while believing that you really were as worthless as they said.” 

“And as damned foolish as it was, all I wanted, all I needed was for her to acknowledge that I had some value. That somepony in all the world was happy I existed . . .” Rory could not find the strength to continue. Nopony wanted him around. For all intent and purpose, he had become a harbinger of death and suffering.

“Rory—”

The sound of his own name made him cringe. “Don’t call me that . . . I hate that name.”

“Why?” Her hoof stroked his back in that gentle way of hers. “It’s your name isn’t it?”

“Names are something given out of love. Mine . . . mine was given out of obligation, to tie me to him and make sure I’d keep in line. Tell me, what love is there in that?”

“I—”

“The only reason I keep that name, the only reason I keep on living is to see that bastard taken down.” He glanced down at his mark. Numbers. Always with the numbers. Celestia, how he hated them. “It’s the only purpose I’ve ever had or will ever have in life, Miss Pie. If anypony can tear down his corrupted little empire, it’s me. Numbers are his language, and suffering his lifeblood.”

A wolfish snarl stretched across his face, “I’ve learned to use them both, and soon I’ll swing his own weapons against him. One sharp, decisive blow and that will be the end of it.” The end of me . . . 

Pinkie looked as if she might argue with him, but he held out his warped hoof. “Go home, Pinkie, you need the rest.”

“But what about you? Your leg’s still hurt.”

“I’ve dealt with pain before, I’ll be fine.”

“You can’t be thinking of going to work tomorrow. You need to rest,” she pleaded.

Rory rolled his eyes. She had a very good point, but one that did not hold up to reality. “I have to work. If I don’t, Father . . . there’s no telling what he’d do. You saw what happened to Farthing, you know what he’s capable of!”

Pinkie gasped, clasping a hoof to her mouth. “But, Farthing committed suicide, didn’t he?”

“No telling,” Rory growled. “I wouldn’t put it past Father to drive the nail in his coffin.” Seeing her horrified look, he amended, “However, this stinks of suicide. There’s no point in Father killing the poor sap. Farthing kept his muzzle out of Father’s business and did his duty. Killing off ponies is risky even for him. No, Pinkie, Farthing chose his end fate.”

“Uh . . . okay . . .” She stood, walking slowly to the door. “You sure you’ll be okay?”

“As ‘okay’ as I ever am, Miss Pie.” With that, he closed his eyes, listening to her hoofbeats fading away. At that moment, he found himself wishing the pills had killed him that night. Then, Farthing would be alive and Pinkie would have remained as innocent as ever. For a brief moment, he considered ending before any other ponies suffered on his account. But what would that accomplish? He had a mission, one that no other pony could hope to accomplish. After that finished, he'd set himself free for good. Just a little longer, Rory, just a little longer.
> The Small Matter of Time
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Had the night always lasted so long? As he lay there in the stillness, Rory could not help but wonder if Celestia had forgotten to raise the sun. Forgotten . . . Just like me. Every inch of his body screamed in agony, but it all paled in comparison to that radiating throughout his right leg. Three days. Had it really been three days? 

Three days and neither Mother nor Father had attempted to treat his leg or chest. Father said the pain should serve as a punishment. Mother . . . Well, after that “medicine” made him worse, she had not spoken a word to him. In fact, he had not seen her since last night. Then she had only come to levitate a pitcher of water on his bedstand and slam the door behind her, not even pausing to spare a glance his way. 

If she had, she might have noticed the extreme swelling in his leg and how inflamed the cuts had become. But no. Her business and her life was and always would be more important than his. Rory did not argue the point nor try to deny it. Simply to accept and move on. That was what he used to tell himself. Now . . . now he was not so sure. 

What good came of acceptance or rejection? Whether he fought or submitted, there could be no relief. His actions always wrought pain, be it physical or mental. Lying there as he did now, Rory had never felt that truth so strongly. He could not win . . . he would not win. If he had been given a kind word or gentle touch perhaps he might fight through it. But he was tired. So tired. 

Rory groaned, using all the strength he had left just to lift his head. By the dim light creeping in from behind the thick black curtains, he could make out another pool of bloody urine beneath him. He hated himself for it, but ever since Mother gave him the medicine, he could not stand or walk. All he could do was lie there as the pain seeped into his insides as well. Celestia, it burned.

He tried crying, screaming, pleading with them to help. But . . . even after he had shouted himself sick, they did not come. They left for work as usual, and for hours he wondered if someone or something would take him away. A part of him wished they would, if only to stop the pain.

Dead ponies didn’t feel pain. They didn’t get hungry or scared. They didn’t have to try and guess their parent’s every whim just to be allowed outside. They were happy. Rory wondered what that was like. To be well and truly happy. Grandmother had been that way, but she never visited after Father told her to stay away. 

Father always got his way. 

Rory closed his eyes, feeling each breath rattle his chest. And yet, despite the pain, they did not stop.  It hurts, it hurts so bad. They don’t care, they never will. If I’m dead, it won’t hurt. Please . . . please . . . don’t leave me here. 





Rory did not consider himself a proud stallion. What could he be proud of? His position? Certainly not. His family? Like hell. His intelligence? Well, he was clever certainly, but that stemmed largely from necessity and perseverance rather than natural ability. However, if he had to pick one natural gift he possessed, it would have to be his ability to tolerate pain.

Any ordinary stallion would have been begging to be taken to the hospital if they had been forced to walk to work on what amounted to two broken legs. Rory on the other hoof, bore it silently, allowing fear to crush the instinct. Fear of what had happened and what would happen if he failed to appear in the office. Failing to do so never crossed his mind. No, the real problem lay in logistics.

The past three days, Rory had left an hour and a half before normal. The same could not be said for his departing. Now, rather than his six hours of respite, he had five. Five hours of rest to try and heal a major fracture. Not enough time, surely. Not even enough to re-work his plans that had been shot to hell following Dufaux’s move. Though he longed to take some, morphine remained out of the question. He could not stay awake under its influence, let alone walk to work and attempt to function. 

He took a long, slow breath as he entered Scribe Incorporated Headquarters. The secretary at the desk—one of Father’s pets—gave him his morning scowl and he returned it in kind. Whoever invented the fantasy that all mares were nurturing at heart obviously hadn’t met his mother and that viper. 

“Mr. Scribe.”

What now? He turned his head to regard the unicorn, reading her icy eyes. Judging from her dissatisfied scowl, she had a bone to pick. “What do you want?” 

“Your secretary, Miss Pie. She’s been stepping over my authority.” 

Your authority? What authority? Yet another tirent reigning over her own pathetic empire. “Miss Pie is merely doing her job.” And with less piss and vinegar than you I might add . . . 

She snarled, adjusting her wickedly professional bun. “She’s always switching schedules and that goes all the way down. You know she re-scheduled Mr. Titmus’s appointment location? I had fix his entire week’s schedule just to fit it in.”

Rory’s mind flashed back to his conversation with Pinkie the other day . . .

‘Why do you have one appointment all the way at the east research facility?’
Because Mr. Titmus refused to get off his lazy ass and come to me.
‘Well, does he have a broken leg?’
No, but—
‘But what? You’re hurt and shouldn’t be walking at all. I’ll just re-schedule the meeting place.’
But what if he complains?
‘You’re the treasurer for all of Scribe Incorporated, aren’t you? He’s supposed to be coming to you to report, not the other way around. Having you walk out there is a waste of resources.’
Well, I can’t exactly fault that logic, now can I?

“Mr. Scribe? Are you even listening to me? That mare is a menace!”

‘Menace?’ Pinkie? Rory could not help but burst out laughing at the thought of his secretary being branded a menace. An irritation yes, but hardly a disruptive one. She worked hard and finished her tasks, even if she did so singing songs the whole damn time. His laugh echoed around the mostly-empty antechamber, causing its inhabitants to jump.

Lila actually cowered, as if he were about to bite her. Realizing what kind of impression he was causing, Rory stopped abruptly. What’s wrong with me? He glanced down at his hooves to hide the flush finding its way across his face. “Miss Pie is the last pony in Equestria to have malicious intentions, Miss Lila.” 

Rory raised his broken leg up slightly. “She was just being considerate of my injury, that is all.” With that, he limped over to the elevator. Rory grimaced, trying to avoid the intent stares of the office workers. Laughing in the entryway to Scribe Incorporated over a comment about his secretary. Just how low had his dignity sunk?





Pinkie poked her head around the corner, eyeing Mr. Scribe as he worked. Per her insistence, he had allowed her to ‘apprehend’ one of the lounges from the hallway so that he would not have to put undue stress on his limbs. With all the meetings he had to attend, he really only stayed in the office about four hours a day. Still, she felt at least a little better knowing he could get some rest. 

Her eyes turned to the basket beside her. Did she dare approach him? Well, she had come this far. Grabbing it in her mouth, she trotted inside. “Heya, Mr. Scribe!”

He looked up at her from behind his spectacles. “Miss Pie.” His eyes fell to the basket. “What? Going on a picnic now?” 

“Sorta. I thought we’d have an indoor picnic. Seeing as how you need to eat and all.”

Mr. Scribe just stared at her, expression caught somewhere between amazement and irritation. “What part about me says I need to eat?”

Seriously? “Your pin bones are showing,” she deadpanned, pointing to them for emphasis. “Just so you know, that’s not normal.”

He glowered at her for a moment, then glanced at the basket. “Fine. I suppose I can humor your ‘picnic party’ this time.”

Yes! She had been trying to get Mr. Scribe to eat for days to little success. Pinkie imagined the pain made him nauseous. But, not eating would only make it worse. In no time at all, she had set up the picnic on the floor beside Mr. Scribe’s lounge-turned-desk. 

Unwrapping a muffin, she placed it atop Mr. Scribe’s paperwork. His face contorted in a strained grimace, as if fighting between his desire to eat and his desire to maintain composure. 

Just like before, huh? Pinkie unwrapped her own, taking a rather large bite from it. That did the ticket, just like last time.

He slowly began to eat, and for the first time, she noticed how wrong it looked. Rather than taking big bites and chewing steadily, he took small ones, chewing intermittently between grimaces. No pony should have difficulty chewing her muffins. As she watched him, it suddenly became clear that his abuse was not the only reason he hated eating. 

“Uh, Mr. Scribe . . . Are your teeth okay?” 

After swallowing, he looked back at her, lowering his ears almost submissively. “No . . . they’re . . .” He ran a hoof across his jaw, wincing. “Some of my molars are missing and the others are in pretty bad shape.”

“Oh . . . why are they—”

“Malnutrition. Or something along those lines,” he breathed. Then, shaking his head, he turned away. “It won’t matter for much longer anyway.”

For much longer? What, is he getting dentures or something?  

After finishing the proffered muffin, Mr. Scribe turned his attention beyond her to the window. “You wish to know something, Miss Pie?” The soft, almost contemplative voice hardly sounded like her employer. 

Nevertheless, Pinkie answered him in her usual, cheery tone. “What, Mr. Scribe?”

His eyes grew almost blank as he focused intently on the horizon. “They say time cures all wounds. Nonsense. The only force capable of curing every wound . . .” his voice softened to barely above a whisper, “every painful memory is death, Miss Pie.”

Death? Every inch of her body grew cold and numb. “What-what are you saying?”

Mr. Scribe looked her in the eyes with that same unfeeling stare. “I am tired, Miss Pie. I have faced more pain and evil in my twenty-four years than any stallion has the right to in a lifetime. I live not because I wish to, but because I must.”

Wrong. It’s all wrong. “That’s—you shouldn’t say stuff like that! You’ll end up like Farthing.” 

“Have you ever been in pain, Miss Pie?”

“Huh?” The sudden question made her start. “Yeah . . . I mean, everypony has at some point.”

He nodded slowly, lowering his head onto his paperwork. “Imagine the worst pain you’ve ever been in. Then imagine living your entire life like that. Every waking minute with no possibility of rest or relief.”

She tried to speak, but no words came.

Mr. Scribe looked close to tears now. “I cannot take it anymore, Pinkie. I cannot.” His voice rose in a gradual crescendo, “You want to know the real reason I wasn’t upset when I saw Farthing? Do you?” 

“I, uh—”

“It’s because I’m jealous of him! He never has to hurt again. Nothing but blissful non-existence. And what do I get? To stay here working for the stallion who’s the very source of my suffering.” Mr. Scribe looked at his cutie mark. “I will use Father’s precious numbers to take him down. That’s my only purpose, Miss Pie. Once that’s done, I can set myself free from this living hell.”

For the first time in her memory, Pinkie did not want to think of a positive response. Though horrid, bitter words, they were true. And, though she loathed to admit it, Mr. Scribe had a valid point. What kind of life did he have living every minute in agony? Who was she to say he needed to ‘push through it’? She could not relate, could not hope to relate to him. So she said the only words she could think of, “A waste . . .”

“Come again?”

She grit her teeth. “Just . . . you could’ve been anything, really. Had a good, happy life. But . . . he ruined you . . . they ruined you.” Her voice echoed around the office, “And for what? To make themselves feel superior? For you to spend all of your life in pain—for you to want to kill yourself because of their selfish whims? It’s wrong! So damn wrong!” 

Mr. Scribe grimaced, looking down at his hooves. “I know, Pinkie, I know . . .” he breathed.

Pinkie could not bear it any longer. Before Mr. Scribe could comment further, she galloped out of the room. She had to find something, anything to take her mind off of the hopeless situation. Never had she felt so small and helpless as she did at that moment.
> The One Not to Be Crossed
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Milo! Get your sorry ass over here.”

As he had for years now, Milo drowned out his secretary’s clarion call, focusing instead on the rain beating against his window. Just another beautiful day in Manehattan . . . His eyes fell to the ominous, onyx building, looming over the city like the very shadow of death. Perhaps it was. Everypony who dared cross Storm Scribe ended up the same. Just another name on his case file, just another number for the city coroners . . .

He nearly jumped out of his mouldering chair when Quill slammed the door open. From her pleading expression, she had yet another case to try and make him take. Great . . . just great . . . “Whose poor flower shop do I have to save today, Quill?”

The navy mare strode over to him, slamming a heavy file on his desk so violently Milo feared it might fall over; it had last week. He raised an eyebrow. “Well?” 

“Re-read it, sir,” she said shakily.

Reluctantly, he opened it and stopped short after the first few words. ‘Alto versus Scribe.’ He pushed the file back without reading another sentence. “Hell no.”

“You didn’t—”

“I don’t have the resources and that family doesn’t have the money to pursue a case against Storm Scribe or his damned company!” 

“It’s not against Storm Scribe, Milo!” She spat, pushing the file back to him. “It’s against Rory Scribe. Rory Scribe personally. Not his father nor the company.”

Milo’s heart skipped a beat as it always did when he heard the name. Rory . . . Why? Why was it always his name that came up? He pulled the file closer, examining it with a practiced eye. “She’s looking for an out-of-court settlement?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Does she realize how unlikely it is she’ll get one?”

“She is aware, however,” Quill bit her lip, “with two children to raise on her own . . . they need money, sir.”

“And you think Rory has any money to give them?”

Quill gaped at him as if he had lost his mind. “Sir? He’s the treasurer for Scribe Incorporated! I am most certain he has money.”

“Are you now?” Milo knew Storm Scribe, knew him better than any pony in all of Equestria. In his line of work, the knowledge, however distasteful, was a necessity. That cold-blooded snake would bathe in his son’s blood if he thought it would extend his own sorry life. “I doubt Storm Scribe hires his son for a reasonable rate, Quill. Think about it,” he growled, tapping a hoof on his desk. “Storm Scribe runs his entire life by coercion and fear. He is greed itself. Do you really think he’d pay Rory a fair rate when he could just as easily scare him into complete submission?”

“I . . . I . . . Sir, I’m certain the amount Alto is requesting is more than affordable. Even if he were a middle-aged accountant working a grunt job.”

Milo sighed. You just don’t get it do you? “We’ll be prodding a snake with this one, Quill . . .” 

“I know, sir. But it’s worth it,” she said it with that kind of whole-hearted confidence he had never been able to place. No matter the situation, Quill remained the steady rock of unwavering loyalty and determination. Even Storm Scribe himself had been unable to break her. 

Shaking the thought away, he turned back to the file. “Inform Alto that I will be taking the case.”

“Yes sir. Thank you sir.”

Milo dismissed her with a wave of his hoof. After glancing over the mare’s case, he turned back to the window and worked through the questions. Whenever it rained, they came, as sure and steady as the drops against the pane. What if? What if he had simply said no? What if he had had the courage to stand up to her? What if . . . what if he had never run away? 

His focus returned to the cases. He would hold on another day, as he had time and time again. The truth would reveal itself soon enough. After that, he could finally start to forgive himself . . .





“We’ve got a big problem, Boss!”

Rory flinched at both Pinkie’s earsplitting voice and the unwelcome nickname. Ever since their conversation a week ago, she had insisted on calling him ‘Boss’ as if he were the head of some crime syndicate like Dufaux. He looked up from the lounge to stare at the panting pink mare in the center of his office. Judging from her disheveled mane and shaking limbs, she had come at a run.

His immediate thoughts jumped to Dufaux’s thugs in the alley. Forgetting his situation, he shot to his hooves to examine her. Unfortunately, his weakened limbs gave way underneath him and he collapsed to the carpet. He glanced up at Pinkie as she cantered over. “Are you—are you okay, Pinkie?”

“Of course I’m okay, silly. Ooooh! You thought I was hurt . . .” Her expression softened, morphing into one of concern as her hooves stroked his back gently. “Are you okay? You really shouldn’t get up like that, Boss.”

Rory had given up trying to get her to stop with the insipid nickname. Gritting his teeth, he attempted to stand. But, his front limbs were far too weak to push himself upright, especially with the splint. The resulting pain caused him to cry out. He felt Pinkie yank him to his hooves, bearing some of the weight with her chest. After getting him to lie back down, she took a few steps back, scooping up a few papers she had dropped. “Sorry . . . I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s nothing like . . . nothing like before, promise.”

He eyed the papers, recognizing the document type. “A court case?”

“Sorta . . . her lawyer wants to settle outside of court.”

“Really?” Rory motioned her to place the file down and he began to read. His heart sunk after the first few lines. Farthing . . . The guilt that washed over him as he continued. “A hundred and fifty bits, eh? For funeral expenses?” He bit his lip, eyes darting from his secretary to the rain-pounded streets below. 

Though he might have argued if the situation were any different, Rory had to pity the mare. Widowed and left with two mouths to feed, likely blacklisted due to Father. All this pain and suffering because of one simple screw up on his part. Because he couldn’t stomach a little pain . . .

As far as he was concerned, Alto had every right to that money and more. Unfortunately, even the paltry sum she requested would be difficult to come by; he scarcely had money for rent as is. Sighing, he jerked his head to the desk. “Get the checkbook, Miss Pie. The smaller one.”

“Right-o, Boss!” She pranced over, withdrawing the checkbook and presenting it to him like a royal scepter. 

Chuckling at her theatrics, he took it and began to write. Somehow he would manage; he always managed. Paying for Farthing’s funeral could never erase what he did, but it did ease the guilt somewhat. After quickly scrawling out the appropriate sum, he gave the book back to her. “See to it she’s taken care of, Miss Pie. And,” he paused, considering, “send my sincerest condolences.”

“Yes, Boss,” she whispered, ears lowering. 

“What’s wrong?”

“No-nothing . . . Just, it’s so wrong.” She searched his eyes, then looked away. “He had a family to take care of and he just . . . up and left. Without . . .” Pinkie gulped, running a hoof across the letter, “Without even telling her goodbye . . .”

“It’s difficult, yes. But, we cannot know what went through his mind, Pinkie. There is a chance he slipped, you know.” No chance in Tartarus. Still, he had the unexplainable urge to sugar-coat it for her. To let her hold onto an iota of that naive optimism she so treasured. 

Pinkie nodded, slinking out of the office. “See you later, Boss.”

“Later, Miss Pie.”





From her brief stint in Manehattan, Pinkie had come to not only accept rude behavior, but to expect it. That being said, she demanded at least some semblance of courtesy within her office. She had learned and even perfected the art of asking for said courtesy in the past few weeks. It gave her just the smallest bit of confidence. And, in the cold world of corporate Manehattan, confidence meant everything. So, when the doors to her office flew open with a cacophonous bang, she determined not to let the breach go unpunished. 

Just as she made towards the door, a tall onyx unicorn strode inside. Her immediate impression was that of a shadowy crow. The instant her eyes met his, she froze. Never in all her life had she seen eyes like that. Cold. A forgotten shell where one’s soul should be. They pierced deeper and deeper, drawing her in like a neverending night. 

Pinkie had heard Maud talk about her “sense.” How she knew when ponies were bad or when they were to be avoided. A part of her always wondered what it felt like. Now she knew and every fiber of her being wished she didn’t. Bad did not even come close. This pony was downright evil. 

Try as she may to stand bold as always, she felt her hairs bristled and hocks quiver as he looked away and headed to the door. Oh no. I can’t let him see Mr. Scribe! Before her mind could catch up to her gut, she found herself standing between the pony and her employer’s door. “Stop! You don’t have an appointment. You’ll have to come back later.”

For the briefest of instants, Pinkie imagined she had won as the stallion gaped at her. Then, his ears lowered, eyes becoming more heartless if that was even possible. “Step aside, scum.”

Scum? Just who does he think he is? Pinkie stamped her hoof so hard the clap echoed around the office despite the carpeting. “You come into my office and tell me to step aside! I don’t think so, bubba.” Okay, admittedly her insults needed work, but that did not warrant what came next.

Without word or warning, he surrounded her in his emerald magic and levitated her into the air like a ragdoll. For the briefest moment, he just sneered at her, then slammed her into the filing cabinet with a force to rival one of her father’s kicks. The wind instantly left her lungs as a shock of pain rocketed down her spine. 

She looked up to see him glowering at her, ears pinned. “Know your place,” he snarled.

Just as he stepped towards the door, it swung open. Mr. Scribe glanced at the stranger, then around the room. His face grew white when he looked her in the eyes. Then he rounded on her attacker. Pinkie had to give the stallion credit. Despite having what amounted to two broken legs, he still managed to pull off an illusion of power and authority. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing!? Pinkie was just doing her job.”

The stallion stood up straighter, glowering at Mr. Scribe as if he were a particularly loathsome bottom dweller. “That bitch? Her job’s of no consequence to me. I doubt very much her ‘patrons’ will care if I damage the goods a bit.” 

‘Patrons?’ Then Pinkie put two and two together. He’s calling me a floozy?! She tried to stand, but found herself too winded to move. 

Thankfully, Mr. Scribe did all the moving for her. His hind hoof kicked at the wall so hard it left a crater. “Don’t you dare talk about her like that!”

“My my? Is he upset?” the stranger jeered. “You can’t tell me you’re not a little put out. Hoping to get an in with the secretary, Rory?”

“Leave her out of this! Or did you come here to insult my secretary and impede your precious work?”

He rolled his eyes. “As if you and that whore do any work of import. Still, you are correct. I had a most intriguing letter arrive at my desk today. A check written by you for some pathetic jumper’s widow.”

I sent that to the mailbox! How’d it end up on his desk?

“That ‘pathetic jumper’ was a good pony. Not that you’d give a damn . . .” Rory snarled.

“You were going to hand her over funds just like that?”

“It was a hundred and fifty bits, for Celestia’s sake! And it was my money. You had no business going through my mail.”

The unicorn said nothing, though his muscles tensed slightly. “It is my business when my son decides to threaten the reputation of Scribe Incorporated by kowtowing to some loathsome wench!”

Pinkie’s heart stopped cold. No way. No way in Tartarus! This was Mr. Scribe’s father? This was Storm Scribe? She did not know what she expected from a stallion who tortured his own child, but he had set a new low. How could anypony act like that and get off scot free? 

Rory’s reply broke her reverie like a hammer to glass. “She has two foals to feed! Have a heart for once in your life.”

“A heart? Really, Rory, what twisted logic led you to think me capable of having a heart?” Storm Scribe barked a mirthless, hollow laugh that chilled her blood. “Nopony ever got ahead in life for having a heart, Rory. They get ahead by staying their course and to hell with the rest of them. Now,” he jerked his head to the desk, “you will write to that pompous attorney and demand to see him in court. I will send Prescott to deal with the details.”

“It’s a hundred and fifty bits, Father! The court fees alone will be more than that.”

Storm Scribe sniffed haughtily. “It is the pride of Scribe Incorporated that is at stake.”

Rory lowered his voice until she could barely make out the words. “No, it’s your pride that’s at stake. Couldn’t have my empathy staining your reputation, now could we?”

“You had best watch your tone, boy,” he stated with such a flat finality even she cringed. “That leg of yours didn’t break on its own. Don’t think you’ve outsmarted me. This city belongs to me.”

Without another word, he glided out of the office, slamming the door behind him with his magic.

The instant he had gone, Mr. Scribe hurried over to her as fast as his legs would allow. She could not help but feel a tinge of fear as he glanced down at her. If he had been raised by that . . . thing, there was no telling what he might do. She forced the thought back as best she could. He’s not the same pony, Pinkie. “Sor—sorry, Boss.”

“Why are you apologizing?” His normally level voice cracked ever so slightly. “It’s my fault . . . I should have warned you. I—”

“It’s nopony’s fault but Storm Scribe’s.” Pinkie got shakily to her hooves, noting how weak his own were. “Are you okay?”

“I should be asking you that.” Rory lifted his bent hoof, likely to check her back, but nearly fell over as his opposite leg tried to catch the weight. 

Pinkie caught him, helping the stallion steady himself.

His face grew red. “Sorry . . . I—I’m just . . . it’s hard, you know?”

“I know,” she breathed. “Come on, I’ll—I’ll help you to your office.” Pinkie bit back the fountain of questions she wanted to ask. There would be a time for questions. Right now they needed to focus on the bigger picture. A court case that didn’t need to take place . . . Storm Scribe’s threat . . . Too many variables and so little time. Survival here depended on assessing those variables and somehow putting them to work before another pony could. If you messed up, well, just pray you never do. 

Ponies? ‘Friends?’ They were simply pawns, knights, bishops, and rooks. Nothing but pieces to sacrifice when it furthered your goal. That was the sick reality into which she had been thrown and from which there would be no escape. 

The game huh? Guess that just about sums it up, Mr. Scribe. A sick, twisted game with a madpony making the rules. 






> The Set-Up
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“What in Tartarus?” Milo Coltfax squinted in the early dawn light at a compact, bulldog of a stallion standing in front of his client. 

Quill regarded the strange earth pony with all the attentiveness of a bird of prey. “What do you think he wants?”

“Trouble,” Milo growled. Without ceremony, he pushed passed the ponies gathered in the marble antechamber and made his way over. “Alto, I didn’t think you’d be here so early.”

The peach pegasus nearly leapt skyward, squeaking with surprise. “Mr.—Mr. Coltfax. I . . . I . . .” Her pale blue eyes fell to the stranger’s muddy ones. “This gentlemen was—”

“—Just offering a helping hoof,” the pony—he almost could have been called a dwarf—shot him a smile that conveyed a little too much geniality to be genuine. “Name’s L. Orviston, but do call me Orve.”

‘Orve’ could not have been any more professional if he tried. Suit starched until the creases could cut paper, brand new designer suit, expensive silk tie, and to top it off a briefcase with glistening bronze clasps. Milo pushed the initial assumptions aside to assess this latest development. “So, what business do you have with my,” he stressed the word, “client, ‘Orve?’”

He gave a low, false laugh that made Milo’s skin crawl. “Oh, dear, did you not inform Mr. Coltfax, Alto?”

“I uh . . . no,” she squeaked, avoiding Milo as if he might snap at her. “Mr. Orviston contacted me last night after I picked the kids up from school. He—his company has offered to pick up the trial and attorney expenses.” She fidgeted with the black shawl around her shoulders. “I do hope you understand, Mr. Coltfax.”  

Pick up the expenses? Milo glowered at the stallion, searching his eyes. Something’s up. Normally, he would understand and accept his client’s choice in  picking a different lawyer. However, for one to come to them and offer to pay all the fees, though not unheard of in Manehattan, felt entirely off given the situation. Those companies only went after clients with big cases and large payouts. This? This was nothing. 

Still, he could not argue his point here. He shot her an encouraging smile. “Very well, Alto. I hope it all works out for you.”

Milo regarded the pair as ‘Orve’ shepherded Alto towards a side hall. Then, just as he turned the corner, it hit him. The pin in his tie. That’s what had thrown him off! Now it all made sense. He motioned Quill forward. “What court number?”

“Sir, I don’t think she needs—”

“What number?” he pressed through gritted teeth. 

“Twenty-five.”

Milo nodded, staring at the corner the pair had just rounded. “We’ll stick around to watch it.”

Quill rolled her eyes. “But we aren’t needed anymore, sir. Wouldn’t it be better to go back than stick around here?”

“No.” Milo pinned his ears, stamping a hoof. “He’s up to something.”

“And if he’s not?” 

“Then it shouldn’t take more than two hours.” With that, Milo started walking towards the nearest hallway. They wound their way systematically through the maze of offices, courtrooms, and the occasional lounge until they reached the appropriate door. A sharp, unpleasant voice broke through the otherwise silent hall. 

“And you think I care?”

Milo groaned. “Celestia not him . . .”

Quill stamped a hoof irritably. “Prescott.”

“Yeah.” After taking a deep breath, he made his way towards the all-too familiar source of the commotion. Sure enough, Prescott stood by the end window, snarling at none other than Rory Scribe. 

Milo felt the ever-present urge to kick the stallion senseless. How did he consistently get away with treating the kid like complete trash? He watched the latest display of disrespect, debating whether or not to cut in. No, better to let it rest. Rory practically went into a tirade whenever he stuck his muzzle into his business. Typical stubborn kid. Just like me I suppose. 

Shaking his head, Milo turned back to the courtroom only to run head first into a pony. “Sorry about that—” He froze, taking in the familiar business attire and pink coat. “Pinkie? Good to see you again.” 

“Oh, Milo. Sorry, I uh . . .” She leaned around him, staring at Rory as if expecting him to explode. “I was . . .” 

Milo took a step back, raising an eyebrow. “Was what?” 

The mare began to paw at the floor, looking at Quill. “Was . . . was . . .”

Why’s she so nervous?

Quill stepped forward, placing a hoof on Pinkie’s withers. “Is everything alright, Pinkie?”

She shook her head, threatening to dislodge the pencil wedged precariously in her bun. Her voice lowered until it was barely audible, “Mr. Scribe said I’m not supposed to talk to you before the case. Something about ‘interfering with the proceedings.’”

So that’s it. Milo chuckled. “No need to worry about that, Pinkie. I’m not on the case anymore.”

“What?” Her eyes searched his. “You’re serious?”

“Yes,” Quill added, removing her hoof. “Were you looking for us just now?”

“No. I,” she gulped, looking back at Rory. “I was kinda . . . Oh, I’m not supposed to be doing it. But I felt so bad.”

Now she had him intrigued. “Doing what?”

“Getting special accommodations,” she breathed.

Milo followed her gaze to Rory’s legs and froze upon noting the bound limb. He broke his left leg? A pang of empathy shot through him. Celestia, he must be in agony. 

Quill’s voice broke his trance. “So, you wanted to make sure he didn’t have to stand?”

“Yes.” Pinkie sighed heavily. “It’s not fair. The Boss didn’t want to do this in the first place. He wanted to give the mare the money right away and have done with it.”

Milo’s heart skipped a beat. “Really?” I thought he was the one who fought it . . . 

“Yeah. But that . . . that,” she snorted loudly, “insisted on maintaining the company’s ‘pride.’ He wanted to do this just to see the Boss suffer.”

“The boss?” 

Pinkie jerked her head over to Rory. “I am not calling him by that bastard’s name and he hates his first name. So I call him Boss now.” 

Though he should have responded, all Milo could think about was her second point. To think all this time he had been calling him ‘Rory’ imagining it would put him at ease when the exact opposite was true.  “He hates his name?” The words came out before he could stop himself. 

Both Pinkie and Quill looked at him as if he lost his mind. 

Quill took a small step towards him. “Sir? Is everything okay?” 

“I—I—Fine,” he snapped, feeling his legs shake underneath him. “Just didn’t realize . . . It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, okay then.” Quill’s focus turned back onto Pinkie. “So, what kind of accommodations—”  Her sentence was cut off by Rory’s icy voice.

“Miss Pie! What did I tell you? Get your sorry ass over here!”

Pinkie fliched, lowering her ears. “Sorry, Milo, Quill, gotta run.” With that, she tore over to Mr. Scribe, receiving an irritable lecture Prescott would be proud of.

Quill sighed, shaking her head. “Ready to go in, Milo?” 

Milo could not help but stare at Rory. If circumstances had been different . . . No, it was better not to dwell on stupid mistakes. 

“Sir?”

“Huh?” Milo turned back to her, seeing the concern in her eyes. “Yes, let’s go then.” He took a step towards the courtroom, but Quill stood in his way. “What now?”

Quill’s eyes shone with that unnervingly understanding look again. “You need to tell him,” she breathed, smoothing his forelock with a hoof. 

“I—I can’t, Quill. Not after . . .” Fury, guilt, regret all fought to escape him at once. He bit his lip, trying his damndest not to cry out in frustration. “I can’t,” he reiterated through gritted teeth. If I did . . . they, he . . . Celestia forgive me,” he moaned, burying his face in his hoof. 

The familiar pressure of Quill’s hoof on his shoulder slowed the ever-rising panic in his chest. “Hush, Milo. It’s in the past . . . focus on the present.”

“I’ll try, I’ll try . . .”





Rory could not have been more appreciative of Pinkie. Despite his having harangued her for weeks on end, she still had the initiative and guts to request an accommodation for his leg. Now, rather than standing for the trial, he had been allowed to sit. Though still more painful than lying down, it helped immensely. 

The new lawyer, Orve or whatever the hell he called himself rubbed him the wrong way. He barked as loud as Prescott, but backed off at all the wrong times. As this entire scene had been choreographed and the judgement decided before they even entered the courtroom. The worry continued to mount as Orve’s points crept closer and closer to the suicide. What? Was he going to claim that he pushed Farthing off the roof? 

Orve’s next question broke his trance. “So, you claim that my client is somehow responsible for her husband’s death? That we should blame Alto and not the pony who ruined Farthing’s life?”

Prescott opened his mouth, but Rory's inborn guilt kicked in before he could stop himself. “No! Don’t blame her. If it’s anypony’s fault it’s mine.”

Orve gave a triumphant snarl. “And so he admits it at last!”

Admits what? It’s a suicide! Rory made to speak, but Prescott rounded on him, hissing. “What do you think you’re playing at?”

“I . . . I . . .” Between the growing pain in his limb and the rapt attention of the audience, he could not bring himself to force the lie. At that moment in time, he simply wanted to tell the truth and to hell with his father’s consequences. “I was forced to fire Farthing as punishment.”

“Shut the hell up, Scribe,” Prescott growled.

Ignoring the weasel, he continued, staring at Alto as he spoke. “I . . . I got sick and almost passed out at a trial. Father . . . Father told me I had to fire him as punishment. I didn’t want to!”

 Orve’s cold laugh made his skin crawl. “So he admits it!” His hoof swept over the room to point at the judge. “Your honor, here is the proof.”

The ageing mare gave him a fed-up glare. “The proof of what, Mr. Orviston?”

“That Mr. Scribe’s actions led directly to Farthing’s untimely demise.”

Rory almost snorted. ‘Untimely demise?’ For Celestia’s sake, get off your soapbox!

Prescott rolled his eyes, “Hardly a ‘direct’ path, Mr. Orviston.”

“Is it?” His voice raised to a near manic pitch now. “I have evidence to prove that Mr. Scribe’s actions led to my client’s husband’s death.” With a flourish to rival that of a stage actor, he slammed an envelope in front of the judge. “Presenting evidence A and there’s more where that came from.”

Evidence? What kind of idiot is he? Still, Rory could not help but eye the judge as she paged slowly through the papers. Then, with a small nod, she looked up. This time however, her glare was directed at him. “Mr. Scribe, care to elaborate on these ‘letters’ of yours?”

“Letters?” Rory looked at the pieces of parchment held suspended in the mare’s pale pink magic. They were unfamiliar and yet . . . The writing looks like mine. How? Forgery? But why! What did they say? “Your Honor, I’ve never seen these before in my life. I—”

“Enough. This . . . blackmail is quite the serious matter, Mr. Scribe.” 

Blackmail? He glanced towards Pinkie who looked every bit as lost as he felt. 

The judge sighed, setting the papers down in front of him. His heart dropped as he read. Words written by him and yet ones he never saw. The forger had to be just about perfect at his job. As he read, the significance of their contents sunk in. Farthing, Rolls, Willowbrooke, and the list went on. All ponies his father directly commanded him to fire for various “incompetencies.” Letters to them filled with incriminating evidence of blackmail, extortion, and even death threats.  

Rory recognized a few of the names as those his father had “bent” at one point or another. Some had even been silenced for their outbursts against him. The room blurred as the significance took hold. A set-up so elaborate, so interwoven into the fabric of politics that even he had missed it. His promotion, the odd business trips to research facilities, the hours of meetings to distract him, and even his very presence at Scribe Incorporated had been nothing more than preparation for this moment. How could he have been so blind? 

“Mr. Scribe? What have you to say in response?”

“I didn’t write these! I wouldn’t have written them. You have to believe me.” Though, judging from her icy stare, that could not have been farther from the truth.

She sighed, turning to Prescott. “Am I to assume you had no knowledge of this?”

“None whatsoever, Your Honor.”

Like hell. You choreographed the case with that snake from the start. 

“Will you be serving as his attorney in the criminal proceedings?”

Criminal? “I didn’t . . . I wouldn’t . . .” The entire room blurred as they continued.

“Celestia, no. I’ll have nothing to do with him.”

Like I ever wanted you in the beginning. Good riddance! 

“Very well then. Mr. Orviston? What are your thoughts?”

“Well, I’ve contacted a number of the ponies in those letters, and they all would like to press charges . . .”

“Hmmm. Seems we have quite the case on our hooves.”

Rory stopped listening, staring instead at Pinkie. She at least remained loyal. Though she looked terrified, staring back at him with wide eyes. Yes, it’s a set-up, but what am I to do about it? 

Before he could even attempt a response or plea for understanding, the sound of the gavel striking broke his trance. He looked up at the judge as she spoke. “In light of this new evidence, this case will be taken to criminal trial a week from now. Bailiff, please escort Mr. Scribe to the holding facility.”

Rory walked alongside the officer, doing his best not to limp. He shot Pinkie a weak smile in passing. “It’ll be alright.”

“O-okay,” she squeaked.

Just as he had nearly left the courtroom, he noted an all too familiar figure by the door. Milo. What in Tartarus did he want? Apparently the balif had the same idea because he held out a hoof. Milo started back a step, but continued to stare at him from behind the guard. “You didn’t do it, did you?”

The question itself did not surprise him nearly as much as the tone. A soft, almost fearful one Rory had never heard him use before. He could not bring himself to snap at the prosecutor, not this time. “No, no I didn’t.” As he was led away, he looked back at Milo. “That would be a piss-poor way to achieve my objective, Mr. Coltfax.” 

Indeed. And because of his failure to judge his Father’s true intent, that bastard would walk free and he might likely be condemned to life in prison. Rory shook his head. No, he would find a way to off himself long before he wasted away like that. For the present moment, he supposed he should be grateful. Now at least he would get some much-needed sleep and rest. With one last glance at the courtroom, he followed the stranger to what he hoped would be a far pleasanter place than the one he left behind. 


> The Thoughts That Nag
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rory had never felt quite as lazy as he did lying on the paper-thin prison cot. His current situation however, left him quite unable to jump into action even if he had wished to. Did he want to? With current events being the way they were, he very much doubted he could fulfill his purpose now—with or without the prison bars. Better to rest and gain some semblance of strength. 

With a soft groan, he rolled on his other side, willing the pain to ebb even slightly. In the half-light filtering in from the barred window, he could just make out the splint still tightly bound to the swollen limb. The cell might as well be a dungeon from the damp chill seeping into his coat. Though, that could be attributed to his poor body condition. 

He eyed the torn cot across from him, grateful it had been vacated. His first cell-mate decided it would be an excellent opportunity to vent with his hooves. Rory could not blame the disgruntled office worker as undoubtedly it had been Father who had sent him to jail in the first place. Still, the thought of being tormented for crimes he had worked so hard to bring to light made him sick. That and the guards had taken no extra measures to treat either his legs or his recent bruises.

His stomach grumbled again, unnecessarily reminding him of the all-encompassing hunger racking his thin frame. According to the law, they were supposed to offer him something to eat. They got around that little affidavit by suggesting that since he did not walk over to the cafeteria when they opened the doors, he had voluntarily given up that right. A piss-poor excuse, but one he could not really hate them for. 

The guards, like much of Manehattan loathed Scribe Incorporated and its president. Getting back at him was as close as any of them would come to getting back at Storm Scribe. Besides, Rory did not relish the thought of going out to the common area again where just about every prisoner wanted him dead for one reason or another.There had been no doubt in any of their minds that he was guilty. Not a single inmate so much as dared to suggest otherwise lest he end up in the same boat as Rory. 

Just as he began to run over the evidence one more time, the heavy door swung open to let in two guards. The earth pony stallions eyed him with looks bordering on loathing. The oldest spoke up from behind his thick grey mustache, “You’ve got a visitor. You’ll come along with us.”

Rory felt a sinking sensation in his gut. Great, just great. The “defense” attorney appointed by the city had to be the worst source of legal advice in all of Equestria. Not only did he hate Rory and believe full-heartedly in his guilt, but he did not even try to come up with a decent defense. He wanted to see Rory convicted, and so did his damndest to do absolutely nothing at all. 

“I—I didn’t think he was coming today,” Rory managed, surprising himself with the hoarse quality of his voice.  

“He’s not,” the younger guard spat. “Your secretary came by.”

Pinkie? His heart skipped a beat. Pinkie had not come by for over a week and a half now. Rory took a deep breath, managing to slide off the cot. Immediately, his limbs protested, but he bit back the pain. He followed the stallions out the door and towards the visitation room. After an agonizingly slow walk, they reached the room and chained him to one of the tables as per custom. Too tight as usual, though Rory would not give them the satisfaction of knowing how much pain it caused.

He waited and sure enough, Pinkie was led over to him. Celestia she looked worse for wear. Her mane, once so buoyant lay flat against her neck, bun as forgotten as her secretary uniform. Rory tried for a small grin, but even without seeing himself knew it more closely resembled a grimace. “It’s about time. What kept you? The trial’s tomorrow.”

Pinkie sat down, looking at his chains with wide eyes. “I—they wouldn’t let me visit you. Said my business wasn’t official.”

“You’re my secretary, how much more official can you get?”

“I—well, sorta . . .” She bit her lip. 

“What’s wrong?” Something had changed in the game again. Dammit. Too many variables! All his calculations, all the connections he uncovered, they meant nothing without a constant stream of data. He lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper, “Dufaux?”

“No . . . he actually hasn’t bothered me since that night you broke your leg.”

“Thank Celestia.” His eyes narrowed. “What else?”

“That bastard.”

Father. Rory felt his heart leap in his chest. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“No-no . . . but he—” She withdrew a piece of paper, placing it in front of him. 

Rory scanned its contents, wincing at the words’ implications. So, he never had any intention of keeping me on. The realization should not have been surprising. Hell, any idiot could have seen it coming. And yet, he could not deny the lump fast forming in his throat. “So that’s it then. That why they wouldn’t let you see me?”

Pinkie nodded slowly. “I guess. Makes it kinda hard to come here on official Scribe Incorporated business if you and your boss don’t actually work for the company anymore.”

A new, horrifying thought came into focus as he stared at her. “He hasn’t threatened you has he, Miss Pie?”

Pinkie blinked in surprise before shaking her head. “Naw. One of his secretaries just strode into the office Monday and told me to get the hell out.”

“So that’s it then.” It hurt every bit as much as his own dismissal. Pinkie. Honest, hardworking, compassionate Pinkie thrown to the curb to satisfy his father’s vendetta. “When’s your train?”

“Come again?”

“When are you leaving? Surely you aren’t sticking around Manehattan for this god-awful mess.” 

A blank stare. Then the smallest of giggles. “Boss! Just because I don’t work for Scribe Incorporated anymore doesn’t mean I don’t work for you! I’m still your secretary. As I recall, you said I was until you dismissed me. Not Storm Scribe.”

“But—I . . . you . . . why?” I thought you hated me.

She ran a hoof through her glistening mane. For a time she kept her lips pursed in mock concentration. “Weeeell, I guess you can say that after all this time together, all you’ve taught me about ‘reality’ I’m not exactly the same mare that came into Manehattan all these weeks ago.”

Seriously? “Pinkie, I don’t care what your twisted little mind comes up with, your still the same painfully honest, caring young mare I met on day one! Truth is, I failed to assimilate you.”

Her eyes shot daggers at him. The next words came as a gradual crescendo, “The same am I? The same?! How can you say that? Do you have any idea what I’ve been through because of you? Do you?!” To his great distress Pinkie had started to cry. “Don’t you dare act like I’m not different! I’m—I’m ruined!”

“Now that’s not fair. Professionally speaking you’ve come a long way. Why any company would be—”

“Professionally speaking? Professionally speaking?! Is that all you ever think about? What about me? What about my life at home? How can I go back and act the same as always with this,” she gesticulated to his warped limbs, “hanging over my shoulders? Thanks to you I’m as cynical as the rest of you sick bastards.”

Rory had rarely felt so helpless. Not since his colthood locked in that damned box. “I’m sorry I—”

“Well, congratulations, you got what you wanted. Just like him!” 

The words reverberated around the cinderblock cell, striking deep into his heart. The same. I’m just the same as him. Rory lowered his head, too ashamed to speak. “I suppose you believe the charges too?” Where had that question come from anyway? What did it matter if she believed them? Everypony in Manehattan would likely side against him. What was one more? And yet, the thought of Pinkie—his Pinkie—blaming him for the crimes he had worked so hard to bring into the open made him sicker than any of his injuries. 

A painful, heart-rendering silence followed. Finally, Pinkie stood. “I don’t believe them,” she breathed softly. She took a long breath, before continuing in matter-of-fact tone, “I may be your secretary, Rory Scribe, but I am far from your friend.”

With that, she left him to his thoughts and the demons that nagged. 





“Pinkie are you going to eat that or stare at it all day?” Jazelle clapped her hoof against the dining room table, eliciting a tiny squeak from her roommate. 

“Sorry, Jazelle. I just, just don’t feel like eating.”

“Don’t feel like eating my pancakes? Mare, what’s wrong with you?” Of course she knew the answer. With all the press coverage of the trial it would be hard not to. She sat across from her friend, pouring a tall glass of orange juice. “Look, I know it’s hard, but sometimes in life we lose. It ain’t Rory’s fault, and it sure as hell ain’t yours. So stop worrying over what you can’t change.”

“But he didn’t do it,” Pinkie moaned slamming her face against the table. “They’re just making up loads of stuff that I know he couldn’t have done.”

Jazelle sighed, rubbing her mane. “Do either of us know what goes on in that stallion’s head? Hell, for all we know he’s guilty!”

“He’s not guilty, Jazelle! I know it. I’d swear on my Pinkie Sense.”

Coming from Pinkie that meant a lot. Still, Jazelle could not stopper the concern she felt whenever she thought on the trial. Sure Rory was a good pony at heart, but he had within him an unnatural drive to achieve his goals at whatever cost. That aspect had changed little over the course of time. Could he have been so desperate to take Storm down that he forgot himself in the process? No . . . and yet, the possibility lingered. “Sorry, Pinkie.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

“Just . . . Rory’s been my friend for years. Even if it’s only one-sided, I don’t want to see him put up for what Storm’s done. But here I am sitting in my bar doing nothing.”

“I don’t think there’s anything we can do . . .”

“No, not really. Though,” she lifted up the newspaper, squinting at the headline, “A better defense attorney couldn’t hurt.” 





Rory had given up standing the first day of the trial. The judge, either by pity or facing the inevitable had allowed it. So instead of facing the faces of the ponies his father had wronged, he lay in front of the defense podium and listened to their testimonies. All were laced with the same venom, loss, and longing for vengeance he knew all too well himself. 

A disgust flowed through his veins at the recounting of each of the stories. Disgust for what had transpired, disgust in his own failure to stop it, and disgust that Father would walk for each and every one of them. So intricate had been Storm Scribe’s web that even with his own calculations and data, Rory had no ability to prove any of it false. All he could do was watch the full brunt of his father’s sins fall upon his shoulders. At this point, he only wished it would crush him.

Yet another witness’ story having been told, the judge looked to his defense. “Any questions, Mr. Posp?”

The obese pegasus waved a flabby hoof feabily, not even bothering to rise from the bench he had draped his blubber across. “No, your honor. I believe the story was clear enough.”

Yeah, so clear you fell asleep for most of it. Rory wished he could have slept too, but either pain or respect for their suffering kept him vigilant. He glanced behind him at the packed courtroom, watching the newsponies snap pictures or scribble hasty notes in their books. Just as constant as always was Pinkie Pie seated in the far corner, watching with sad eyes. A part of him always wished her to come closer and another was grateful she could not see how far his condition had deteriorated. 

The guards had given up taking him back to the prison every night. His legs simply would not allow it. So they had thrown him into a repurposed office and called it good. Though he had been given food, the pain made it nearly impossible for him to keep it down. Rory had given up trying some time ago, clinging to the hope that somepony might take him to the doctor if he passed out.  Though they had finally given him medicine to dull the pain, at this point, it seemed more likely he would be taken to the next world first.

They continued the witness parade, and Rory allowed it to blend together. His eyes felt heavy and he longed to be dragged back to his makeshift cell. Even the mouldering cot sounded good about now. Better than lying here on the wood, that was for certain. It took a long moment to realize that the trial had finished for the day and the guards were talking to him. 

He glanced down as his now unrecognizable legs. Groaning, he lifted his head, hoping they would get the message. They did and within seconds he felt one sling him over his back. He had given up his dignity a long time ago. If they wanted to blame him for crimes he didn’t commit, they might as well have the common decency to carry the cripple out of court. 





Milo had never imagined it possible to loathe Storm Scribe any more than he already did. But this, this took the cake. How could they all just go along with it? Why were they so damned blind to the reality? Just a few weeks ago, any of these same ponies on the witness stand could have been professing Storm’s guilt.

Their reactions were not unheard of. For the first time, they finally have a vulnerable, accessible target to pin their pent up frustration and hatred on. It did not matter if Rory was innocent as long as he served as Storm’s scapegoat, they were happy. They could lie to themselves, profess that it had all been Rory’s fault regardless of the evidence to the contrary. It disgusted him to no end, but he could not blame them. 

“Milo? Are you ready to go back?” 

He turned to stare into Quill’s eyes. His only rock in the sea of uncertainty. If anypony would understand it would be her. He had waited long enough. Waited until she could not have slapped the “spur of the moment” label on it if she tried. And yet, it would affect her as surely as it would him. 

“Milo?”

Taking a long breath to gain the courage, he made his move at last. “I’m going to do it.”

Quill raised an eyebrow, “Sir?”

He turned to face the door Rory had departed from. “He needs a halfway decent defense, Quill. I’m—I’m going to do it.”

“You do realize this will bring up questions. Are you prepared to—”

“I’m prepared,” he growled through clenched teeth. “I’ve done enough hiding to last a lifetime.” 

“Then I’ll stand by you, sir.” Quill let out an almost filly-like giggle.

“What?”

“Well, it’s just . . .” She raised a hoof to hide her snigger. “You’re Manehattan’s ace prosecuting attorney. I wonder how everypony will react to you taking up the defence?”

Milo snorted a laugh of his own. “I wonder . . .” 

> The Defense Attorney
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Soooo, as you may know, I actually cancelled Slow Fade. However, I was sitting in my room tonight being sick and thought to myself, "Heck, why not?" So . . . since I had the inspiration, I wrote up this chapter for you all. It was written late at night, so I apologize in advance for grammar issues. There's probably a lot. Lol.]





Rory did not know what was worse; lying on his cot pleading for the hunger pains to subside all the while knowing no food would come or staring at a completely edible loaf of bread without so much as they jaw strength to chew it. He glanced around the repurposed office, illuminated solely by the late-afternoon sun sneaking through the grimy window. It reminded him distinctly of Milo Coltfax’s deplorable breeding pit for mice he called an office. To think that his secretary did not even bother with common maintenance. Pinkie wouldn’t dare let the office get like that . . .

Shaking the thought loose, Rory turned back to the small loaf of bread and pitcher of water before him. He had drained the pitcher, twice. Thankfully, the guards had allowed him as much as he could stomach which, given his heavy dose of medicine, was a blessing. Generally, Rory protested such liberal use of medication as it merely expedited his fast-growing resistance to any such substances, but not anymore. He would not have cared if they funneled arsenic down his gullet. That at least would deprive Father of the punishment he held so dear. 

Rory proceeded to soak the bread in the pitcher, hoping that it would soften it enough for even his teeth to handle. As he waited, he watched a small sparrow perch on the windowsill. A conversation with Keynote almost a year ago came to the forefront of his mind. 

“Ah, Mr. Scribe! Have you ever seen anything so precious?” 
Rory turned to regard the pair of sparrows staring intently through the glass of the office. “‘Precious’ is not the word I would use given the situation . . .” 
“I wonder if they’re looking to settle down. Do you think they’ll nest outside the office?”
“Good Celestia I hope not. I can’t stand birds.”
“Why ever not?”
“They’ve been given all the blasted freedom in the world and yet they choose to squander it living in the most deplorable filth imaginable.”
“Well, did you ever consider that they stay around for our benefit?”
“What ‘benefit’ do we derive from them, Keynote? Refuse on our windowsills?”
She giggled in that disconcertingly carrying way of hers. “Mr. Scribe, honestly. They bring us a bit of cheer, don’t they? I think that’s more than enough benefit.”
“And I think you’ve low standards, Keynote.”

The sound of the door opening brought his attention back to reality. One of the guards stepped in. Good Celestia, what does he want at this hour? “Yes?”

“There’s a pony to see you.” He looked as if he wanted to drag Rory out by the scruff of his neck, but seemed to rethink that upon examination of his legs. “I’ll bring him in then.” With that, he left the room. 

“Right . . .” Rory waited as the sounds of whispered conversation drifted in through the open doorway. Finally, a single pony strode inside. 

Rory did not know who he had expected. Pinkie? His lawyer? But he most certainly did not consider the possibility of Milo Coltfax visiting him. The unicorn gave a quick survey of the room before stepping slowly over. Rory did not know the stallion on a personal level, but he thought Coltfax looked unnaturally nervous. He rolled his eyes. “I don’t bite, you know.”

Coltfax chuckled nervously. “I suppose not. Sorry. I—I hope I’m not intruding.”

Intruding? I’m a prisoner, not a doddery old mare taking her tea . . . Rory shook his head, pushing himself up to a slightly more dignified position on the cot. “What business do you have with me, Milo?”

He took a long, slow breath before stopping just in front of him. “I’ve been watching the trial.”

“Figures you would . . .” 

A distinct note of hurt found its way into Milo’s eyes. “I . . . I . . .”

“What? You telling me that I should think Manehattan's ace prosecuting attorney wouldn’t be following the case of the century?”

“No, no. It’s just . . .”

“Just what?” Rory snapped.

Milo pinned his ears in the most aggressive gesture Rory had ever seen him use. “Cut the crap! Do you want my help or don’t you?”

Help? The word stung worse than his legs. As if Milo Coltfax wanted to help the likes of him. “A dirty rotten joke to play on a cripple, don’t you think, Milo?” 

“A joke?” Yet again, the note of hurt resurfaced. “Boy, I don’t want to play a joke on you! I honestly want to help.”

Rory felt his temper rising, likely due to the agony, though he’d be the last to admit it. “Why? You’ve never ‘helped’ me before!”

“Because I . . . I . . .” Milo froze for a long moment, breathing heavily as if the question had been a serious accusation. “I don’t like to see an innocent pony put up for that filth’s crimes, okay?”

“In-innocent?” Of all the ponies in Manehattan, he believed him? Rory felt an uncharacteristic surge of emotion. First anger that he had sunk so low to need Milo’s help, then frustration at the hopelessness, then hope so powerful he nearly cried. Crying in front of Pinkie was one thing, but him? That was not acceptable. He bit his lip, staring at his misshapen limbs. “Okay,” he breathed. 

Milo cocked an ear. “Come again?”

“I said . . . okay. I’ll . . . I’ll take your help. But what can we even do? Father’s . . . he’s always one step ahead of me.” Too tired to maintain a semblance of dignity, Rory rested his head against the pillow. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I’ve gotten ahead of him a time or two.” The encouraging words were lost to Milo’s uncertain tone. “We’ll find evidence . . . somewhere.”

“Evidence?” Why was that word so resounding? Then it hit him. He lifted his head quickly, immediately regretting it. Wincing, he managed to choke out. “I have evidence. Lots of it.”

Milo’s eyes glinted with a predatory hunger Rory could admire. “Really now? Where? Is it safe?” 

“Oh, it’s safe . . . But I won’t tell you where. Ponies could be listening.” He looked around the room, spotting Milo’s briefcase by the door. “You’ve paper?”

Jerking a nod, Milo trotted over to retrieve a pad and pen from the case. He placed it gingerly in front of Rory—taking note not to brush against his legs by accident. Rory appreciated the gesture, almost smiling. Almost. He took the pen, scribbling down a hasty note before folding it. 

When he had finished, Milo leaned in close. “Well?”

Rory motioned him to lean in. “Take this to Miss Pie. Er . . . Madame Jazelle’s Respite on Sixth Street? You know it?”

“Yeah. I’ve had some leads by there.”

Taking care to lower his voice until it was barely audible, he continued, “Go there. Ask for Miss Pie. Give her this note and she’ll help you gather the evidence.”

Milo nodded solemnly, levitating the note into his interior jacket pocket. “I won’t let you down.”

The words seemed strange coming from anypony, but from Milo they were simply bizarre. Rory found himself gaping at the unicorn for a moment before shaking his shock loose. “Right. Well . . . I suppose you’ll be wanting some kind of payment for all this. Spill.”

That hurt again. What was he so guilty about? Lawyers were always asking for money and surely a pony like Milo needed it! 

Milo stood for a moment, packing his briefcase methodically. Finally, he turned to face Rory again. A stony—no, sorrowful—expression flickered across his lined features. “Boy, I don’t want any money from you. However . . . I should like . . . I should very much appreciate you listening to me once this is all over.”

Listening to you? I’m doing that now, aren’t I? Still, the tone of the pony’s voice made it clear that he was deathly serious. “Alright. I’ll listen to whatever it is you think is so damned important. Happy?”

Milo actually smiled before striding towards the door. “Very. Also . . . would you promise me you’ll go to the hospital once this is all over?”

Rory’s heart skipped a beat as he thought about the doctors who would suffer from that. He shook his head. “No, I can’t promise you that. I have my reasons, Milo. I’ll ask you to leave it at that.”

“Very well. But,” he winked almost playfully, “don’t think I’ll drop it.” 

Rory watched him until the door closed softly behind him. Then his attention turned to the now sodden bread. He munched carefully, avoiding jarring his teeth as best he could. Milo Coltfax would be taking up the defense for him? This event might very well lead to his freedom or to his imminent bondage. At the very least, it was better than the alternative. With that thought in mind, he settled down to enjoy his “meal” in relative peace . . . 





Milo did not know what to expect upon arrival at the bar. A sign? Some proof that all his efforts over the years were about to pay off with the motherload of evidence? Anything. Something. And yet, when he stepped inside, all he received was a noxious dose of incense. 

After gagging for what felt like a minute, he shuffled over to the main room. “Jazelle” proved to be easy enough to spot. The oryx stood by her bar, chatting animatedly to a few older stallions. She looked up upon his arrival, surprise tinkling in her eyes. 

Before he could reach her, she had glided across the room to meet him. “I don’t believe it! Eeeeh!”

“Believe what?” Milo felt decidedly uncomfortable at the exuberant attention. Particularly when he had no idea who could be watching his actions. 

The oryx pranced in place for a bit—a credible impersonation of Pinkie. “Are you the Milo Colfax?”

“Yes.” Am I really that famous, lady?

She held out her hoof. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I’m Jazelle. I’ve been a fan of your style for years now.”

“My style?”

“Well, not just anypony takes on Storm Scribe the way you do.” After a small giggle, she gestured to a corner table and made him sit. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“How did you—”

“Please, somepony like you doesn’t frequent establishments like mine without a very good reason.”

“Well, if you must know, I,” he lowered his voice, “I’m looking for Pinkie Pie. I’ve got a . . . situation that requires her special touch.”

“A situation?” Curiosity shown in Jazelle’s brown eyes, but she reined it in. “Sure. Let me get her for you. Just a moment.”

In no more than five minutes, she had returned with the familiar secretary. However, her usual exuberance had vanished, replaced by a solemnity born of stress. Even her wavy mane had gone flat, tied into a loose ponytail. Her eyes widened upon seeing him. Still, she took a seat and waited until Jazelle returned to her duties. When they were as alone as they could be in a crowded bar, she leaned in closer. “Jazelle said you needed me for a super-special job. What’s up?”

Milo almost chuckled. Super-special job was it? He levitated Rory’s note from his pocket, placing it carefully in front of her. However, when she reached for it, he placed a hoof to block her. “Before you read that, know this.” The next words came in a whispered rush, “I’m going to be working as Rory’s defense attorney from now on. However, we’ve got no chance in Tartarus if we don’t get evidence. Rory tells me he has evidence, however he won’t tell me where. Instead, he gave me this note and told you to read it.” His hoof lifted off of the paper. 

She nodded slowly, scooping up the paper. As she read, her frown deepened. “What the?”

Curiosity overtaking him, Milo leaned in close. “What does it say?”

She spread it out in front of him. 


‘I had no recollection


of a life beyond this veil


Here where there is no time 


And memories rend like toothless buzzards


I recall the moment spent together


Your touch, your warmth


The kind words spoken


Words I will n’er hear again.


I ask of you.


Will you remember the pain I have caused?


The happiness you brought?


Helpless I fell into your kindness


And here I shall remain. 


Will we remember the memories shared?


The stories we have read together?


I keep them upon the shelf.


A reminder of this world beyond.


Do not forget.


The moment when time stood still


And the darkness fell like a cloak.’


He read it again and again. The words were surprisingly eloquent coming from a pony who had suffered as much as Rory. They dug at him, and yet he could not find any meaning in them. No song he knew of. No poem. What then? “Pinkie? Does this have any significance?”

“I think it’s a riddle. Gimme a sec, kay?” 

Milo sat staring at her, watching the mare’s face wrinkle in concentration. After over ten minutes, she gasped loudly, quickly pulling the note to her muzzle. A few more seconds passed before she slammed it onto the table. “Got it!”

“You know where the evidence is?”

“Yup-a-doodles. And, if we’re going to help The Boss tomorrow, we’d better get a-truckin’.” With that, she quite nearly flew out the bar, still managing to bounce the whole way. 

Well, this is going to be an . . . interesting evening. 





Pinkie stood outside the door to Mr. Scribe’s apartment, half excited to explore this so-called “evidence” and half disgusted that she had ended up here again. Dungeon would have been a generous term for the nearly empty apartment. Reluctantly, she opened the door and stepped inside the pitch darkness.

Despite the bright Manehattan skyline and moonlight, the apartment was as black as a tomb. She squeaked, trying to figure out to how to turn on the light and failing. When the door shut behind them, she really lost it. Thankfully, an instant later, the room was bathed in a golden glow. The unicorn winked good-naturedly, gesturing to the sole source of non-magical illumination in the room—a small lamp. 

She trotted over, turning it on and adding the soft electric glow to Milo’s horn. Milo gaped, walking around as if he were a tourist. “Would you look at that? There’s hardly anything here!”

“That’s The Boss for you.” Pinkie frowned, turning around the open space. Nothing. Absolutely no clues, hints, or otherwise. She went into Mr. Scribe’s room. Apart from the same lonely bed, a few shaggy looking suits, and a copious amount of hopefully legally acquired pain pills, nothing was remotely intriguing. Milo apparently had reached the same conclusion. 

He stood in the “living room”—if one could actually call it that—pawing at the floorboards. “Well? Any clues from the poem?”

“Weeell . . .” She racked her brain, searching for something, anything that could help. Then it came to her. “Stories! He said something about keeping them on the shelf. But we never read story books. We just talked. That means—”

“—it’s the shelf!” Milo trotted over to the bookshelf. He began to levitate the books one at a time. 

Then Pinkie saw it. “There.”

“Where?”

Rolling her eyes, Pinkie pushed Milo aside gently. Then, with only a moment’s hesitation, pressed the area behind the books that was slightly lighter in color. There was a spring release as the panel swung open to reveal a hoof-slider similar to one that would be installed on a closet. Milo’s magic enveloped the shelf and it slid aside. 

They both held their breaths. Behind the case was a small walk-in closet absolutely bursting with newspaper clippings, folders, pictures connected by string, names, numbers, and writing on every square inch of wall space. 

Milo sunk to his knees. “It’s all here. All of it.”

Pinkie was surprised to see the tears dripping from his cheeks. “You okay, Milo?”

“Yes, sorry . . . it’s just . . . I’ve been looking for a break like this for years, Pinkie. I’ve spent my life trying to put Storm Scribe behind bars.”

“Seriously?” Pinkie had to admire that level of dedication, even if she could not quite understand it. “Wh—”

“Let’s get started, shall we? There’s a lot to log . . . ”





In her short time as a secretary, Pinkie had grown to appreciate data. Not in the sense that she loved it, but rather in that she could see the importance of it.  That being said, spending hours lying on a hardwood floor reading page after page of Mr. Scribe’s rather sloppy notes—by his standards at least—was hard even on her. The hours ticked by. Or was it minutes? Mr. Scribe’s poem had been a surprisingly accurate summary of what it felt like to stay in the apartment for long. 

As she tired, Milo’s fervor only increased. Finally, Pinkie surrendered to exhaustion, making her way to Mr. Scribe’s bed. It had been an exhausting day. She needed sleep. 

Curling up on the stallion’s bed might have been incredibly awkward for her at another time, but now it felt wonderful. The sheets held a distinct, earthy smell that was not at all unpleasant. In fact, it was quite . . . nice really. Soothing. It reminded her of her own family, she supposed. 

Just as she was about to drift off, Milo strode in looking worried. “Pinkie? Are you okay?”

“Mmmhmm. Just sleepy.”

“Well, we have been at it for a while now.”  He sat gingerly on the corner of the bed. 

“Why?”

“Why what, Pinkie?”

“Why are you doing this for him? I mean . . . you’re supposed to be the best prosecuting attorney, aren’t you? Why risk everything for The Boss?”

Milo gave a long, heavy sigh. “I guess you can say that for me it’s personal.”

“Personal? Did Storm Scribe hurt your family too?”

He gritted his teeth. “Yes, however . . . I think I hurt it every bit as bad.”

Now she was just confused. 

Apparently, Milo noticed because he continued in a soft, almost fatherly tone. “I have quite the history with the Scribes and plenty of reason to help Rory out. It’s far more important to me than my career, Pinkie. It always should have been. But I was too selfish to see.” 

After a short pause, he looked searchingly into her eyes. “I could tell you the story. That is, if you promise to listen and . .  . not to judge.”

Pinkie’s ears perked up. Tired as she was, she could not pass up a story, particularly one of this magnitude. Would she finally get some answers regarding this whole mess? She hoped so. Either way, this long night was about to get much, much longer. 


> The Desert Soul
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

[This chapter contains strong language and mature themes. Reader discretion is advised.]





Milo had rarely felt so trapped; as if the combined weight of his wrongdoings had finally come to a head. The only way to release the pressure? Talk. Talk like he had not done for year. Perhaps then he could find some relief from the nightmares that plagued him. 

He looked into the child’s eyes—patient, understanding. After a long breath, he spoke in a hoarse whisper, “Rory’s condition—this damn case . . . it’s all my fault."

Panic flickered across her face before being replaced with that celestial patience once more. “Milo, I don’t think—”

“Let me speak! Please.” Before I lose the strength. “I know Starlight—Rory’s mother,” he added as an aside, “for many years before Rory was born. Back then she was a different mare. She had that spark, you know?” He closed his eyes, allowing the memory to take hold. “A spark that never should have gone out . . .” 





“Milooooo!” 

Milo Coltfax turned his ears to the culprit disturbing his study of Business Law texts. Sure enough, Starlight appeared, coat glistening like molten gold in the glaring summer sun. Milo involuntarily caught his breath. “Ye-yes?”

Starlight giggled, lying down across from him on the grass. “Ye-yes?” she mimicked in that all-too playful manner of hers. “I came to drag you back to the present.” With a flourish, she whipped open her saddlebags and withdrew a neatly folded brochure. “Es Voila!” 

Milo drew the brochure closer.


‘Runway like you’ve never seen before. Aspiring young models will display their talents at the biggest event of the season. Don’t miss out! Book your company’s slot today.’


He scanned the names at the bottom of the brochure, feeling his heart skip a beat when he caught it. 


‘Starlight Streak’


“You got in!” Without really thinking about it, he gave her a quick hug. Her body tensed for only an instant before she relaxed. 

“Yes, well, I have been practicing for ages, Milo.” Uncertainty washed over her delicate features.

Milo brushed away her forelock gently with a hoof. “You’ll do great,” he whispered. “You always do.”

“I know, it’s just—” Her attention drifted towards the campus art department’s building. “It’s a collab effort. Spice is designing my dress.”

A mental image of the plump, cheery mare came into focus. She might not be a looker, but she was honest and talented. “She’ll do fine, Starlight.”

“What if she makes me some Little House on the Prairie outfit or something?” Starlight moaned, burying her face into her hooves. “This is my big debut!”

There she goes again. “Starlight, if I told you once, I told you a thousand times, it’s not always about you. Think about Spice. It’s her debut too. I’m sure she’ll do her best.”

“And what if her best isn’t good enough, what then, hmmm?”

Milo cringed, grateful that Starlight wasn’t running the department. “Then I’ll help you find another venue.” He patted her head, “Don’t worry. You’ll be Manehattan’s shining star in no time.”

She giggled, burrowing her face into his chest. “I’m holding you to it, tiger.”






Two weeks later . . . 


Milo did not know what to expect. A call? The cold shoulder? An ambush the evening after with a complete—and boring—rundown? Yes, probably that. But nothing. Absolutely nothing. Whenever he tried to visit Starlight at her dorm, she would call “Busy!” And just like that, he would leave. 

He saw her a few times on the way to class, but again, she was always in a rush. What for? Her debut must have gone well, or she would have ranted about it to him. At least, he hoped it went well. Milo glanced around at the darkened halls, hoping she would appear like always. Out of habit rather than common sense, he staggered towards the design department. Maybe she was checking up on her latest outfit? 

He followed the narrow sliver of light at the end of the hall. Cautiously, he enveloped the handle in his magic and pushed the door open. “Starlight?”

There was a soft squeak then a cinnamon blur shot up from behind a nearby pile of fabric. He chuckled at the round-faced pegasus fluttering just above the chaos. “Spice? What are you doing here so late?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” she squeaked, landing clumsily in front of him. She blew a strand of curly blonde mane out of her eyes. “Sooooo, looking for Starlight?”

“How did you know?” he drawled playfully, glancing around the room. Chaos did not even cut it. How anypony moved let alone worked in here was beyond him. “I haven’t seen her in almost two weeks. How is she?”

“She um . . . I mean she’s . . .” Spice bit her lip, prancing in place. 

“Oh come on! You’re her roommate, surely she said something to you.”

“Well yes but,” her voice lowered until it was barely audible, “I don’t think you’ll like it.”

“What?” His blood ran cold. What? What wouldn’t he like? “Tell me! Please,” he added on as an afterthought. 

“At the debut Starlight me-met this stallion. He’s a business pony. Youngest CEO of Scribe Incorporated’s history. And well . . . Starlight told me he was her ‘ticket’ or something like that.” 

Milo staggered backwards, toppling over the nearest pile of supplies. No . . . no. Deep down he knew this would happen, knew it from the start. But he also knew her dignity would weigh out over desire for fame and she would come back to him. It just hurt. Milo lowered his ears, backing out of the room. “Thank you, Spice. I guess I’ll be going now.”

“Wait! I—you . . . would you like to stay a while?” Spice stammered, looking down at the ground. 

Perfect. He would give Starlight a piece of her own medicine. Then he’d have the ammunition when she came crawling back to him. I just have to play my cards right. 





Milo settled onto the foot of the bed, avoiding eye-contact with Pinkie. “I was an idiot back then, Pinkie.”

“You were young,” she said gently, taking a swig from the pitcher beside the bed. “I don’t think that makes you a bad pony, Milo.”

“Well now, missy. You haven’t heard the whole story.” Gritting his teeth, he managed to continue. “Once Starlight started chasing after Storm Scribe, she changed and not for the best. She used to love her modeling, but she was slowly becoming obsessed with it. She stopped talking to me or Spice and that . . . that opened up the doors for other issues.

Spice was a nice mare. I guess you could call her ‘homely.’ I never really loved her, and I still don’t. I kept stringing her along in the hopes Starlight would get jealous, but she never did. We graduated, and I kept dating Spice. 

After some time, I decided I might was well marry her.”

“That was it?” Pinkie’s eyes grew wide. “You ‘might as well marry her?’ What about love or—or passion?”

Milo shook his head. “It really was more out of obligation, Pinkie. I had been stringing her along so long, it felt horrid to just drop her there. Besides, at that time, Starlight was moving up in the ranks. I couldn’t get her attention, so I settled for Spice’s.”

He fidgeted with the worn cover, wondering. “Maybe I was lonely too. I don’t know. It was a long time ago, Pinkie . . .”

She only nodded, looking down at her hooves.

“After I married Spice, I started to hear about Storm Scribe. He’s notorious in the legal circle and not for anything good. I decided I would warn Starlight. That . . . that didn’t go so well.” 





Milo felt as if he had been drug out of a frigid river and asked to stand trial the next instant. In a way, he supposed it was true. A trial with an utterly unfeeling jury. He raised his hoof tapping it lightly against the polished wood. A few years ago, visiting Starlight—his Starlight in such a place would have set his heart alight. Now it dug like a dull knife in a wound. 

“Starlight? I know you’re home.” 

Silence then, “So you’ve tracked down my schedule again. Typical,” she spat. From the sound of her voice, she was just on the other side of the door. 

“Can we talk?”

“I’ve got a meeting.”

“At four. Come on. I didn’t walk all this way in the rain to talk through a damn door.”

Amber light surrounded the handle before the door swung gently open. Starlight’s less than amused face greeted him. Milo had to catch his breath at the sight. She did not glow, but radiated light from the impossibly smooth hairs gracing her delicate frame. And yet, Milo had never seen the mare so ugly. The eyes, he reflected dully. The spark had intensified—not with kindness, but rather like the keen edge of a knife. 

Starlight glided over to a lounge, sprawling out like an empress taking audience.

Milo sat across from her on the over-stuffed ottoman. Their heavy silence grew until he thought it might snap from the tension. 

At long last, Starlight spoke in a rather off-hoof manner. “How is she?”

“Wh-who?” he stammered stupidly.

She rolled her eyes, pointing to the ring on his horn. “The wife.” 

Milo bit his lip. “Like you give a damn.”

“My my! Forgetting common courtesy as always I see.” She levitated a glass of lemonade to her lips, sipping daintily. “I hear she’s hoping for a foal.”

“Fat chance of that.”

The corner of Starlight’s mouth turned upwards in an intrigued manner. “As I thought. You or her?”

Milo bristled, but relented under her withering glare. “Both . . .”

Starlight gave a false laugh that set his skin crawling. The one she vowed never to use on him again. “To think you’d be the kind of husband to slip birth control to his wife while she’s taking fertility drugs! How delightful. Do you put it in her morning scone? That cow could never resist—”

“Shut the hell up! You don’t know a damn about it.”

“Please. I’ve become quite the master of this game of yours, Milo. A bat of the eye here, a pleasant comment there . . . why I’m sure we could snag just about any pony in our webs if we tried hard enough. Though your choice of targets leaves much to be desired. I very much doubt the dowry was anything to sniff at.”

“It’s not always about the money.”

“Oh my mistake!” Despite the clear lack of mirth in her laugh, it grabbed at him in a way Spice’s never could. “Pity is it?” 

Milo gritted his teeth. “Obligation,” he breathed.

“Please, you don’t owe anything to the likes of her. Live for yourself, Milo, because nopony else will.” 

“Speaking of . . .” Milo levitated the envelope from his saddlebags, placing them on the coffee table. “If you’re really looking out for yourself, I suggest you find another golden egg. This one’s more of a sword.”

Milo waited, watching as Starlight scanned the documents. “I think you’re wrong there, Milo.” A wicked snarl marred her once sublime features. “This one’s definitely a wolf.” 

Milo shot to his hooves, overturning the table. “Quit fucking around, Starlight! He’s bad news. You want to die?”

“Please.” She snorted. “As if he’d have the balls.”

Milo kicked the wall with enough force to set her cringing. “He’s killed before, Starlight. He’ll do it again because he doesn’t feel—not love, not respect for life. Nothing! He’s fucked up, Starlight. Get the hell away from him!”

Starlight rose, pinning her ears. “If you’re so infallible, then you fight him off me! ‘The good always triumph,’ isn’t that what you always say? Or are you so attached to that bitch that you wouldn’t dare try?”  

“I won’t listen to this.” Milo strode to the door, not bothering to look behind him. “It’s your funeral . . .”





Milo closed his eyes, fighting the inevitable tears that threatened to break through his stoic persona. “Sorry, Pinkie . . . I know this is a lot.”

“It’s . . . it’s okay, Milo.” Her voice sounded strained now, as if fighting the urge to speak her mind. “Sooo, what happened next?”

“She went for it. Finally got the money, fame, and status she craved since we were kids in school. But, it came at a price. Only took her two years being married to him to figure that out. When it all came down, she ran to me. Just like always. And,” he took a long, deep breath, “just like a thousand times before, I couldn’t say no . . .” 





Milo never felt quite as liberated as when Spice went on her summer visit. Each year like clockwork, she took a month off to visit the extended family. It presented the perfect opportunity to play catch up on legal obligations and to stop taking the pills that made his head swim. 

He settled down amidst the pile of paperwork—a master in his element. These cases would be cleared in a matter of days or his name wasn’t Milo Colftax. Just as the thought crossed his mind, the door swung open with a brilliant amber glow. Starlight? His heart stopped as the mare staggered inside. 

How long had it been since he had seen her in this state? Ten years or more . . . The perpetual air of confidence had vanished along with any clothing. Here in his entryway stood the real Starlight. He had strode over to her before he could quite register his hooves taking him there. “Starlight? Wha—what are you doing here?”

“I came to see you,” she breathed softly, actually nuzzling him under the chin. 

Milo was certain a visible shiver had run through his body at that instant. The contact he had only dreamt about for years now. He instinctively returned the gesture. “I appreciate your leaving the get-up behind.”

She giggled softly—naturally he noted with satisfaction. “I guess.” 

Reality finally kicked Milo in the rump as he noted the goddess in his run-down shack of an apartment. “What are you doing here, Starlight?”

“Hmmm? What, I can’t visit an old friend every once in awhile?”

“If you were the type to visit ‘old friends,’ you would have done it a hell of a lot earlier. You came here when you knew Spice wasn’t home . . . what gives?”

The cold, sickening quality returned to her eyes in an instant. “Storm.”

“Oh? You’re just now realizing? I told you about him years ago, Star!”

She stamped her hoof, avoiding his gaze. “That I can can deal with this however . . . He only just started this.”

“This?” Milo felt his gut twist. “What?”

“He’s got it into his head that he wants one.” 

“One what?” 

Starlight sighed, flicking her tail across his rump. “You of all ponies should know about that, Milo. I’m sure Spice hasn’t given up.” 

“So he wants a foal . . . big deal.” Though he had to admit, Starlight was the last mare in Equestria to fall into the category of mother figure. “It’s the price you paid when you married that bastard.” 

“It’s not that simple,” she ground out. Her eyes focused on the carpet’s nearest stain. “He kept trying and trying, so I decided to pull for some answers. Took a few months, but I finally squeezed it out of one of them.”

Milo raised his eyebrow. 

“Turns out Storm can’t have foals. He’s sterile. Of course none of the doctors are stupid enough to tell him that, so they make up bullshit and pass it off to him.”

“Your point?”

Starlight raised her head, staring coldly into his eyes. “Isn’t it obvious? He blames me! Every damn night he forces me to—to . . .” Tears rolled down her cheeks. “I’m tired of it, Milo. Sick and tired of it.”

Milo felt a momentary twinge of empathy for the mare. “Starlight . . . you can still leave him. I’ve got family in Neighjersey. I could call in a few favors and—”

“No! I can’t, Milo! Not when I’m so close. I’m the top model in Manehattan. I’ve got hordes of mares lining up to work for me. I’ve started my own fashion line. It’s a dream come true!”

“And how much is that dream worth?”

He saw the answer in her eyes, it did not take him to see it. “What do you want?” he managed softly. 

“You know.”

“I want you to say it, Starlight! Tell it to me straight or you can go to hell.”

A shy air came over her, one he had not seen since their days in high school—a faint glimpse of the real Starlight. It broke his heart. “I . . . you . . . you’re a unicorn. I’m a unicorn. I thought, maybe . . . if we,” she gulped, looking down at the floor, “if you would father the foal then Storm would be none the wiser.”

“So I’m just a stud to you, is that it?”

Starlight shook her head. “No! You’re the only one—the only one I’d ask, Milo! Please . . . It has to be you.”

It took only a second’s thought. “Fine. But not here . . .”





Pinkie’s gasp broke his narrative in an instant. He turned to see the horror in her eyes as she lept off the bed. “No no no no no! It can’t be! You’re lying. Why would you? You’re the good pony!”

“Pinkie . . . surely you’ve learned by now that there’s no such thing as a ‘good’ pony.” 

She shook her head, snorting. “No! There’s always a good pony.” He could see the conviction burned into her eyes. “You’re . . .” There was a soft thud as her knees hit the chipped floorboards. “I trusted you.”

“What? To be honest? I have been.”

“But it—it hurts! Why does it always hurt?”

“I don’t . . . don’t know, Pinkie. I wish to Celestia I did, but I don’t.” 

He waited for her to regain some composure. After what must have been ten minutes of silence, she returned to her position on the bed. “What happened next? Did you—did you try to take him away?”

Milo sighed, fighting the bile in his throat. “No—no. Starlight . . . she wouldn’t let me near him. Didn’t want to risk it.”

“‘Risk it?’ He’s your son, isn’t he? What kind of father leaves their son to the likes of that?”

What kind indeed . . . It took all his remaining courage to speak up again. “I didn’t know about the abuse, Pinkie. If I had, nothing would have stopped me from taking him back with me.” 

“You should have noticed the leg at least!”

“I wasn’t in Manehattan at the time, Pinkie! I . . . had been chased out by then. Surely Rory told you about that.” 

“No-No . . . I heard rumors but . . . what happened?”

“Storm decided he’d had enough. Decided the best way to silence me for good was to play me at my own game. I lost big time. Nearly cost Spice’s family their living in the process. We divorced after that. I got into the booze and left for greener pastures. If I hadn’t met Quill . . . well, that’s for another time.”

He got to his hooves, stepping back towards the living room. “I’m going to fix this, Pinkie. I swear on what’s left of my miserable existence I’ll save him.”

“You could have saved him before,” she snapped.

 “I . . . failed, Pinkie. But I won’t again. Let me act like a father just this once.”

She eyed him for a moment before her lips parted in a weak smile. “Sure, Milo. But promise me you’ll tell him after, mmmkay?”

“I promise.” It’s all I can do for now . . . 





> The Counterweight
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Milo Coltfax, ace prosecuting attorney and chief of cowards sat in the claustrophobic closet praying for a miracle. Hundreds of data points, files, clippings—the internal machinations of a genius. The pattern long lost in the intricate web Rory had woven. Milo groaned, checking the yellowing clock resting against one of the folders. Nine o’clock. The only indication that night had long fled. If they did not get something by two . . .

He shook his head, levitating yet another notebook. Numbers. All numbers. How in the hell was that supposed to be helpful? 

“Sorry,” a soft voice in his ear startled him for the briefest of instants before he registered its owner. 

“It’s alright, Pinkie. I very much doubt you’d be able to wade through all this.” 

Pinkie nodded slowly, contemplatively. “Find anything?”

“Hardly.” Milo loathed to admit it, but his son had long since surpassed his modest intelligence. “I can’t read it.”

“Huh? Is it in another language or something?”

“No-no,” he choked, pawing at the folders littering the floorboards, “I need the key.”

“Key?” Pinkie gave a hollow chuckle. “Well, it’s just paper, Milo.”

“No, it’s a code, Pinkie! If we don’t crack it then-then it’s all over.” I’ll have failed him again.

Pinkie lay down across from him, scooping up the notebook of numbers.

What are you doing? Reluctantly, he grabbed a notebook full of names and isolated sentences with no connection to the others. Maybe a miracle would occur and he’d be able to use some of it. 

They had only been reading for about ten minutes when Pinkie gasped loudly. “That’s it! I figured it out, Milo.”

Doubtful. Still, he levitated her number book closer. “Really?”

“Yup! We use this code all the time as secretaries. Well, as the Boss’ secretaries. Dunno about others. Every one of Mr. Scribe’s acquaintances has a number. He made a code for us to give to him whenever something came up. And I’d have to record the code.”

“Hmmm?” It made sense Rory would be cautious, but this? It seemed a little extreme. He pointed to a line so Pinkie could see it. 


‘12-1-20.0’ 


“What’s this mean then?”

“L.A. That’s Long Arm he’s a cop. 20.0 hmmm . . . Twenty means that he got some unauthorized money from the company and the point zero means he’s not a threat anymore.”

“Really?”

“Mmmhmm. The Boss is always making me write down stuff like that. Says he doesn’t want anypony to understand our system. Even if they can figure out the initials, they won’t figure out the next numbers.”

Hope sparked anew in Milo’s chest. “Pinkie, I need you to write out all of what this says while I take a second look at these journals. There’s likely a correlation between the two.”

“Er . . . okay.” Pinkie grabbed a pen and began to write furiously into the notebook. 

Milo chuckled to himself.  Almost as fast as Quill. Maybe they could scrape something together by two after all.





For once in her life, Quill felt entirely drained of alternatives. Nothing her sleep-deprived mind conjured up had yielded results. At best, they were ultimatums at worst . . . She shook her head, trying to clear out the fog. Her eyes tracked the symbol on the chipped door. Storm’s love note.

Nopony in Manehatten would be stupid enough to mess with a pony whose door had that on it. It meant quite clearly that anypony caught so much as stopping in for a social call would be on Storm’s black list. And nopony anywhere wanted that looming over their family and friends.

Reluctantly, she pushed it open, entering the near pitch black room. A faint light from a closet revealed where they had wandered to. “Milo?”

Milo’s head poked around the doorframe, greying mane sticking up at so many angles it might have been in the modern art exhibit. “Quill,” he grated, voice obviously strained from hours of muttering to himself. 

Celestia he never changes. Quill strode cautiously over to him, eying the conglomeration of papers, files, maps, photographs, and news clippings peppering the floor of the closet. Spotting a pink spot in the midst of the chaos, she nodded. “Pinkie.”

Pinkie did not look up, eyes set in a determined expression even she could be proud of. The girl needed to focus. Instead, she turned to Milo, keeping her voice low, “Well? Any leads?”

Milo gave a wicked, confident grin she had not seen him don in months. It melted away the anxiety in an instant.

Quill only smiled. “Will it be ready in time?”

“Depends,” Milo murmured, smile shattering in an instant. 

“On what?”

A long, drawn out silence followed her words. Finally, Milo choked out a single word, “Her.”

Quill felt her temper boil up into a tempest. “What does that bitch have anything to do with it?” 

“Sadly, everything . . .” Milo sighed, getting weakly to his hooves. His gaze flickered towards Pinkie and the papers. “It’ll take some time to go through this. More than we’ve got. We need something to . . . well, start us off.” 

“Oh, Milo . . . What makes you think she’ll testify to anything?”

“He’s her son.”

Quill stamped her hoof hard, sending up a cloud of dust from the aged floorboards. “And we’ve all seen how she treats her child! Honestly, Milo! She could care less about that boy. In fact, she’s probably pleased he’ll be locked up.”

“She isn’t happy at all, Quill! Dammit, she’s never been happy with Storm Scribe. Can’t you see?” Milo rubbed his hoof against his temple. “She’s nothing more than a songbird in a gilded cage . . . She loathes Storm. Storm’s abused her and—and . . . I should have taken her away. Forced her to leave with me and Rory . . .”

“It’s in the past, Milo,” Quill soothed, resting a hoof across his withers. “Still, you think that her hatred of Storm is enough to overcome her fear of him? He’s a madpony! He’ll kill her if we slip up.” Not that I care, but you will . . . 

“We won’t slip up, Quill. Not this time. We’ve got the evidence! Combined with Starlight’s testimony, why, it’s irrefutable.”

Quill snorted. “And I suppose we’ll skip over those tiny details about Rory’s abuse then?”

Milo grimaced, looking down. “That’s up to him to decide. It’s . . . you’ve seen how personal it is for him. After this is over and I get him to a hospital then, then we’ll see . . .”

“It’s always later with you!” Still, she had to admit, it would be best not to bring up the abuse until after the mess with the blackmail had been sorted out. 

Milo started towards the door. “Stay with Pinkie. Make sure you’re both there for the trial at two. I’ll need your support.”

“And where—” She did not need to say anything else, his eyes said it all too clearly. “Be careful.”

Milo gave one slow nod then strode out the door. Quill stood rooted to the spot, allowing the implications of their conversation to take hold. Finally they had a chance, but its success hinged on the one pony in Equestria neither of them wanted anything to do with. And how would Rory feel knowing the mare who hated him would testify to save him? If she testified . . .

Pinkie’s hoofsteps behind her made her start. She looked towards the door, then into her eyes. “He’s gone to get her then?”

“Mmhmm.”

“She’ll buy us some time?”

“That’s . . . that’s the hope.” Then realization struck her like a punch to the gut. They had been discussing Milo’s greatest secret right in front of Pinkie. Curse my tongue! “Pinkie, about Starlight and Milo—”

“It’s okay, Quill. Milo told me last night.” The words came stiff, as if she had resolved to say nothing further on the matter. “Let’s just . . . let’s just get to work, okay?”

Quill could only nod. Please, Milo. Please convince her! 

> The Choice
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Something could be said about Manehatten in the early dawn. The city, never having slumbered dragged itself up from its stupor and prepared for another hard day’s pull. Milo strode down the sidewalk, barely glancing at the street vendors setting up their stalls, the cabbies, polishing their carriages, or the police hooves starting their morning patrols. His whole mind, body, and nerve focused entirely on her. The one pony in all of Equestria that might spare his son from an undue fate.

He forced himself into a trot before his resolve could waver. That and the trial’s last day was today. If they did not gather the evidence—he shuddered to think what might happen.

Finally he slid to a stop outside the gilded palace that made up Starlight’s studio. Inside he felt as much as saw the air of arrogance all around him. Everywhere he looked were Starlight’s designs, photos of Starlight in her glory days, Starlight smiling with donors, and even one beside Storm Scribe himself. All a bitter kick to the gut for Milo.

He strode past the reception pony, straight towards Starlight’s personal office. The mare tried to stop him, but he shoved her aside in his magic. “I don’t need an appointment,” he growled to her before slamming open Starlight’s door with all the subtlety she so richly deserved.

“Good Celestia, what?!” Starlight lay on a chaise lounge, eyes flashing with impatience. The instant she saw Milo, her stare turned stony. “What are you doing here?” She snarled icily.

“I wonder,” he drawled sarcastically.

“I don’t give a damn what you want, Milo. It isn’t happening.” Starlight huffed, trying to hide something underneath her magazine pile but she wasn’t fast enough. Milo quickly levitated the newspaper out and held it in her face. “Don’t give a damn, eh?”

Starlight thrust it out of his magical grasp, tossing it to the floor. “And that’s proof is it?”

“Enough for me.” Milo strode forward, lowering his head to meet Starlight’s eyes. The eyes he once thought so full of love were tainted with rage, anger, and—guilt?

“Leave, Milo, you aren’t welcome.”

“Was I ever?”

She snarled a curse under her breath. “Dammit, I don’t have time for you!”

“Don’t have time?! Don’t have time?” Milo felt his voice crack under the stress, frustration, and sorrow filling his heart. “Our child is going to be convicted of a crime he didn’t commit today unless we do something now!”

“Shut up!” Starlight flung the curtains closed bathing the room in half-shadow. “Do you want him to find out?”

“If it saves Rory, then by Celestia I want him to find out this second.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Milo,” Starlight hissed, glancing toward the covered window. “He’ll kill you.”

“Not if we take him down first, Star.”

Starlight flinched at the pet name. “As if we could take him down, Milo. Don’t you think I’ve tried? I’ve tried for years.”

“We’ve got evidence.”

She snorted. “‘Evidence.’ Milo Coltfax you of all stallions know that would disintegrate in court.”

“Would it? Rory’s been working, Star. Working harder than I could even have hoped. He’s got it, Star. All we need is more time to put it together.”

“And how should we get that? Hmmm?”

“You testify,” Milo breathed, staring into Star’s eyes, pleading. Surely she of all ponies could see the need for it. “Tell them what happen—”

“No!” She rocketed to her hooves so fast the table upturned. “No!” she screamed, backing away from him as if he were wielding a knife.

“So you’d rather him live out a life of misery and pain to go with the years of it you gave him? If ever there was a chance for you—us to make amends it’s now, Star.”

“No,” she moaned, sinking to her knees. “It would ruin me.”

“It already has,” he snapped bitterly. “After what you did to our child I’d just as well see you rot in Tartarus with Storm as your only company.” He took a long, slow breath. “But that is not happening, not yet. Testify, Starlight and he’ll never bother you again.”


“You know, Milo, I did think about it once.”

“About what? Testifying?”

She shook her head, looking into his eyes for a fleeting moment. “About taking him and running back to you. Pathetic, isn’t it?”

Milo’s blood ran cold. This had not been what he had expected. “You thought about it?” He breathed. “When?”

“After Storm—storm broke Rory’s leg. I told myself I’d come back to your side, told it to myself for a whole day. Then it dawned on me, Milo.”

“What is that?”

“That you and I were never meant to be together. Rory was never to know his real father, and Storm? Storm was always in control.”

Milo gritted his teeth until his entire jaw ached. “Sorry you feel that way,” he ground out.

Starlight stood then, walking slowly towards a small ring chest. With a soft click in her magic, it opened. She withdrew a silver key. “But, if you wish to test the devil, do not say I didn’t warn you.” In a swift movement, she tossed the key towards him.

He caught it, staring at her dumbfounded.

“Twenty-three-thirty-six east carbon street. You’ll find a storage unit there under the name Julian Citron. Open it, your precious evidence will be inside.”

“It will mean nothing without . . .”

Starlight glared at him for a long, hard moment before speaking, “I will be there, Milo.”

“Why?”

“Consider it a long belated gift to the father of my child. Besides,” her voice took on a predatory edge, “I’m looking forward to seeing the look on that bastard’s face when we catch him at his own game.”

Without another word, Milo whirled around and galloped out of the building. Not enough time. Could they even hope to make it?