“Journalism can never be silent: That is its greatest virtue and its greatest fault.”
-Henry Anatole Grunwald
Sketch took another look at the old business card.
Personal - 4398 E Capricot
He put it back into his bag and stared at the plain-looking house. It wasn’t much of a house, as it was more of a condo. A cookie cutter building attached to a multitude of buildings on the same street. It was all almost... unsettling. Somehow, Syntax’s building somehow looked more the same than everyone else’s, if that were possible. Sketch took a long, deep breath, grabbing.the basket he had brought with him with his flickering magic.
It had been three days since the incident. He and Trust had only seen each other for a few minutes a day, and that already had him a bit unhinged. She kept saying she was working on something. It was just as well, since he had been in bed for most of the days, and his parents kept barging in to check on him. He hadn’t seen Royal at all during that time, either.
But despite Syntax having everything she needed, he didn’t see his face in the paper that monday. Or tuesday. Now, he respected the length of time required to write a piece, but he couldn’t understand why someone like Syntax wouldn’t be writing twelve hours a day to get something like that out. Sketch could only hope that it was Syntax’s dry, withering conscience squeezing a few more drops of empathy before it completely died out.
He expelled the air from his lungs, the slight pull from his sore muscles reminding him of the events of a few nights before. He had been contemplating this for a while, and had convinced himself it wasn’t worth it quite a few times, but the final nail in the coffin was reading the small article in the paper about the skyrail malfunctioning. No casualties, the paper said. That was somewhat due in part, no matter how small her role, Syntax’s actions. She had stopped him from being a puddle of stallion on the floor during the incident.
Sketch finally had the opportunity to go back on the offensive. She was on the ropes now, and he had to capitalize before the match ended.
He walked up the steps of the solid white building, and brought his hoof to the door.
Knock, knock, knock...
During the inevitable pause as Syntax probably approached the door, Sketch stepped off to the side, out of the peephole cone of vision. There was some finagling at the door as locks became unlatched. The door opened slightly, where Syntax’s face appeared. Her usually neatly piled mane was disheveled and curly, and she had dark rings under her eyes.
“Hi,” Sketch greeted, perhaps a little too casually. Syntax’s eyes widened, and she slammed the door close. “Wait! he exclaimed, attempting to catch the door. He was a bit too slow, however, and the door remained shut. “Syntax, I just want to talk! I know that it’s tough to believe right now, but I don’t hate you. Don’t just disappear from my life, Syntax. Not after everything that happened...”
Sketch choked on a mirthless laugh. “I brought you some tomatoes!” he singed, as he shook the basket as if it were bait. There was a pause as if the door itself was contemplating the offer. With comedic timing, the door opened slightly again, and Syntax stuck her muzzle out a small amount. She eyed the basket, and then Sketch, who shared a boyish smile. She closed the door again, where the sound of another latch resonated. It weakly swung open, with Syntax absent from the frame. Sketch looked around to see if anyone was watching before approaching the doorway. He slowly opened the door as if it were booby-trapped, and took a solitary step inside. He was greeted with a healthy crunch from some broken ceramics on the floor, which nearly made him jump from his skin. He quickly looked around, seeing pieces of broken vases and glass all over the floor in sporadic patterns. The amount of intact furniture around the house suggested that the broken pieces were an uncommon occurrence. Perhaps Syntax had broken them on purpose.
The lack of decoration in the main room was unsettling. It had no theme or reason, it was just... empty. His eye caught Syntax in the equally plain kitchen, opening the fridge and pouring herself a glass of tomato juice. He had to refrain from wincing in disgust.
“What are you doing here, boy?” she asked, her usual derogatory inflection on the word ‘boy’ absent. “Here to threaten me like your griffin friend?”
“I know you don’t believe that, Syntax.” Sketch looked around for a place to sit, which was surprisingly lacking. There was a loveseat in the corner facing the center, along with a creepy table and chair in the direct center of the room, in front of a window. She must have had some sort of ritual for writing, which would explain the odd setup.
“Now you know what I believe, is that right?” she scoffed, slamming the fridge and having the glasses sitting on top of it shake. “You know that nothing you can say will destroy that photo, right?”
“Syntax, I don’t want to talk about that, really.” He offered a weak grin along with a shrug. “I just wanted to be sure you were okay.”
She averted her gaze as he said that, bringing the glass to her lips as she did so. “Well, I’m fine,” she said, locking eyes with Sketch yet again. “Thanks for asking,” she sarcastically finished, squinting her eyes and turning away again.
Sketch frowned, upset with her hesitation to play ball. All he wanted to do was check up on her, and she was making that unnecessarily difficult. Well that was a bit of a lie, but he really did stop caring about the picture she took. He just wanted to understand why she does the things she does. “Syntax...”
“Stop saying my name,” she ordered flatly, staring at him with one eye, the other hidden behind her bangs. This is when something rather surprising came to mind.
“Wait a second... weren’t you wearing glasses when we first met?”
Syntax’s eyes shot open, displacing some of the hair that was hanging in front of her face. She turned around with her cheeks puffed out. “N... No.”
“Yeah, you were. Those like, thick-rimmed-”
“No.” she firmly said again. “No I wasn’t.”
Sketch blinked a few times, turning away and looking out the window. “O... kay,” he conceded, letting her believe whatever she wanted to believe. “Whatever you say.”
“Why are you here, Sketchy?” she asked sharply, employing his nickname once more, setting her glass down with gusto. Sketch didn’t react to her intimidation method, content on silently staring at her in response. She continued after his silence. “What do you hope to accomplish?”
“What I always had, Syntax. I want to learn the real you.”
“You’ve seen the real me, boy,” she quickly replied. “The real me doesn’t give two shits about you or anypony else. The real me sells out ponies that think they’re her friend for a quick buck. And you don’t care about the real me, just the facade I show you. Because that’s what the facade is for: to disarm you.”
“I know that’s not true, Syntax,” Sketch denied, shaking his head sagely.
“Who do you think the real me is, Sketch? What do you think you know about me?” she dared, squinting her eyes, only one visible through the hair stuck to her face.
“Well,” he started. “for one, I know you love tomatoes.”
She rose her brow in a ‘That’s it?’ gesture. Sketch got up and started to approach her. “I know you snort when you laugh. Like, really laugh.”
She reflexively reached for her mouth, a slight red showing through her already rust colored fur. It looked like even she hadn’t noticed that.
“I know that you’re frustrated... considering you’re completely trashing your apartment and...” he eyed two indentations in the wall behind a conspicuous looking poster. “Punching holes in the wall...” He adjusted himself and took a deep breath.
“I know that you’re afraid of heights. An irrational phobia,” he added, stepping up in front of her. She looked smaller now, as if she was retreating into herself. She was averting his gaze again and biting her lip. “And I know... in spite of that... you threw your fears aside to help me. You ignored the crippling fear, and saved my life.”
Syntax looked up at him while facing the ground.
“Because I know that you care about me... even though you don’t want to.” Sketch put his hoof on her shoulder as he cocked his head, and they stayed there for a few precious seconds. Syntax shook her head and brushed off his hoof, and began walking back to the kitchen.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she mocked, placing her half full glass on the counter. She began rummaging through a cupboard, probably just trying to look busy. “I was saving my story.”
“You don’t believe that.”
She froze for a second, but then continued rummaging without speaking.
Sketch sighed and walked forward, behind her. “Syntax, let’s just forget that we’re enemies for a second. I really do care about you as well. I understand that you’re separating your work and your personal feelings. I understand that, for some reason, you feel like you need to do this. So let’s just put this all aside and... play nice?”
Syntax finally stopped rummaging and placed a bottle of whisky on the counter. She poured a healthy amount into the tomato juice and left the bottle on the table. Taking a seat in front of her typewriter, she motioned towards the loveseat. “Sit. And you can have some of that whisky if that’s your thing, I’m not your mom.”
Sketch turned towards the bottle, but then shook his head. There was no need to make a fool of himself right now, even if he was curious of the taste. He obeyed her order, taking a lounging seat on the chair. “Okay.”
“Huh...” she breathed, rubbing her eyes. “I want to believe you Sketch. But I don’t.”
“But you want to. That’s good enough.”
“But I don’t,” she repeated, her gaze becoming darker. “And there is nothing you could do to change that.”
“But you want to believe,” he repeated as well, adamant that it was enough. Intent was always just as important as the action. Syntax sighed, compromising on silence. She swirled her cup around, the half thought out concoction weakly bouncing off the walls of the glass.
“Are you always this stubborn?” she asked, taking a swig of her drink.
“Only on business days,” he snickered, showing his teeth in a goofy grin. He leaned back in his seat, taking a more casual position. “You weren’t... afraid of Trust and the other batpony, were you?”
She thought for a moment, taking another swig. “...No. I would have been if I had just stumbled onto them, but it’s hard to be anything but grateful to your saviours.” She smacked her lips, the burn of alcohol no doubt tarnishing the taste of tomato. “Geezus, I can’t believe I fell for the fricken’ costume but you were shelling out at the party.”
“So... you appreciate it? You don’t think they’re dangerous or anything?”
Syntax shrugged, taking another big swig. He awaited an answer but that seemed to be it. He rested his head on his hoof while staring at her tired face. Eventually, she put an empty glass down on the floor and began rubbing her forehooves together. “Hey... when you say you care about me... you don’t mean like, romantic feelings, right?”
Sketch blinked a few times, unaware that was even on the table of possibilities. “Uh, no. I mean you’re very pretty, but...”
“Yeah, yeah,” she quickly assured, massaging her temples. “Just making sure. You’re cute, but you’re a little young. And I’m getting a little buzzed here and I just had to make sure you weren’t gonna try to make a move...”
Sketch began to chuckle and attempted to physically wave some of the tension she had created away. “No, no, you’re fine, I get it. Besides, I’m taken. I think.”
Syntax smirked a knowing smirk, eyeing him from the corner of her visage. “Ah, so you finally did it? You two were all over each other at the party, but it was painfully obvious you hadn’t made a move yet.”
Sketch scratched his eyebrow, and he felt blood rush to his face. “That obvious?”
“Very. Like a typical schoolboy.” Syntax began rubbing her shoulders as if to warm herself up. The more she went on, though, the more it seemed she was just trying to make herself feel. Her next sentence was blurted out fairly quickly, as if she had just been stalling since then. “I have to publish it, Sketch.”
His eyes widened, and he had to prop himself on the armrests, to keep him from falling over. In all this time, he hadn’t expected her to be the one to bring it up. Mouth dry, Sketch closed his eyes and nodded. “I know... I’m not going to try and stop you. I just... I just want to know why, Syntax. That’s all I ask.”
“I can’t,” she started, covering her mouth and looking away as her eyes became misty. “I can’t tell you why.... But....” She looked at him with a newfound conviction. “But maybe I could do you one better.”
He arched his brow and cocked his head. What could she mean?
As if she read his mind, she answered his question. “I’ll show you.”
Short of showing Sketch a film explaining her actions, he was thoroughly confused as to what she meant. But after eyeing the typewriter in front of him, an old piece of advice from his equish teachers repeated themselves in his head: show, don’t tell. He nodded sagely as the expression of realization dawned over him.
She took a long deep breath.
“I was young. Fresh out of High School. I knew what I wanted to do with my life, and I had the means to do it. I had an active mind, and a cheap typewriter at my side, and I felt like I could craft the best, hard hitting journalism that did not yet exist. But I was not well known, and I was the new kid on the block. I didn’t have much hope on providing for myself, nevertheless purchasing upgrades to take my work to the next level. Cameras, notepads, tape recorders, outfits... I couldn’t afford anything. But one day, I got the chance to interview a famous owner of a couple of downtown casinos in Manehattan. We hit it off so well, he refused to do interviews with anypony else. Eventually... eventually it wasn’t interviews anymore. It was dates. It felt so natural. It felt even much more natural... when he asked me to marry him. It was fast... but not fast enough to be considered irresponsible. It was as if he knew just the right time to do it. I felt it was the right time to do it.
“Unfortunately... that was when I began learning certain things... certain... specifics... about his working day. The more I learned... the closer I got to it. The dark side of him. The things he had to do to become successful, were... unmentionable. I had so much dirt on him, and I had written a few pieces about it in preparation. But I never planned to expose him. I just had it with me just in case something went awry. And the scary thing was, as much of a monster as he was... he really did love me. He did everything in his power to keep me happy and distant from his work. You always hear about these vile ponies who are capable of unspeakable atrocities and you just assume that they aren’t ponies like you or I... but they can still care. They can still love, despite it all. And I was complacent with that. I allowed it. He would never cross me, and he trusted me because of that.
“But then something awful happened. I stopped receiving letters from my parents. We didn’t leave on good terms, but my mother and father would always send me a letter on the first of each month just to check up on me. Sometimes I’d write back, sometimes I wouldn’t. But one day... they just stopped. Worried, I began to investigate... where I learned my father drowned in a boating accident. I wasn’t exactly devastated since we weren’t very close, but it still tore me up a bit. However, that was until I saw it. A manifest on my husband’s table. The name of my father’s boat as the header, and his name written in cursive along with ten other names, on a document labeled Business Expendables. In disbelief, I pulled up the incident report of my father’s boat. An eleven pony crew. Eleven. Considered an accident.
“My husband had my father killed. He probably didn’t even know. Hell if he did, he probably wouldn’t have let anybody touch him. But because of my carelessness... because of my inaction... I had my father killed.
“I published the story the next day. I couldn’t turn away as the police dragged my husband away, with tears in his eyes, asking with no malice at all why I would do that to him. That he trusted me. That he loved me. That he still loved me despite it all. But nothing would change the fact that my personal involvement got ponies killed. That it got my father killed. And I knew. That day forward, I knew that you can’t lean one way or the other, you can't stand on the line and play both sides. You have to make a decision and stick with it. You have to stick to the truth. And the truth needs no colors... it must be kept black and white. And it needs to be shared.”
Sketch had listened intently, and kept quiet after she was done. There wasn’t much to say; he asked why and she answered. It was a horrible, awful story... but it didn’t change Sketch’s decision. He had already stated he wasn’t going to try and stop her. But at least now he understood. At least now, everything became clear. At least now, Syntax was finally put to rest in his mind. She was no longer his enemy, just an obstacle, and that was all he ever wanted from her.
“I don’t know if Trust is who she says she is, or what she’s capable of. But if she truly is a monster, despite what you and I believe, despite the chance she really does care about you, and ponies get hurt because of that, I will NOT let it be my fault.” She sighed once more. “If she isn’t a monster and ponies don’t give her the chance she deserves, that would be on them, because I gave them the truth, and it was their decision to twist it.” Syntax threw her head back as if some weight had been lifted. She was content at staring at the ceiling and taking shallow, smooth breaths.
Some time passed, and Sketch exhaled sharply. “Wow. I’m sorry.”
“What’re you sorry for?” she asked, a humorless chuckle escaping her lips. “It’s not like you told my husband to be a criminal.”
“No, no,” he steadied, twirling his hoof in the air. “I mean I’m sorry I ever doubted you. You know, just assumed you were being spiteful in your actions. At least I understand now. It helps a lot... to just not assume the worst.”
“Yeah, well...” she shrugged as she got up from her seat, heading towards her kitchen after she picked up her empty glass. “I think you’d get a lot more done if you did.”
“Perhaps,” he hesitantly agreed. “But at that point I don’t think it’d be worth it.” He got up from his seat and followed Syntax. “Are you ever going to tell me the name of your ex?”
“Ha, you’d have to get me a lot drunker than this,” she joked, snorting as she laughed. She subconsciously reached for her mouth as she did, now acutely aware of her tick. “Don’t try.”
Sketch laughed in response, getting closer to Syntax as he did. He got closer and closer as she poured a moderate amount of whisky in her glass. He accidentally bumped her with his chest as he approached, sending him into a hysteric need to appear casual. Syntax arched her brow, nonplussed. “What gives?”
Sketch closed his eyes and threw his forelegs around her. She nearly dropped her glass, barely being able to set it on the table as her body rocked from his contact. She steadied herself needlessly on the counter as she gritted her teeth in misguided anger. “What-”
“I’m sorry, Syntax,” he repeated, struggling to keep tears from falling. “I’m sorry...”
As the situation settled, Syntax’s breathing steadied. Her hair was a right mess, now being displaced further by Sketch’s interference. “What do you want from me, Sketchy?” she asked with her patience running thin.
“I want you to help,” he answered.
“I told you I can’t-”
“Not as a journalist. As you, Syntax.” Sketch tightened his hug. “I want your support.”
“I...” Syntax’s face fell as she shut her eyes. “I’ll...” She bit her lip with enough force to make it bleed. The house was deadly silent, not a creak or a tick. It was just them. “I’ll do what I can.”
Sketch laughed in subtle disbelief. After a few moments, he detached and took a few steps back. “Thank you.”
She nodded, looking off to the side, not saying a word.
Sketch blew a good-natured raspberry, supporting himself on a nearby counter as the strength drained from his knees. He wasn’t expecting this to be so emotionally taxing on himself rather than Syntax. He felt like he had just navigated a minefield while hopping on one leg. “Now, I think I’ve taken enough of your time. I’ll uhh... just leave your house to you.”
Syntax reared her head in confusion. “This isn’t a house. It’s an apartment.”
“What?” He looked around the very house-looking apartment. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, I rent. Do you really think my yard would look so boring?”