//------------------------------//
// One 
// Story: Maelstrom 
// by QQwrites 
//------------------------------//

The intervening moons were what you might expect: a lot of rules and mistakes and her constant, neutral tone. Maelstrom, or Director as she preferred to be called (as much as she seemed to prefer anything), was the next-to-top-horse for the Equestrian Weather Service.

That might sound exciting: huge rooms with maps and charts with staff ponies racing to and fro. Typewriters blazing and lightning speed, all the while someone shouting vague quasi-scientific terms like, “vapor levels” and “ether meters.”

In truth, it was orderly like a library and just as quiet. The even, steady click-clack of typewriters and scribble of notes easily drowned out those few quiet conversations which managed to erupt. Sometimes a chuckle would find its way out of some poor sap’s throat—they’d be talking about it for weeks.

“You hear Sunnydale making that ruckus the other day?”

“No,” I said flatly.

“Yeah, guy can’t stop laughing about something he read in the paper.”

Small Talk is the most infectious and pervasive disease ever conceived. It bites everyone at some point or another. And when you work at the Weather Service, the taboo nature of open conversation means it’s a thousand times worse. I eyed my colleague with what I hoped was enough of a stink for him to get the message, but he kept flapping his hay-hole.

“Did you hear? There’s a new princess! Of friendship!”

“Could probably do with less of that around here,” I said, keeping my head focused on my desk.

“Whatever,” he replied in a hurt tone before moving off for more interesting prey.

There was a strange sound behind me, bordering on the familiar, but from a dangerous source. I wheeled around to find Maelstrom looming like a gargoyle over me. There was something wrong with her face, like a madman asking you to guess how he got those scars.

“Director!” I squeaked, eyes-wide and fully aware that I was unprepared. 

“Eleven o’clock, let’s get to our meeting.” The moment was gone, the unseemly vestige of a smile faded.

We walked through the halls, our hooves beating against the marble floors. I’d grown comfortable with Maelstrom’s silence. When she deigned to speak, it was like a slow cloud moving across the sky: not completely unwanted, yet threatening like the promise of rain.

“You don’t care for meaningless conversation,” she asked—or maybe it was a statement. Sometimes I wish I had a script. Then I could see the punctuation. Some stage direction wouldn’t hurt, either.

“Nothing to say, ma’am,” would be the safe, even reply. But all this neutrality was getting to me. Occasionally, she’d raise an eyebrow to tell me something alive was behind those steel blue eyes. Otherwise, it was an exercise in aloofness. I was wondering if it was all a game or a ploy: intimidation through silence. So, against my better judgement, I recklessly replied: “Most ponies don’t have anything interesting to say.”

She didn’t reply. There was nothing to add.