//------------------------------//
// Eight 
// Story: Maelstrom 
// by QQwrites 
//------------------------------//

The train compartment was a cramped, stuffy sardine can advertised as luxury accommodations. Amenities included two beds with a foldable desk between them and washroom small enough to make a claustrophobic crawl into his suitcase to get some air. The walls were paneled in a light wood, with white trim and accents. The bed linen was also white and had a distinct medicinal quality.

These quarters would be Maelstrom and my home for the next several days as we traveled to Las Pegasus. Under normal circumstances, I would find that much time with somepony grueling. But this was Maelstrom: quiet, methodical, purposeful. It may even be a vacation (whatever that was).

I’d just finished stowing our baggage when the Director entered the room. She was carrying several files, which she handed to me before flopping on the bed. She rolled on her back, a wing drooped over the side. Maelstrom had eschewed clothing in the face of the summer heat and seemed to melt contently into the bed.

“Pull the desk out and take a look at the files,” she said, motioning for me to sit across from her. I did as she asked, and placed the files in front of her.

She pushed the files back and elected to resume her reclined position. “I’ve already read them,” she said looking at the ceiling. “Take a look.”

I opened the first file. It was the dossier of a Las Pegasus local, High Roller. Among the principle information (birthday, address, blood type) was a mug shot and a list of criminal charges—no convictions. The file also listed a number of accomplices believed to be involved in various unscrupulous activities.

Corruption happens, even in the hallowed land of Equestria. Pony society isn’t violent, but it can be deceptive: those with an inclination to swindle and cheat do well preying on our big hearts, deep pockets, and naiveté.

The other files where documents on terrestrial properties throughout the Las Pegasus area. As I read through them, I noticed a common trend: they were all waterfront and owned by the same pony: High Roller.

When I closed the last file, Maelstrom turned her head on the pillow to face me: “High Roller is a real estate mogul who managed to buy up most of the fresh water in the region. The analysts say if we’re going to act on Raine’s report, we’ll need to convince him to let us siphon water from his properties.”

“I thought you told Raine that report was unactionable?” I felt a hot sweat form on my neck. I dabbed it with my handkerchief.

“Yes, I misled Raine so she won’t get involved—don’t look so surprised. Would you trust her?” She turned to face the ceiling again. “Oh, you can lose the tie. We aren’t in the office. Open the window, if you want.”

Relived, I took off my jacket and tie, placing them neatly on hangers over the bed. I cracked the window and watched the farms roll by. The train was gliding down the tracks at a comfortable speed. Baltimare was already behind us, we were steaming through the wide country which dominated Equestria.

“How are we going to convince him?” I asked, but she was already fast asleep.

I dozed that afternoon—there’s not much to do when the sun beats on you like a stampede of buffalo: you can’t run, so lay down and hope they pass over without leaving a mark. I slept fitfully and my dreams were as elusive as a cool spot on the bed.

When I finally woke, it was night and the air was much cooler. The room was dark, the window open, the moon hung silently in the sky. I could hear the steady sound of the car as it rolled along the tracks. Its soothing rhythm reminded me of a baby in a cradle, gently rocked to sleep.

Maelstrom was leaning on the desk between us, chewing on a pencil while doing a crossword. Her face was one of tired concentration, as if she’d been at it for a while but too stubborn to stop. Not wanting to interrupt, I watched silently for a time. I may have drifted back to sleep, but couldn’t be certain. After a while, she spoke up: “Thirteen letters down, starts with a ‘p’, ends in ‘s’: having a ready insight into and understanding of things.”

“Yesterday’s Baltimare Bugle?” I asked. She moved the paper to the side to look at me directly. Reading her was hard in broad daylight, let alone in the dim from the soft overhead lamp. Her blue eyes stood out in the darkness and I found myself suddenly self-aware.

“Yes.”

“’Perspicacious,’” I replied.

“I didn’t know you did the crossword,” she added after writing my answer down. “It occurs to me we don’t know a lot about each other after—what has it been?”

“Little over a year.”

She scribbled another answer in the paper before continuing: “That’s a long time to know somepony and not know they like crosswords.”

“It’s news to me, too.” I paused, thinking it over. “Crosswords aside, we aren’t exactly strangers.”

She moved the paper to meet my gaze. I decided to borrow a trick of hers and turned to face the ceiling. “You’re orderly, like things quiet and controlled. You take your coffee black, but occasionally sneak a cube of sugar when no one’s looking. You have a modest apartment, hate to cook, collect books, and love your family even though you never mention them—despite it being common knowledge you have a brother in the EWS.”

I snuck a glance over. She was still looking at me. “Is that all?” Her voice sounded distant, like she was asking from behind a solid wall.

“No,” I said, getting a little mad—I was hoping for more of a reaction. “You’ve got a big heart that you don’t let on: you genuinely care about the work we do—even the petty politics of it—and it makes you take risks like helping Raine or hiring a tramp to be your secretary. You can play the stoic better than a brick wall, but the mortar was mixed with more than stone.”

We stared at each other for a long time. I started counting the click-clack of the car. One, two, three, twenty, twenty-one, thirty-four, sixty-five, ninety-two. Even in the evening cool, I was feeling uncomfortably warm, but I persisted—determined I wouldn’t be the one to back down.

After two hundred-ten click-clacks of the railcar, I was about to break when she said, “You’re very perspicacious, aren’t you?”

It was my turn to make her wait, but I didn’t have the nerve for it: “I wouldn’t go that far. I figure it’s better to watch and listen. You’ll learn more that way. Besides, most ponies—”

“—don’t have anything interesting to say. I remember.” She picked up her paper once more and the conversation was over.