Sam’s next hour or so, a flurry. Repelling riled up demagogues, defending against magic creatures with no magic of his own, letting the police step in and neutralize the situation with megaphones and water hoses, being interviewed by said police and giving out the incident’s details in a barely composed fashion, assuring everyone inside the bureau that everything’s OK, holding off shouts of horrified clients, arguing with those who had qualms about everything and also about being in harm’s way—
In the rush ripping through the halls, he saw everyone in a hurry, running or flying this way and that. The bureau’s crew sent orders everywhere, while screams and distressed words rang out to his ears. The lines had almost broken up, but the staff stayed faithful and told them all to stay calm not panic. People closer to the back of the pack kept shooting glances behind, hoping to make a mad dash to the exit to escape the fast-paced lunacy.
At the end of the corridor, he saw Laura protecting her cowering husband at the corner, Rogie spouting something about “them coming! Th-They’re coming! I t-told y—”
“Having none of it!” Laura yelled, slapping him on the back with her hoof, with Rogie whimpering back. Then, pulling him by both ears into the new residences, “We’re staying here until I say we’re leaving!”
Before Sam could process that, there came galloping Adirondack and flying Turbo Jet, going down the corridor and doing the opposite of not panicking. Staff in the form of sturdy Earth ponies and tall humans sprinted there to stave them off, only to be met with Jet’s “I stayed here long enough! I really have to get back home with my pals!”
“They’re not taking me alive!” Adirondack yelled, lowering his head and using his thick antlers as his shield. “Take care of the plants for me!”
“I’m not your babysitter!” yelled back an Earth pony, ID dangling from around his neck.
And all Sam could do was tell people to stay calm, too. To direct them to designated locations, to hope everything would turn out alright after the mania of near-stampedes and loud words mingling and clashing against his eardrums.
And then, it was time to clock out.
It took a bit more time for Sam to be notified of this fact. In fact, it took some more time and some snapping sounds. Then, a tap on his hand.
“Uh, mister…?”
Sam whirled his head back up, bringing himself back to reality: Himself at the lobby, behind the counter and sorting out papers and reports to be sent to the police department.
He saw a brown griffon: Greg. Past him, Sam could see the sky turning a dark and funereal mix of pink and indigo. Its dimness extended into the bureau, casting a colorful yet dismal tint upon everything and everyone he saw. The chit-chat in the lounge sounded slowed down; nowhere was the casual of casual conversation. An orange glimmered twinkled upon a coffee cup, though even the apparently happy barista seemed grave under a dying day.
The griffon spread his wings and left, having finished his role of mentally waking Sam up. He relaxed on a couch, reading a magazine with one claw and answering a form with the other.
Sam looked back to his front and saw Crowhop, levitating another stack of papers to the counter in her lime glow.
Staring at him with wistful eyes.
“Sorry for not showing up that much today! I...I-I had no idea what was going on outside. Wh-When I did, I...I couldn’t believe it with my own eyes and ears!” and then her ears did fall flat on her head. She bit her tongue, then her quivering lip.
Tired, Sam sighed, now left alone with just Crowhop across the counter. He didn’t speak right away: he walked to the other side, lifting a part of the counter to gain access to the lobby proper. Then, Crowhop was really in front of him, really before him.
“I’m very sorry for letting this be your last day here!” Crowhop said, a hoof squished on her cheek, her irises all big and watery. “I know it’s not my fault that Key Note was so enthusiastic, that there’s some bad persons over there...but—” sniffed, now blubbering, then “—no one should be having this...no one! Nobody!”
Crowhop bent a bit lower, tears now streaming down her cheek as her legs shivered. Might fall any moment now, might collapse any moment now.
That’s when Sam bent down to her level, crouching. Stress pent-up in his mind was slowly seeping in: all he wanted to do now was get out, get to the Inn, and rest away. A rash idea came over, one of asking for a raise because he put his life in the line for the bureau, and he wants some compensation for that or what not.
But, what he ended up saying was, “I know. But, I did what I could.” He spread his arms, smiling a little to lighten up the mood, striving to hide that selfish tendency. “I don’t think I did such a bad job for a rookie, eh?”
This gave Crowhop a mischievous cackle. “Well, those nice officers did a better job than you, so….” and let her forehooves drop to the ground in friendly mockery.
Sam let out a soft cackle of his own, a little disappointed that she’s not in the mood for any rewards of heroism. He consoled himself that at least he was alive.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Crowhop continued, wiping away her tears so she could be playful once more. “You didn’t ask for this. You’re very strained, very stressed, very afflicted and pulled by what happened this afternoon.”
“Took the words right out of my mouth,” he mumbled, loud enough that she could hear.
Her ears raised, Crowhop stifled a giggle. “Just to let you know: I’m surprised and honored that you still stuck with us. I get that it’s your last day here as a volunteer, but, you know...you can always, hm, come back?” and winked at him with the widest grin she’d ever done so far.
“Not so subtle about your pitches, huh?” he said before he stood up, feeling some light numbness in his thighs. Then, stretching his arms and cracking his neck, he looked onward outside.
An airplane was descending, streaking through the sky as it neared touchdown. He set his eyes there, ignoring everything around him and letting his mind rest on this simple, ordinary, not-magic-at-all thing.
Ding! and a whir turned on.
Sam looked up, saw the air conditioning units up and running. Then, that blast of cool air once more breezed upon his shoulders, accompanied by that draft of relief.
He felt a tug at his shirt.
Sam looked down. Saw Crowhop pulling on his clothes with her hoof. It was endearing that she’d ended up being his boss: a short unicorn full of energy, and pink to boot. Of course, there’s that deeper side of hers, of the burden of responsibility over the fate of the humans and the new Equestrians around her.
At that moment of his reflection, Canter said, “Take care out there, OK?”
Sam couldn’t help but smile, not just at her cute face but at how she’d delivered the question: more than just sincere, it was innocent.
“How long will you stay here?” she pressed, tilting her head.
He looked away from that sickeningly sweet pony face, covering his mouth out of embarrassment. “Until Monday—” coughed “—at least.”
Then, Crowhop’s eyes sparkled, sounding out a long “Ooh!” as she squished her cheeks with her hooves. “‘At least’?! You’re making room for your own bureau appointment, aren’t you?”
Sam flashed a smirk at her. “Yeah.”
“Aww!” and she blinked fast and pretty.
He was still astonished at how expressive and enthusiastic this pony was. Sam looked around to see everyone else’s reactions, and most of them, both human and Equestrian, smiled at this perky pony.
As the sky’s light further dimmed.
After a heartfelt farewell to all the bureau crew—not to mention a leaping hug straight from Crowhop, which almost made him crash into the glass wall—Sam left the building.
The sky was darker, adopting a bluer and sadder color, although the many cars with their many headlights made up for that. The sidewalks, too, were decked out with a flood of pedestrians, and Sam heard the chatter of millions along with the brief glimpses of smartphone screen lights. Whenever there was a break in the crowds, there’s also a good chance of a bicyclist weaving in and out, and he was shoved to the side by a hurrying cycling couple, in the middle of their own honeymoon.
Then, something caught his attention.
Past the myriad of cars stuck in traffic, sitting by the curb just before the pedestrian crossing: that all-too-familiar black car.
Sam didn’t even check if it was him, but once he got in, it was him. Good ol’ Arthur, his pair of shades covering his probably reddened eyes. He then closed the door and settled on the back seats beside Spaghetti Tree who was busy tapping a three-button keyboard connected to her smartphone.
Talking to her wasn’t an option, since her pony ears were plugged with earphones. Asking her how she could listen to music well with those big ears wasn’t an option, either.
Then, the car drove off, bringing all four of its wheels on the road.
“So, you’re done with the bureau thing?” Arthur quickly asked, turning his head and giving him an impatient look. The shades didn’t help him become any more approachable.
Sam twisted his hand here and there, giving a so-so response. “Pretty much.”
Arthur turned his head back to the road as he should be. He adjusted his rear view mirror, getting a larger view of the back seats and their occupants.
“I saw you did your research on what’s good,” the driver began with a raised finger on the steering wheel. “The Salty Cat’s a great place to knock your socks off to a drink...if you don’t mind the company of so many Equestrians.”
He breathed a chuckle or two, tapping his fingers to the beat of some old rock song on the radio.
“Could you imagine, really? When these things first appeared, I thought they’re just like the ones you see in fairy tales: everything running on unicorn farts and what not.” His next chuckle was a tender one, if not tenderly ironic. “And then we figured out those ‘nice and chubby ponies’ had bars. They got tipsy and drunk like the best of us.” He made an exaggerated shrug and let his eyes bulge out at that, just to emphasize his point. “Guess we’re not so different when it comes to vices? Next thing you know, they’ll end up smoking cigarettes, and we’ll be snorting crushed poison joke.”
Sam then snorted a laugh out of that, thinking of cute ponies like Crowhop chugging a mug of beer and then smoking a pack of cigarettes a day. “And to think unicorns are just childhood dreams!”
“Yeah, you better watch out,” Arthur said, now louder and his accent somewhat more crass. “Imagine an angry drunk unicorn. ‘I’m gonna stab you with my horn!’ Pow! Pow! Pow!” and then a little laugh.
Sam replied with his own laughter, though it was quiet enough for Spaghetti not to be disturbed. For her part, she was rolling her tongue in her cheek, her face puckering like she’s about to make a bubble out of gum.
The rather short trip went well with no accidents to be recorded. With only a moderate amount of traffic to wade through now, Sam was soon in a residential part of the Big Orange. Arthur acted as a very informal tour guide, flaunting his finger here and there to direct Sam’s attention to whatever landmark came by. “Over there at the corner, there’s yet another IHOP,” or “Here’s a Lutheran church and school to your left,” or “And that’s Altitude Apartments, if you’re into that sort of thing. It has a pool.”
Once they got to the I-405, Arthur pointed to the right, confident he wouldn’t smash into a car or a barrier on this open road. “That’s Hillside Memorial. It’s a cemetery where they buried famous people like Hank Greenberg, Monty Hall, Al Johnson....” and on he went, listing a dozen more names.
And there it was. Sam couldn’t see any tombstones or such because of how fast they were going and the poor angles he’s getting. Despite that, he saw its stepped and steep gardens along with its iconic monument which looked like a huge classical cross of a dome and a gazebo.
As the journey continued even through a switch to the I-10, Sam paid less attention to the beautiful and wonderful outside. In lieu of that was Spaghetti Tree, this peculiar pony busy with whatever she was doing on her phone. To him, she was isolated, having said not a word to him during the fifteen minutes of travel time so far. Was she getting any motion sickness per chance?
He took a glimpse at her phone, hoping she would be too immersed to notice. It wasn’t enough to discern the words there, but he saw her browsing through Facebook once again. Spaghetti liked a couple of random photos of baked potatoes, protest announcements, robotic noses, and Pinkie Pie’s world(s)-famous cakepies.
Sam tried not to think about the protest to come. Instead, this Pinkie Pie was a good distraction—she was coping so well with social media, it might as well be too well, for a single post from hers would end up being shared to no end. Her weirdness certainly contributed to her rising popularity, although he’d chalked more of it up to how sincerely happy she was, and that she didn’t post every day. Not even every week, if he remembered right.
And the baking lessons. Yes, the live baking lessons, too….
After a short while: an exit to the right, a right turn to 4th Street, a left onto Broadway, one more turn to the right to Ocean Avenue, and then a full stop at the intersection with Santa Monica Boulevard.
Once he thanked Arthur and bade him farewell, Sam got out of the car, loosening one button on his shirt as a little reward for his short internship. A hectic, emotional, and thoughtful internship that was also short. Cut short, perhaps; that’s how Sam felt as he gave it a second’s thought.
When Spaghetti Tree also got off with him, Sam was taken a little by surprise. Was she following him or something? But, instead, she did something unsuspicious: removed her earphones with her wing, then put them inside a saddle bag she then strapped around herself.
Standing by Ocean Avenue, he stood in the beautifully dark night. The traffic wasn’t a hindrance to his enjoyment now; they were part and parcel with the place along with the pedestrians, human and Equestrian, walking or running or hovering by. He got a taste of that when he got brushed off by a scurrying griffon, slapped by his feather’s ruffled wings.
At the far limits of his vision lay the Pacific Ocean in all its magnanimous vastness of rolling waves. Being taught the Pacific was Earth’s biggest ocean was one thing; being within a hundred meters of this gigantic field of endless water and inhaling that briny deep scent only an ocean could give—that was another.
He couldn’t see the beach thanks to the tops of the bluffs blocking the way, but he did see several dancing dots of light in the distance. His best guess was seaponies and merponies waltzing in the sea, wearing glow-in-the-dark suits. The big sightseeing boat by the side gave him the relief that they weren’t performing without any appreciation.
Standing between the ocean and Sam was Palisades Park, that long strip of grass, tropical trees, and walkways, but it wasn’t just that tonight. Already, an impromptu band of pony and zebra musicians took to the makeshift stage, serenading rosy love songs to all within earshot. A growing crowd of admirers and curious attendees only attracted more and more admirers and attendees—it was a joyous Friday night, after all, and a free concert on the spot was hard to pass up.
Sam turned around and walked his way to The Salty Cat’s entrance at the corner. Then, he observed that Spaghetti was walking her way there, too, trotting beside him. “You’re going here, too?” he asked, shooting a finger at the double door entrance.
“Mm-hmm,” and then she nodded, a little smile blooming on her face. A far cry from the passionately serious HLF sympathizer he thought he knew. Then again, his introduction to her was a prank, so maybe she was getting back to a more familiar self.
Then, being kind-mannered, he opened the door wide and stood aside for Spaghetti to enter. Being a gentleman, as they said—or would it be “being a gentlestallion” once the gentleman disappeared?
Sam took a look inside and was astounded by what was inside. Sleek wooden decor, with the floor and the tables and the chairs and the counter and the balconies and the ceiling—all of them with a mix of timber, marble, and plastic.
On the swivel chairs and throughout the tables everywhere were the patrons taking their loads off and enjoying the weekend’s rowdy beginning. But, this strange sight made Sam marvel and look again:
A yak and a buffalo toasted to good days with their glasses of whiskey, the both of them talking up their pottery to be sold tomorrow. Several Ornithian parrots sipped on fine wine, discussing whether to purchase some turquoise cuff links for a dashing fiancé. Eight ponies chugging beer and one being restrained by his peers because he was about to light a cigar in a non-smoking establishment—and, was that Rogie and Laura kissing each other’s cheeks on the second floor balcony, helping themselves to a margarita and an old-fashioned? The sounds, too, of glasses clinking and clients ordering, and let’s not forget the slurred speech thanks to those probably drunk eight ponies who were finally apprehended by security Abyssinians.
As Sam walked over to the counter, he noticed Spaghetti still trotting with him. There’s not a table nor even a simple group of familiar persons she was turning here. For all he knew, this was a solo run for her.
He sat down, now a viewer of some bartending theatrics by a suited dragon who breathed fire with a fwoom! onto a glass of B-52. The cocktail was then served with a claw to a rather bored human customer, tapping the fiery glass to a rhythm.
“And shall I get you the usual?” asked another bartender.
Sam lifted his head to make out an Abyssinian curling his whiskers, donning a bow tie and a blazer as he rushed over to pour a drink for Spaghetti. He kept it up with small talk, stringing an interesting yarn about how his visit to the Changeling Hive went: that he paid a dozen bits to have a changeling follow him around as his “twin” just for kicks, that he was able to bribe the king and his brother to give him a regular supply of tuna, and that he hung out with Princess Twilight on accident on the train back home to Abyssinia—all in about thirty seconds, and then her order was done: a mojito and a shot of silver bullet.
“You’re absolutely sure about that?” he asked, bearing that tone of having said it before. “You got tipsy after just—”
“Never know ‘till I try,” she blathered, pulling both glasses closer to her face and feeling the cold of her icy mojito on her cheeks.
Sam chuckled before the cat whisked his way to him. This feline mixologist licked his paw and then adjusted his bow tie. Then, bending over a bit: “Sorry to keep you waiting, good sir! We’re quite understaffed today; one of our best human bartenders is out of commission because he’ll be a cat just like me.” Snickered at that and laid his paw on the counter. “So, welcome to The Salty Cat! The name’s Oddeye, but you can call me Oddie. Or Eddie.” Then, resting his shoulder on the counter, “What’cha want around here? We have the usual classic favorites and favorite classics, but I suggest you don’t do that.” He smirked, curling his whiskers more. “Spice your life up a bit—that’s my advice!”
Sam smirked back, although with his eyes lowered a bit. “My life’s already been spiced up a lot thanks to you talking cats and your friends.”
Oddeye laughed a bit, revealing his fangs. “I see your plight. Didn’t ask to get your world rocked to the very core, huh?”
The human replied with a shake of his head and holding his liquor before realizing he didn’t have any at all.
Seeing those drink-empty hands, Oddeye cleared his throat. “Want me to offer my recommendations?”
Sam sighed, the tiring nature of the night coming upon him along with remembering that he hadn’t eaten dinner yet. “Yeah, anything’ll do except for...” and looked at the dragon juggling a couple shakers for show, charming his small cadre of fans, “drinking fire.”
Oddeye craned his head that way, resting a shoulder on an imaginary shelf. “Oh, him? Bruler’s a show-off; that’s his call card around here. If you don’t wanna rant about your problems to someone you don’t know, he’s your guy,” while finishing with a pointed digit at his scaly co-worker.
“Alrighty,” and let his hands fall onto the counter with a slam! “What do you recommend on the...well, gin side?”
“Ah, there’s derby,” Oddeye said, leaning in to grab a shaker and a bottle of gin. “It’s gin with some peach bitters and mint leaves. Tastes like someone jacked up your bottle of Sprite and sent it to the Frozen North—” and rubbed his mouth. “Or Greenland….That’s more appropriate to your ears, isn’t it?”
Sam didn’t say anything other than a simple, “Yeah” with another simple nod of his head. The cocktail sounded simple enough, too. Hopefully nothing too heavy or hard.
As the bartender went to work with preparing his ingredients and equipment, Sam turned to the right and saw Spaghetti, her face having slipped back into a pondering frown. This pegasus sipped on her mojito—beholding, through the big window and past talking light-headed creatures, the bright dancing dots in the sea. She had no earphones on, but her phone was still on the counter.
To Sam, this pensive state returned to mind Spaghetti’s rather tragic condition. He waffled on whether to ask or not—maybe he could put off the decision until at least his drink arrived. But, after a few seconds of internal debate, he leaned forward and asked the pony, “So, anything?”
Her ears flattened upon hearing those sudden words. Without looking at him: “Not really.”
Now that rebuffed him for a very short while, but his confidence was increasing nonetheless. Sam didn’t want it to trail off in an awkward note. He cleared his throat, doing his best not to mimic how the cat did it, and asked, “Is it OK if you want to clear up something for me?”
Spaghetti groaned and rolled not just her eyes but her head, too. Yet, she resisted the urge to make eye contact with him. “What is it?”
Sam scratched his head. “How’d you get away from the police?”, whispering that last word to be extra safe.
“I didn’t,” she said nonchalantly, still looking off into the water-filled distance. “My choice was jail or fine. I thought it better to just pay them off than to make a fuss of a crime I didn’t commit.”
That raised Sam’s eyebrow and piqued his uncertainty. Half-raising a hand, “Wait, that wasn’t you?”
“Wasn’t me,” she repeated. Then, she took a gulp of her mojito, sucking in half of the mint sprigs and overwhelming her taste buds with that freezing seasoning. She struck it down onto the counter, a few alcoholic drops spilling over. “But, I’m gonna let it slide. They’ll just think I...I was too crazy with my pranks today.”
“Don’t they know you’re, well...good with the Front?” Sam blurted out.
She looked flustered, her cheeks now blushing. “How’d you know that?”
“Arthur told me,” he said, eyes on the phone and silently gesturing to her about how he was told. “Hold on...aren’t you friends?”
“Like I believe him all the time,” she said with a sarcastic smile. “He gets me around out of pity, but that’s it. We just enjoy each other’s company because we both got connections to the you-know-what...and since he knows some ponies from the other you-know-what—” she flailed her forehooves to the air before grabbing her mojito and waving it about “—chances are he’s gonna bail on me if they put him under the gun.”
With Spaghetti staring fondly at her drink of escape, Sam took the downtime to process. It was weird to mesh her Human Liberation Front sympathies with her non-human form. Then again, he kept telling himself it wasn’t her fault: It’s the fault of deranged crazies too impatient to let her finish her bureau appointment. If they’d come half an hour later, they would’ve ignored her.
Or, would they? His next thought was seeing the “ponifiers” kidnapping her and her would’ve-been spouse. They’d both be together at least, though being together in death wasn’t a brilliant prospect. It wasn’t that out there, was it? With such an experience etched and scarred into her brain—and if that was public knowledge thanks to her Facebook profile—then an active imagination could misconnect the dots, relate the bureau’s air con incident with her past….
And so, he continued. “You...you don’t have any qualms with me. I’ve noticed that. You do know where I work, right? Or did I tell you already?...”
“You’re the exception,” she said, almost cutting him off. “They go on recruit drives for humans mostly for the empathy factor. Hire a familiar face to get their guard down,” and let her glass tip and bob with her hoof.
Sam raised a brow once more. “So...you don’t really like this whole humanity-turning-into-other-creatures thing, do you?”
That was met with Spaghetti’s dagger eyes. “Don’t play dumb with me!” Pumping her chest, “I protest with the best of ‘em. I believe the princesses are either hiding something or just straight up not accepting our requests. They always have something sinister….”
Sam rested his shoulder on the counter. He had the feeling this might be a long one.
Then, Spaghetti reached for her shot of silver bullet. She downed it and slammed the finished glass back to the counter.
With a tiny crack.
Sam adjusted his position on the chair, stretched his legs closer to the floor. This might take longer.
“And here you go!” said Oddeye as he brought a cocktail glass to the counter, containing that whitish gin with mint leaves floating about. The feline then slunk away, acting all friendly towards another patron at the end of the counter with a “Good evening! Oh, and how are you, too?...”
She coughed, then flapped her wings in place. Her cheeks were reddening, becoming more flushed as the ramble continued: “It’s politics. They’re certainly nicer than what we got, but they’re scarier. They already got the sun, the moon, their world’s cosmos is in their hands!” and raised her forelegs to prove that point. “You’d think they’d be satisfied, but no….’Cause you see, I studied up on them,” with an eye twitch. “They’re not satisfied with only Equestria,” and pointed outside, pointing at Equestria which was still quite far away. “See how they tampered the Dragon Lands’ run for a new leader. Ponies got sent there and they ruined their meritocracy! Ember may be strong, but she made it with outside help! Pony sabotage, that’s what’s going on!”
Sam entrenched himself on his seat in case she’d jump at him. “Uh, Spaghetti? Aren’t you—”
And a whisp—
“I’m not pasta!” she roared, planting a hoof on his nose. “You call me Julia!”
That’s when everyone else looked her way. Gone was the talk about insignificant things, gone was that good fun. With another fight coming up for him, Sam managed, “Uh, Sp—Julia, you have to—”
“Calm down?!” and she raised her half-empty glass, now her shield and weapon. “You bureaucrat!”
Sam would’ve laughed at being called a bureaucrat if bodily harm wasn’t on the menu. Instead, he slowly stood up, ignoring his drink he hadn’t even touched. “OK, what about I call in a taxi and—”
“Oh, so you can just send me back to Arthur like a girl sends her pony toy to the toy box?!” she yelled, face red in fury. Then, she jumped to the floor and stomped on a tile, breaking it with a crack! “I hate being a pony! I hate what they’re doing to society, to our precious humanity! It’s all a front, it’s all a ruse, and you better listen to—”
Increasing pawsteps as security cats in shades and suits closed in on her.
Sam gulped, stepping forward to protect her an—
Stepped away as the staff cut into his way, giving him a sense of It’s our job, not yours.
“Where’re you taking me?!” she yelled, now being held up by a bulky cat.
“Outside, miss,” he said kindly before carrying her out of the bar.
And this was how she exited the premises: A disgraced spectacle, the subject of no words but all silent humiliation. Away to the dark and exposed night outside she went, with not a whimper in her defense.
Then, the doors closed.
Silence.
Quiet.
It was quiet for a while. Dead quiet.
Then, slowly but surely, the talks resumed. Some dismissed her as being too experimental—”Never should’ve ordered that extra shot,” surmised a unicorn at the counter to Oddeye who nodded in sober agreement.
Sam was left alone with his gin derby and that feeling of regret. Why didn’t he just stand up to her?
Maybe a scaredy-cat.