//------------------------------//
// Méconnaître 
// Story: A Volunteer at the Bureau 
// by Comma Typer 
//------------------------------//

Sam wasn’t drinking his sorrows away. That’d be inaccurate.
Instead, he was drinking his regret away, which then turned into sorrow on its own volition.
The Salty Cat having returned to its more cheerful mood from minutes ago, Sam felt vacant. The buzz of bureau days faded into a harsh reality: he was alone and surrounded by strangers in a strange place in a strange city in a world becoming ever more strange.
He looked to the right and saw a Crystal pony in about the same boat as him: sulking with a heavy highball drink in hoof, reflecting the ceiling lights with his coat as another Abyssinian bartender lent her ear to his spoken sorrows.
“I’m afraid we do get a lot of...unscrupulous characters from time to time,” crowed a familiar voice.
Sam whirled back to the counter to see Oddeye curling his whiskers and putting down a shaker he’d just finished wiping. The feline then rubbed the wet counter with a rag while adjusting his bow tie, both paws in multi-task mode tonight.
“Yeah,” was Sam’s reply, taking another sip of his derby, then noticed that he’d just finished it. This surprised him since he was turning it around with his hand, astonished at where it’d all went.
“Want another?” Oddeye said with a tempting grin, though glancing to the left at where Julia had been. His grin then vanished at that.
Sam grunted in subdued laughter. “Why not? I mean,” then looked at his hands, stretching and wiggling his fingers about, “I’ve a lot more on my plate than just choosing my next species.”
Oddeye rested his furry elbow on the counter, becoming more down-to-earth with his added hunch. “That’s what we’re here for, sir,” and chuckled at his attempt at humor, including little of that feline meow.
And so, Sam handed the cat his glass and watched Oddeye make a show of his job: The bartender returned the used glass, brought up a shaker, filled it with ice, dropped a dash of peach bitters and then a gulp of gin, then began shaking the shaker.
It turned out Oddeye was also no slouch at bartending theatrics, since he juggled that lone shaker high into the sky—or merely the air above them, to be pedantic, but that still wouldn’t convince Sam to cringe at the possibility of being knocked out by a cup. It didn’t help that Oddeye was also dancing to the ambient jazz that just started played through the speakers, especially when he returned to only shaking the shaker with his paws without endangering poor Sam.
Oddeye grabbed a new chilled martini, poured the drink through the shaker’s strainer, pulled out a sprig of mint to slap it before garnishing the cocktail with it.
Then, he served it to his human customer, brushing his shoulders in a splash of ego.
Sam clapped lightly at the mini-show before taking the drink into his hand. “That’s pretty cool.”
“My pleasure!” and Oddeye snickered before resting his elbow again on the counter. “Now, where were we?”
“About what we both think of this mess?” Sam guessed before taking a sip, now his mind becoming slightly muddled with a drink of alcohol already in his belly.
Oddeye furrowed his thin brows. “There’s the rub, huh?” Pulled his head back, “Not really a rub since it brings us a lot of customers, but I get why so many humans go here.” Then, seeing everyone else in the bar with a sweeping look: “The world is changing, and what way to cope with it than to drink, ay?...um,” only to wring out an embarrassed smile that his fangs couldn’t help remove. “It seems I haven’t gotten your name, yet.”
“It’s Sam,” the ex-volunteer replied with a careless handwave before swallowing another minty-zingy sip.
Merely happy to make someone else happy, Oddeye opened a paw towards a door at the back. “You know, you could try out some karaoke if you’re feeling lucky. You seem to be the music type.”
“Seriously?” Sam exclaimed, not noticing that his own cheeks were turning a nice shade of pink from the alcohol. “I don’t fancy myself as a decent singer at all!”
“Hey,” and Oddeye leaned even more forward on the counter, his cat-like face only inches away from Sam’s. “Here’s a little tip for ‘ya,” and paused before: “loosen up. No one cares about how good you sing when they’re all falling down glazed.”
And, as if someone was massaging his tense back, Sam felt a weight lifted from his shoulders at that piece of advice. Since he was slowly getting himself under the influence, he found it hard to tell whether the weight was lifted from the advice or from his alcoholic lightheartedness. Probably the latter, but it probably didn’t matter, for he snapped his fingers and said, “Yeah, why not?”
Oddeye patted the counter. “Glad to have you de-stress.”
“Ah!” and Sam raised a finger.
The bartender looked surprised. “What is it?”
Sam made a smile, a foolish and dumb smile. “After just one more drink,” and held his half-empty martini up.
This action brought Oddeye to a difficult crossroads. He wouldn’t want a repeat of what just happened with Spaghetti Tree—or Julia. Still, he smirked on the side of error and said a cool, “OK!”
Sam celebrated this resolution by taking one small, restrained, and disciplined sip of his derby.
It’d be his last one for the night.



Sam did take the Abyssinian’s suggestion and sung a few songs at the karaoke room. He thought he sounded good, but who’d trust him concerning his music skills after two drinks or four? And two shots to boot?
Too bad his drunkenness hindered his ability to appreciate the others who sang, especially the Equestrians who could belt out an astounding range of notes—but only on the few native songs they knew plus the new improvisation mode the karaoke machine had in offer.
To the unaffected observer or the very affected drunk like Sam, it was funny to hear non-humans try to imitate famous human artists: A squeaky changeling had a coughing fit trying to hit that low growl of Elvis Presley. Nailing Morten Harket’s high note from his time in a-ha proved to be a trial for the bassy yak. The only dragon in the room couldn’t even get the chance to finish a Josh Groban song because he sputtered out fire during the chorus, forcing the only guard there to grab a fire extinguisher and stamp the small inferno out.
While such an event would’ve made rational creatures think, “How did we let this happen?”, these weren’t rational creatures. Only one or two left, leaving the inebriated rest to sing their hearts out without annoying anyone but themselves.
After a hazy two hours or so of conversing with a shot of forgetfulness in the karaoke room, Sam walked his way back to the counter. Or he tried to walk back to the counter, for his legs melted like butter under that spellbound stupor. He’d joined the ranks of tonight’s intoxicated—not enough to fall unconscious but enough to not know what’s going on.
All was a blur. Something about calling a taxi or whatever, being helped into a car with its bleary and blinding lights, insulting the driver to go faster, a wink or forty in a doze, random lights breaking the speed limit and getting into custody.
A gust of hot air as he stumbled onto the ground: the cold, hard ground with its wet puddles and his hands dirtied with grime.
A click! and a snap!
Reared his head to see what’s before him.
The echoing voice came back into clear hearing, and his vision steadied.
Felt his arms tied. He tried to move his hands, but failed. A look behind: they were cuffed, and a burly man with shades and a balaclava keeping them cuffed.
And a shotgun on his back.
“I should’ve known, Sam.”
That voice.
Sam turned back to his front.
In the alleyway, in this dead end alleyway, in this dead end nighttime alleyway of abandoned apartments and dumpsters—
Here stood Arthur. Good ol’ Arthur. He was smiling, and it was the first time Sam saw him standing up, curiously enough. More curiously enough, he was holding a vaccine with one gloved hand.
Most curiously, Arthur was using the other gloved hand to point a gun at Sam’s head.
And Sam tried to wrest his way out of it, yanking first his arms and then his legs, but these, too, were tied and cuffed.
The few dim lights there then showed shadows, looming shadows, looming equine shadows trotting closer.
“I guess you know too much,” Arthur said, the smile now absent, his eyes a shade of bloodshot red. “It’s my mistake to let you in there. Didn’t know you’re that of a big drinker.”
Sam shuddered, almost convulsing. Heart throbbing, this reality of death coming fast to his heels. That sharp electricity coursing in his chest, that of adrenaline-fueled fear. And to think it’d end with such a friendly face—
“There are some things we can do,” Arthur continued, gun still aimed. “Some things I can do before I become a good pony.” Glanced to the side, maybe to hear for police sirens. “We still have hands, can still do things ponies and, really, all Equestrians can’t do.” He spread his other hand out, clutching the vaccine with it as the serum inside sparkled under the moonlight. “I’m merely serving my part.”
And then, on cue, a couple of ponies came to his side. They trotted out a parade of smiles, uncomfortable smiles directed at Sam.
“Sorry to give you a very bad time,” Arthur said in ridicule, “but I wish we could do something like, I don’t know—” looked past Sam’s shoulder “—unleash the greatest gas bomb ever devised.” He walked to one of the apartment’s backdoors, tapping on it while still pointing the gun at Sam’s head. “We don’t have the resources, but we can always try—let it bring out a super strong version of the potion, and let it fly through the skyline, eh?”
Sam’s eyes widened and his mouth, too. Overwhelming fear and realization raced through his whole body: this “innocent” driver, an accomplice in a devious plan of ponification? All he could do was try to get out to no avail, his body rocking and roiling in its cuffs, and shout, “You can’t do that! You can’t—”
Muffled by the glowing cloth tightly tied on his mouth and around his head. He shivered as he looked down to his right, seeing the unicorn who did the deed to him. The pony entertained an evil laugh, raising his head and throwing his forehooves to the air like a mad scientist.
“You gotta admit I kept up a good facade, huh?” Arthur remarked, walking his way back to Sam’s front, gun now ever closer to his head. Then, Arthur raised his vaccine up like a knife ready to stab. “But...you can’t just let the cat out of the bag, you know? You’re supposed to stay mum about what we know about Julia, OK?”
“B-But she h-has her Faceb—”
“Oh, I pressured her,” Arthur cut off, stepping ever closer to him, that shiny weapon imposing its terrible needle. “She told me all about what happened at the Salty Cat. All of it.”
Sam’s eyes bulged at the approaching gun and needle, all served with Arthur’s slasher smile with eyes that stared a thousand miles.
As the ponies trotted closer.
As Arthur stepped closer.
Sam stood in place, desperate to wiggle, to kick, to even fall as a distraction—but nothing happened. He stayed there, standing cuffed and bound.
“Sam?” Arthur said, his grin growing to preposterous proportions.
Raised the vaccine high.
“It’s your time to be one of us.”
Ftb!
“Agh!”
Sam almost came to a crumple, pain searing through his arm and then through his entire body as Arthur removed the needle from the victim. Sam fell to the ground, writhing as a white glow enveloped him, drowning in bright white light—
And then, the glow was gone.
The white light fading back, revealing Arthur and his entourage of ponies. Wait...wasn’t Arthur a bit short before? He looked tall, much taller now, to Sam.
Was lifted into the air, carried by the same unicorn on his side. Sam wanted to scream, knowing full well what’d just happened to him, but he found his jaw paralyzed and locked, eyes fluttering
Looking up, only seeing the sky and its stars, devoid of the moon as he was carried away with the sinister giggles of ponies who were surely psychotic with their rabid smiles, their rabid teeth—this evil joy of having one more in their herd.
Sam knew what’d happened to him, but he didn’t want to see it. He couldn’t make his fingers squirm nor his toes, for he felt none of them. He just knew it, knew it, knew it, knew it—
Lifted his hands to see them before the sky.
Only to see hooves.
“Aaaahhh!”



“...aaaahhh!”
Catapulted up on the bed.
As the screaming stopped, the pain rushing within his head, sloshing anywhere and everywhere.
Light. A light. Saw things illuminated. Familiar things: that TV, that easy chair, that desk, that window, that lamp….
Back at the Inn.
He checked the alarm clock.
It was eight in the morning.
Facing the wall with windows brought on torment to his eyes, pervading his skull with the throes of a hangover. Winced away from it, closed his eyes, massaged his wretched forehead.
Then, opened his eyes.
“Wait…,” Sam croaked, “am I-I…?”
Didn’t want to believe it yet. That last memory, that flashback playing in his mind: his hooves. What scenario had he gotten himself into? Had the police caught up to his fugitives? Had he been dragged to the bureau to be pitied? Perhaps this room merely looked like his room, but wasn’t really—Crowhop’s way of settling Sam into this new lease of life he hadn’t been ready for yet?
Or, was it a dream?
Gasped, checked his “hooves” to see if they were hands.
Yes. They were hands.
Flipped them around, turned them around, twisted them around to verify without a shadow of a doubt. Then looked down at the rest of himself sitting up on his comfy bed. Human feet, human legs, human tummy under his human shirt—slapped his human cheeks, then picked up his alarm clock with his human hands to see the faint reflection of his human face with his human nose and human eyes and human everything else.
“Phew…” and sat in bed some more for a few minutes. A rollercoaster of a dream required at least a few minutes to comprehend in full, although he might need a dozen more since the hangover was in full swing. Now, he just wanted to lie in bed again, his whole body feeling like dead weight.
But, the morning was young, and the sunlight peeking through the blinds told him to come out and enjoy the day. At first, he staunchly rejected the offer. But, after inhaling that refreshing smell of pine tree-scented walls, he got up to put on a set of decent, presentable clothes.



“Let me get this straight,” and Sam opened both of his hands on the counter, maintaining formal eye contact with this receptionist at the lobby: “I was brought here...while drunk?”
“Yes,” said the well-dressed woman, smiling behind that counter and her monitor. “You were transported here from the Salty Cat. When you were inside already, we took care of the rest.”
Sam slowly nodded, also slowly digesting the information. “So, do you know who took me in?”
“Well,” she began, “you were brought her via Uber by,” checking a notepad on the side… “Arthur Compagnon.”
A little shock spread through his chest, the name all but confirming his suspicion. Still, doubt remained. “OK...what did he look like?”
“A bit short,” she replied. “Brown haired. Trying to grow a beard, I think.”
Sam nodded once more, unwilling to betray further knowledge of the man in question. “Alright, I’ll...I’ll just go out and….” looked out at the doors, looking past the big lobby’s big columns and seeing the outside.
There Glasgow Place and that boulevard he’d already forgotten the name of. Cars and trucks were moving about, and humans walked on the streets.
Oh, and there’s the Equestrians walking there, too. He’d almost forgotten about that.
It was time to really enjoy Los Angeles, wasn’t it?



He’d wanted to try out the brand-new bicycle station planted right in front of the hotel. However, upon seeing the fine print on the label, he found out that it’s sponsored by the Ponification for Earth’s Rebirth organization “to stop humanity from destroying itself with their weapons and their evil fossil fuels.”
He then thought taking the tour bus was a better idea. He’d gotten a cold shiver just from reading the label as if it was ripped straight from his dream.
Or nightmare.
It took him a minute to get from the Holiday Inn to the gas station by the intersection’s corner, inhaling some of the noxious fuel smells as cars entered with empty tanks and exited with full ones. As for the intersection itself: It was the last one before the San Diego Freeway, so there was more traffic here than usual. Then again, it was also Saturday in a city where tourists and globetrotters—ah, and here’s a tourist pony in the middle of globetrotting, snapping pictures everywhere and then trotting to the next spot.
By the gas station’s side, an idle tour bus waiting for eager Los Angeles newcomers to ride on. It was a double-decker, too, though the poster on the side declared that it’s sponsored by the Earth-Equus Tourism Agency—and let’s not forget the poster itself, for it looked nice, too, with its group of humans and Equestrians surveying LAX’s futuristic-looking Theme Building with its arcs, its saucer shape, and its overall Googie style.
Sam had read up on the city tours before leaving for the Big Orange, and, now that a tour bus lay before him, this happy tourist was more than a little excited to enjoy the sights, hear the sounds, and taste the food.
So, he ambled up to the bus and paid for the walk-in fee of a hundred and fifty dollars to pay off most of the expenses for wherever he stopped with the help of a tour card. He then treated himself to a second-floor seat beside another human, beside someone familiar. Sure, that someone was a complete stranger to him and was enamored by the book he was reading, but a human stranger was easier to talk to than an Equestrian one—same species, for one.
Without the worry of going to work and dealing with the overly complex and entangled problems of becoming another species, he felt immensely relieved and thrilled. That relief and thrill gave him the confidence (but maybe not the ability) to withstand the late morning sun without a hat or a mini-fan.
He heard the doors close shut, and jerked forward as the bus reversed a bit. He felt his pockets to check his wallet for attractions and his phone for pictures: a tourist’s great arsenal, he had.
Then, the bus moved forward, and his first day as a casual sightseer truly began.



Sam wanted to say that it’d been an enjoyable experience. In many ways, it really was. He watched two movies in legendary Hollywood, feasted his eyes on rare paintings and sculptures in the Getty Center, hiked through Griffith Park in peace and quiet, and bought some tacky souvenirs and a shirt that said I went to Los Angeles and all I got was this lousy t-shirt because why not?
He even nabbed a free ticket to a Dodgers game from a pony who said she got it from another pony who said she got it from Rarity the Element of Generosity herself. That sounded sketchy to his ears, Rarity being the restless fashion designer and manager she was. But, that ticket-holding pony told him that the heroine had plans to open up a branch in La-la-land—and she pointed a hoof across the street at a boutique in construction—so maybe it was true.
Sam accepted the ticket and made a stop at Dodger Stadium to see the Los Angeles Dodgers bat up against the bettors’ favorite, the Boston Red Sox. Too bad he left at the tenth inning, deeming it wise to leave in case the game might go, say, eighteen innings with no points scored.
He might’ve not experienced everything or even half of the things L.A. had to offer, but there was always Sunday tomorrow. Needless to say, he had a wonderful time outside.
Regardless of all that, however, all the fun and the enjoyment had been sprinkled with nagging reminders of the future, of his future. He’d eaten popcorn between an Abyssinian and an Ornithian for both movies, a unicorn had been his museum docent in Getty, he’d seen the pegasi Crowhop talked about as they made cloud shapes in the sky, the lousy t-shirt had been on sale by that same flashlight saleschangeling, and Sam had heard the rabid cries and shouts of fervent Equestrian fans holding up banners and flags and hats and baseballs.
Even as he smiled remembering Pinkie Pie, of all ponies, throwing the ceremonial first pitch at that game, a gloomy prospect re-emerged in his brain: the end of his humanity or an untimely death before thirty.
By the time the bus returned to the gas station by the Inn, it was eight in the evening and the bus was almost empty, most of its passengers having been dropped off earlier before this last stop.
However, Sam heard police sirens switch on.
He looked that way.
There, by the sidewalk beside McDonald’s, were parked two police cars with their flashing blue-red lights against the night, seven police officers of diverse species, and one Spaghetti Tree face down on a car’s hood, getting all four hooves cuffed and her two wings chained.
As Sam got down, head still toward the spectacle no matter where he walked, others went down with him and slowed down to see how this incident might play out.
He tried to look away, but he couldn’t: that’s how pulling, how chilling it was. Seeing a broken and battered woman-turned-pegasus-and-not-seapony arrested and in custody so quickly, so soon...now, perhaps, a double-done victim of whoever that impostor wa—
Saw her bonked on the head by a changeling officer.
Then, a green glow shrouded her, and when it was done, it wasn’t her anymore.
It was a snarling, hole-ridden, unreformed changeling in her black chitin, in her dark carapace, in her fanged appearance.
Yelps and screams from his fellow tourists, and a car or two stopping in surprise.
This changeling was held down by a few more officers, all while snarling and hissing at her captors, trying to bite them with her sharp teeth.
It was too much for Sam. He just wanted to rest and have some dinner.
So the best thing he did was walk fast, then really fast, to avoid being noticed by that thrashing changeling. In a minute’s time, he was back in the Inn, safe from that changeling.
And if he wasn’t, he counted on security to bring her down.



8:37 PM, and Sam was busy taking a break from the tumult of city hours. He’d brought out his laptop from inside the desk, and was glad he didn’t find much of a reason to lug it around in a bag for his bureau hijinks.
Now, he was performing the exercise of multi-tasking in one sitting at the computer screen: browsing pictures and maps of Equestria on the left half and monitoring the Veil’s progress on Earth on the right half.
The latter showed a map of the globe with the Veil’s state updated in real-time as it spread inch by inch. The magic barrier wasn’t devouring colossal swaths of land just yet. However, it was less than five hundred kilometers from Alaska’s Aleutian islands. Overlayed on those islands were news of evacuation notices, increasing crime as panic loomed, and the Equestrian Transition Authority trying to not panic with US and Alaskan governments—who were also trying not to panic with lives at stake.
Ding-dong!
“Pineapple pizza!” yelled the delivery man from outside. “It’s a pineapple pizza delivery for Sam Henry!”
This hungry got up, walked past the bed and the TV, and opened the door.
There’s no delivery man in the hallway. There was a delivery griffon, holding the pizza box and then opening it with his talons.
It was pineapple pizza. Not much to say here, really. It...smelled good? Yes, it smelled good, and it made Sam’s stomach rumble and churn.

“Thank you,” he said in a polite tone, receiving the pizza and its box with his hands.
“You’re welcome, good sir!” replied the griffon with a salute which he turned into an open claw. “Now, the—”
Sam took out the money required and poured it into the griffon’s claw.
“Thank you, too!” the griffon said before he kissed a coin. “Next stop: Currency exchange!”
Then, the delivery griffon left, leaving the hallway a blank and hollow place once again.
Sam walked back to the laptop, placed the pizza box on the side, and sat down again to resume monitoring and browsing.
The left half showed his desire to see more of what Equestria, and Equus as a whole, looked like. There it was, that overwhelming rush of saturated colors from Equestria’s photos. Perhaps it was a dimensional thing, that it looked weird to him from the other side, but if he was there, his eyes would be normalized...or was it the air or something about the speed of light being somewhat different there?
This picture, in particular, came off as surreal: it was a picture of ponies posing in front of the Applewood sign in Applewood, Coltifornia. It didn’t show much else other than the ground they were standing on (or hovering above for the lone pegasus there), but the place alone didn’t feel right. When it’s over, Applewood and Los Angeles would be sister cities in the most literal of meanings—Santa Maneica for Santa Monica, Griffon Park for Griffith Park….
B-r-ring! B-r-ring!
Picked up his phone from beside the laptop, and answered the call. Before saying anything, he checked the name again: Mike. Then: “Hello, sir?”
“Yeah, it’s me,” Mike replied in his deep yet frail baritone. “I...I guess you’re done with that whole internship thing in the bureau, aren’t you.”
“Yes, sir,” Sam said, getting himself comfy by putting up a leg on the desk.
Silence for a while. “So, what’s your decision?”
Sam gulped. As if griffon-delivered pizza wasn’t enough, Mike just had to drop that bombshell of a reminder, hadn’t he? “Well, I—”
“Don’t worry, Sam,” Mike said, then sighed. Maybe for interrupting Sam, maybe for sounding rude. “OK...don’t forget you’re not the only one doing things like this. Remember Catherine, the new gal in the bakery I told you ‘bout? She just started her long-distance consultation from our St. George to their Hooveston...they’re willing to set up the first bureau in Utah,” and a brief chuckle from his end—”and they’re seeking prospects for the will-be Salt Lake City bureau.”
It was Sam’s turn to let out a sigh, his eyes drifting to the laptop screen and seeing that Applewood photo again. It’s as if those happy picture-perfect ponies were mocking him with their smiles for not deciding now. A short debate stirred in his head: One voice told him it’d be useless to change now since there wasn’t that many ponies or really any other Equestrians, former human or native, at home. The other said that he’d have to be ready in case some kind of magical contingency forced his hand.
“So,” Mike began after another bout of silence, “you’ve...worked there. How was it? Pretty good?”
“Pretty good,” Sam repeated, wiggling his toes on his desk to stave off that last bit of boredom. “A lot to write home about, really.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen the news over what happened yesterday.”
Sam shrank at that. Thoughts of the scuffle just outside the bureau returned at maximum speed. He could’ve been shot at by a trigger-happy firebrand or been trampled by a tiny stampede of ponies.
“Bad stuff,” Mike continued. “It’s actually good to hear your voice and that you’re not dead.”
Sam delivered a good smile which was useless since Mike couldn’t see it. “Good to be alive, no?”
Mike chuckled, his deep voice giving the laugh that quality of aged wine.
Silence once more, Sam looking out the window only to see blinds blocking the view.
Then: “Sam, your return flight is on Wednesday....Am I right?”
“Yeah, you are,” and tilted his head.
“So,” but Mike let out a cough, and then two, and then a hack of coughs. Sam put the phone away from his ear, hearing the grainy coughs and wheezes from six hundred kilometers away.
Then, he recovered. Cleared his throat to ask, “Will you...w-will you be back as a human?”
Sam’s foot stopped tapping. He didn’t even know he was tapping his foot.
“I almost forgot to tell you that. That’s why I’m calling you now.” Cleared his throat again. “We’re closing the bakery tomorrow ‘till Monday to do some renovations, make it more accessible to our Equestrian hires...so we’re prepared for you if you’ll come back...whatever you’ll be.”
A hand over the phone’s microphone to cover an annoyed groan. Sam didn’t feel up to the task of deciding, if his fist lightly bumping the desk indicated anything. He freed up the microphone and said, “Not yet. I haven’t made my decision yet.”
“I see. Well, no pressure. Can’t rush big things like this. I’ll do my best to hold out and keep the bakery running, but I know I have to step down and let some older new foal run the show or something.”
“Yeah.”
More silence. Tense, brooding, dense silence hung in the room.
“Nothing else, Sam? You doing good there in L.A.?”
“Doing good.”
“OK.” Did a big, long yawn. “Great to know. Hope you stay safe there. Have a good night, Sam.”
“You, too, Mike.”
And the call ended.
Let those few seconds hang
Then, Sam stared at his phone, stared at Mike’s call icon of a middle-aged man proudly wearing his cheap beret that said, We’re Bready.
However, Sam wasn’t ready.
What made it worse was his sudden realization that the HLF protest was only two days. Couldn’t ask for a change in airlines on the way home, so that entailed the cost of another flight home. And, besides, he’d gotten the round trip ticket from before at a very low discount mainly to also better enjoy his stay. The saved money would be a waste if they weren’t spent in this fine city.
He tapped his fingers on the desk, embroiled in trying to solve the problem but failing to.
And what if the PER called for a counter-protest to “defend” the bureau? He’d already heard of stories of lunatic ponies disrupting another bureau’s operations to ponify any and everyone in sight—over in Tokyo, no less.
Five minutes of this strain of thought led to a phone turned to the contacts list. There, in the middle, was the name Canter Crowhop with her cute pony face beside it.
He held a finger above her name.
Hesitated.
Then—