Sweet Celestia, I need a drink.
The words came to Price Back while he stared out the rushing train window. The lush green forests of Trottington had begun to fade away, now peppered with the half-rotted suburban structures sitting on Baltimare’s edge.
Price gave a look of firm disgust. At least Trottington has some neat sights, he thought. You’re lucky to find a well-trimmed bush in Baltimare.
He turned back to the aisle of his train car, looking at the other passengers who’d decided Baltimare was the place to be. Across from him sat an orange-haired mare with glasses and a low-hanging mane. A colt sat on the floor in front of her, bopping his toys together with a thop-thop noise.
“Gerg-boom!” the tot squealed ad infinitum. The noise made Price shrink deeper into his seat.
I don’t think there’s a legal way to throw him out of the train, Price thought, tearing a tissue into pieces and rolling them into rods. Crumpled tissues are easier anyway. Stuffing the paper into his ears, he saw a trio of young mares sitting a few rows back. They all had loose manes, and their faces all shone with a playful youth to rival the young tyke’s.
“I can’t believe Tender Heart is going to be there,” one squealed as softly as possible.
“I know!” another chimed. “He’s such a cutie! I hope he’s giving out autographs after the show!”
“Excuse me,” a voice called out. Price turned to find a white mare with a yellow mane looking expectantly at him. “Would you like anything?”
Lots of things, Price wanted to say. Like getting out of this miserable assignment. Such thoughts remained thoughts, and he just shook his head. “No, thanks,” he said.
“Alright,” she said with a smile before continuing down the aisle.
Nice effort, Price thought. But I could see the disinterest in your eyes.
He turned back to the window. Now the trees were nearly extinct, the metropolis filled with homes and high-rises choking the skyline. The once clear air seemed to have slight mugginess accentuated by the blistering heat shimmering in Celestia’s sun. Price could just make out the ponies now appearing below the train’s elevated track, scattering around like ants under a magnifying glass.
The sight soon became dull, and Price rummaged through his pack for something to cure his boredom. The usual dreck presented itself: an unfinished opening paragraph for the Giant Manta attack in Neighami, a roll of picture film needing a brush-up before he sent them in, filling the word count requirement on the Grazzette’s employee bios. But he soon found couldn’t do it on the train, where trolley cart mares and chattering children ran around unimpeded.
Price sat back and sighed. Why’d she send me? he thought. Fillymore usually covers this kind of stuff. I’m supposed to be doing the big scoops. Of course he knew perfectly why. After his experience with Lilligold back at the wedding, Manewell had gotten it into her mind that Price was willing to go to more “social” gatherings.
Never mind it was just one party after several glasses of champagne and with one very particular mare, he grumbled inwardly. Out of options, he sat back and dragged out the letter.
Dear Price,
I’m happy to hear that you’re covering the corruption story down in Detrot so concisely, and I applaud you for your hard work. However, I’ve noticed as of late that you’ve been a little more impersonal than usual.
Price scoffed. Implying I’ve ever been personal.
The letter continued: Being a reporter often requires one to be in several social situations, even if you don’t want to. Because of this, I’m sending you on an assignment that I think will get you more ‘in the groove’ with different kinds of ponies. Enclosed is a train ticket to Baltimare and a reservation at the premiere Hotel LeTrot. A Daring Do convention is being held across the street that I wish for you to cover.
Daring Do, Price groaned. Snowflake never shut up about her back home.
Conventions are where a lot of different kinds ponies meet, the letter droned on, so I think it’d be a good location for you to stretch your social muscles. Try to cut loose and have a little bit of fun (even if you are allergic to it). All I expect from you is a little fluff piece about the attendees. You might see a few wierdos here and there, but keep it mostly positive. A lot of readers are Daring Do fans, and we don’t need any bad publicity.
Cheers and have fun!
Manewell, Editor-In-Chief, Equestrian Grazzette
Ah, publicity, Price thought. Some worship Celestia, others Luna. Manewell is the only one I know of who worships Publicity, the all-seeing and all-judging God that decides the Grazzette’s future nine out of ten times. He put a hoof to his nose. How the hay does she ever convince me to go to these things? Must be some kind of magic that allows her to run that publication all across Equestria.
Of course he knew it wasn’t magic. Manewell was the only publisher that had even given him a chance in this business. Acerbic ponies like him didn’t get far in the journalism business, for as Manewell said, ponies like talking to ponies they can at least pretend to like. With his disposition, he was surprised he was even allowed to walk up the front steps of the Grazzette. So this trip was more about job security. Manewell was friendly and cheerful, but Celestia help you if you ruined her paper’s reputation. Publicity was a God that punished all who got on her bad side, and Her prophet Manewell was more than willing to make public sacrifices.
Price looked back down the aisle. The cranky kid had quieted down now, largely from the huge bottle his mother stuck in his mouth. The trio of mares had similarly quieted their giggles and squeals of delight to read some pop magazines no mare over thirty touched. Nowhere did the trolley mare trot, having disappeared into some other car.
Price closed his eyes and thought back to the wedding. Lilligold. Lilligold. The name was on his lips well into the station.