The next morning consisted of registration and the unlimited self-loathing Price Back felt having to cover a Daring Do convention instead of investigating a worthwhile story. The former was easier to deal with. The sign-in hall sat shunted away in the Baltimare Convention Center’s basement, as if admittance to the convention was akin to speakeasies from forgotten times. Even the registrars seemed to give him pitiable looks upon seeing his trimmed mane and hesitant steps towards the registration booth.
Poor fellow, their eyes seemed to say. Stuck here doing puff pieces and comingling with nerds who took a fantasy series too seriously.
I don’t need your pity, Price thought back. Just the badge. They obliged him, and he slunk off topside for his latest misadventure.
Upstairs, he found himself in an entrance line that seemed to stretch around the street corner and past the Convention Center itself. The summer heat made the waiting particularly strenuous, with the concrete and bricks absorbing Celestia’s rays all the more efficiently. Only the occasional tree or awkwardly placed modern art sculpture managed to provide shade and make the sweat ink down Price’s head a little slower.
Eventually the line thinned and Price found himself at the line’s conclusion. He caught the gaze of the large stallion standing by the doors, a yellow-furred figure with an auburn mane. His grey T-Shirt displayed the words EVENT SECURITY across his chest, the words pulsating as if ready to rip apart at a single flex. His nametag read “Tough Talk”, the letters written in fanciful cursive.
Price couldn’t help but sweat a little harder when the behemoth beckoned him forward and scanned him head to hoof. A matter of moments felt like an eternity in the Baltimare heat and Tough’s unrelenting gaze. But his eyes stopped at Price’s chest, where the bright red badge hung from his neck. Tough jerked his head backwards and motioned for the next pony. Price shuffled past, wiping his brow in the now air conditioned atmosphere.
At least this place doesn’t skimp on security, he thought. I’d hate to be somepony causing trouble around here.
The Convention Center itself was one of those places that stood as the ultimate representation of blandness. The halls were white, the walls tan, and the carpet a bland mish-mash of various dark blue shapes. Even the front-entrance pillars sat in such neat and unassuming positions that there was no risk of the architect’s personality sneaking through their structures. It was a place made to have as little personality as possible, a perfect camping ground for a hundred different groups on a hundred different days.
Indeed, the only thing giving the place any sort of personality now was the inhabitants. Ponies wandered by Price in dresses and suits, all in clashing colors that reflected brilliantly off of the hall’s dim hues. Strange outfits, the likes of which Price had only seen in the cinemas, adorned every other individual, whose terrible fashion seemed to outdo the next in gross succession. One particularly pudgy and sweaty fellow seemed to be dressed as some kind of large purple cat, his costume seeming just able to keep his rolls of fat from spilling out.
Great, Price thought, scrunching his nose at the body odor emanating off a passing stallion. I get the one with all the weirdos. This’ll be a blast.
For the next few hours, Price wandered between each panel room, listening to the speakers before creeping out to the next one. Each room shared the same jungle theme, with vines and potted plants stuck around the stages and the presenters wearing adventurer’s garb. Every audience stared up mystified and intrigued at their words, save the light brown pony in the back doing his best not to yawn and scribbling into a notebook.
Sweet Celestia, he grumbled, wandering out of the ‘Literary Love: Finding Your Special Somepony through Daring Do’ panel. It’d been Price’s fourth panel of the day after ‘Adventurous Costume Design’, ‘The Role of Magic in Daring Do’, and ‘Canon or Fanon: The EDW Daring Do Comics’. I stick around here any longer, I won’t even have enough brain cells to write the damn piece, he thought.
Price wandered back towards the Convention Center’s entrance, past the still vigilant Tough Talk and over to the stairs leading up to the Center’s second story. In one of his many fits of boredom through the morning, Price found himself reading the con’s program about the so-called ‘Secret Spots’ located throughout the Convention Center. The brochure promised these places as quiet layabouts for the overextended congoer in need of relaxation.
How it’s a secret if everypony can read about it is a conundrum, Price thought. But no matter. I need a little quiet, just so I don’t have to hear somepony gush about the Forbidden City of Cirrostrata for five whole minutes.
Past the stairs, Price turned the corner and stopped in his tracks. A small area sat between the glass windows and the stairs, the former showing the Baltimare streets stretching far into the west. The hideaway wasn’t too cramped, just wide enough to fit a few ponies without too much squeezing, and it hosted a long bench along the stair side.
But it was who was on the bench that caught Price’s interest. A mare in a grey cloche and purple shawl sat lopsided upon the far end, her eyes scanning over the convention guide through red-rimmed glasses. Her legs stretched over half the bench and her head propped up in her hoof. The mare soon glanced up, and Price’s face turned a light red.
“Sorry,” he said. “Thought this place was empty.”
The mare gave a small smirk. “Same reason I came over here.”
“Alright then,” Price said, walking backwards.
“Where are you going?” she chuckled. “I don’t own this spot.”
“Didn’t you want to be alone?”
“Yeah, but you said you wanted to be alone too. We can be alone together.”
“That…seems self-defeating.”
“Well, you can sit here if you like,” she huffed. “That’s all I’m saying.” She went back to the program and shifted her sitting position to take up less space. Price looked back at the convention hall and the bodies flowing through it in chaotic tandem. Shaking his head, he took the opposite side of the bench and took out To Hoof and Hoof Not. He soon found himself enveloped in the prose, but he could tell the mare’s eyes still focused on him.
“I’m getting the vague feeling you want to talk about something,” Price sighed, dropping the book to his chest.
“Clever fellow,” she said. “Definitely the traits of a reporter.”
Price’s eyes narrowed. “How did yo-?”
“Your badge,” she said, pointing at his chest. “Only the press get the red ones.”
“Oh,” he said, looking down at the badge to hide his embarrassed face. “I’m Price Back. The Equestrian Grazzette.”
“You in the Travel Department?”
“I wish,” Price chuckled. “They get better pay. No, I was put here because my boss has got it in her mind I’m some kind of social butterfly. Thinks I will become everypony’s friend with a little prompting.”
The mare nodded. “I remember when my parents did the same thing. Put me in the Filly Scouts and all those other afterschool activities. But I just wanted to travel and write all by myself.”
“I guess we have that in common,” Price chuckled. “I wander town to town for stories. Not the easiest existence, but it keeps me going.”
“Sure thing. You said you were with the Grazzette?”
“Yep.”
She chuckled. “My parents read the Grazzette when I was little. Sometimes I snuck a peek every now and then.” She shook her head as if she’d been in a trance. “But nothing particularly grabbed me. I’m a fiction writer, after all.”
Price shrugged. “To each their own. Though I write fiction too sometimes. Mostly when there’s no scandals or interesting stories to grab. It’s nice for relaxing, but I prefer the factual stuff. Nonfiction tends to be just as exciting as fiction, if not more.”
Another chuckle escaped her. “I’d have to agree with you there. I’ve experienced plenty of things that seem more fantastic than what any novel could dream up.”
“Miss Yearling?” a voice said. Price saw a small mare with a green Mohawk and bright yellow vest standing at the alcove’s entrance. “The next panel’s ready for you.”
Price looked back at her, his eyes wide and jaw slightly ajar. “Yearling? A.K. Yearling?”
The mare gave an immense grin. “Guilty as charged.”
“Huh,” Price said, an amused smile creeping across his face. “Didn’t think I’d be talking with the guest of honor.”
Yearling laughed, gathering up her things. “That’s why you look at the author picture when you read the book.”
“I’ve, uh…never read any of your books.”
She gave a look of faux-outrage. “Guess we’d better fix that then.” She took a quill out of her bag and scribbled onto something. She handed Price a book open to the title page: Daring Do and the Marked Thief of Marapore. A thick signature sat beneath the title.
“It’s one of the first in the series,” Yearling said with a smile. “Good for new readers.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Yearling passed by and began walking with the summoning mare. Price tapped his hoof on his knee, then stood up.
“I know it’s a bit sudden, but is there any chance of an interview later in the con?” he called out.
“Look at the schedule,” Yearling called back, not even turning around. “Any time between my panels…well, you know where to find me.”
Price gave a light scoff. He looked back down at the book, then put in his pack.
Just another weird experience, he thought, a slight smile inching along his face. Maybe this trip won’t be too bad.