//------------------------------// // Weathering the storm // Story: There's Magic in the Air // by Clopficsinthecomments //------------------------------// Jot - Day 4 This elevator was so damn slow. Jot slammed the button again, snorting air out of his nostrils as he did so. Two interns who just happened to find themselves in the lift with him had already shrunk away, pressing themselves against the back wall as far away from his unbridled fury. At any other time, he would have turned around to reassure them that everything was OK… but right now he was content to let the negative energy radiate off of him, unchecked terrifying. DING! The cab reached its destination, and he burst through, eyes darting left and right. ‘Just give me a target.’ He wanted some stupid pony to come up to him with a cheery greeting — he’d love nothing more than to take somepony’s head off in the middle of the busy news area, a collateral sacrifice to the pure rage that he was feeling for his editor, Hard Copy. His hooves stomped annoyingly into the corporate, industrial carpeting — he wished that there was something more solid beneath him — something that could provide him with a nice clacking rhythm for his rage. He’d never felt so angry before — his jaw actually ached with how hard his teeth were grinding into each other. The grey mop of a mane came into view as he rounded a corner — his target was sitting in one of the larger conference rooms, surrounded by the division heads of different parts of the news organization. In the midst of some bullshit meeting about something Jot couldn’t care less about. Good. He wanted an audience for the screaming match he was about to get into. But just as he was choosing the particular invective that he would start his tirade with, Hard Copy caught sight of him… and for just a moment, Jot saw something that made him stop cold in his tracks. He had the slightest, barest, sliver of a grin. The bastard had glanced at the bigwigs all around the table… and then back at him… and he’d grinned. It was such a small thing, but it revealed everything to Jot. He wanted him to explode, to go off like a madpony, to curse him out and tell him to shove his forced Trixie story up his tailhole. ‘Hell, he would probably love it if I quit right here on the spot.’ The pieces clicked into place. He wasn’t trying to give him an opportunity when he got me the Trixie story — he was trying to drive me out. He knew Jot was prepping a positive spin story for Trixie and set him up for an impossible position… either take the cover story and ruin your principles, resign, or flame-out! That was how the old bastard had kept his spot for so long: by driving out young talent that could be a threat to him. The strain on his clenched teeth was incredible. A part of him wanted to give in. He could march in there and turn the conference table on its side. Play right into Hard Copy's hooves and damn the consequences — who gave a buck at this point? But that Celestia-damned grin. Jot couldn’t stand to see that again. He had to be smart. It took every ounce of control he could muster, but he turned and started heading back toward his desk. He could feel his muscles aching from the tension; it was almost painful not to go after the editor… but somehow, he managed. He collapsed into his seat, barely resisting the urge to sweep all of his stacks of research off the various cabinets and desks in frustration — if only he’d been less messy and more organized the subject of his research would never have been discovered. But it wasn’t over. Not yet. The beginnings of a plan were forming in his head — Jot slid open his Rolodex, fishing through the printing department personnel until he located the name he’d been looking for. Perfect. “Jot? What’s up?” Hard Copy’s voice made him slam his hoof down on the Rolodex, shutting it quickly. “Hmm? Nothing.” Jot coughed. He tried to focus on the typewriter in front of him — anything to avoid looking at the asshole unicorn’s face and betraying the depths of his anger. “Really? I saw you storming around earlier and thought you wanted a word.” “Nope, all’s good here boss, just working on the story.” Jot began punching some of the lacquered black keys, idly typing nonsense boilerplate in an effort to avoid thinking about or speaking to his boss. “Ah?” Hard Copy’s voice sounded less sure than it had a moment before. “Well, good… that’s a big investment the company is making in you. They even took an ad out in the paper today — did you see?” “Mhm.” The shortest reply possible. A grunt, really. “I know you wanted to go a different direction with the story, but this is a good thing kid. It’ll show the higher-ups that you’re flexible to the needs of ownership. You’re alright with that, right?” Hard Copy was leaning over him more and more, trying to get into his field of vision. “Yeah.” “I mean if you don’t want to, I can have someone else do the story.” Hard Copy needled. “I know you’re a pretty principled writer and all that, I mean — it might look bad but if you want to maintain a high standard of journalistic integrity.” The fact he was saying it aloud so blatantly showed just how desperate he was for Jot to play into his little trap. “No, that’s fine.” “Really.” Hard Copy’s tone was clipped, angry. Good, it gave Jot some satisfaction — just enough that he wouldn’t stand up and deck the bastard across his face. “Well… fine then… but I want to see your article in full before it goes to press Saturday night, I want the final draft Friday afternoon.” That was a full, half-day before the usual deadline, and a massive change from the routine procedure, where an established writer like Jot could clear his work with the proofer. More evidence that the old editor was desperate to get a rise out of him. But Jot wouldn’t give that to him. “Sure thing, boss.” “Good.” Hard Copy sniffed. “With a writer like you, I’m gonna have to do a lot of revisions I’m sure. Honestly, I don’t know why they gave you this shot anyway.” ‘Changing your strategy already?’ Jot hit the carriage return with a forceful tap, sending the whole thing traveling back with a loud DING, that punctuated their exchange. “No problem boss, I’m writing it now. Kind of busy, actually… so….” With a growl, Hard Copy turned and left. Jot scarcely noticed. He was already lost in the clattering of his typewriter, keys flying as the words poured out of him. It helped that he had a new motivating force behind his writing — one that he’d never felt before. Revenge. Trixie - Day 4 *KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK* The knocking sound echoed through the clearing. She didn’t want to do this, had no stomach for it, but it had to be done. “Trixie? Are you in there? Please!” Jot’s voice seemed desperate, needy. ‘Good.’ “Get away from my door.” The words felt good coming out of her mouth, like they’d boiled out of a deep painful pit in her belly, bringing some of that pain with them. A good opening volley as far as she was concerned. “Trixie! Thank goodness, I’ve been here for almost half an hour trying to talk to—" “Well Trixie is sorry she made you wait, Mr. Bawdy.” The sneer felt good on her face. She wanted to hurt this pony as he’d hurt her. “Trixie, listen that st—" “No you listen.” Trixie stepped forward, knocking the pegasus off of her doorstep with a blast of magic like he was a piece of paper, causing him to stumble off the small wooden steps and fall onto the grass. “I don’t want to have anything to do with you, understand? It’s one thing to regurgitate the lies that have been spread about me for years… but to go so far as to fake being my friend so that you could manipulate me?” She shook her head and stared down her nose at him, mustering every ounce of venom in her body. “Disgusting.” Jot frowned. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you — it’s not true. You’re talking about that advertisement, right? My asshole boss was trying to force me to—" “Save it.” Trixie snapped off. She hadn’t expected him to be so bold as to try to make excuses, to try to lie his way out of this. It was satisfying to shut him up. “I don’t want to hear another word from you. Ever. Ponies like you may have poisoned the public against Trixie, but I know a princess personally… and if you ever so much as come near Trixie again, I’ll make sure you regret it.” She flicked her nose up, staring down her snout at him. She held him for a moment in the fire of her gaze, enjoying watching the stallion melt, hoping to shame him into withering away from her. But he wasn’t staying down. She was surprised to see him find his second wind, standing up and setting his broad shoulders squarely to address her. “Just listen damn it!” His wings flared out. “I wasn’t writing a negative story on you. I never was! My boss knew that I was crushing on you, so he knew he could screw me into bucking up or quitting by forcing that damn advertisement through!” Trixie straightened. ‘A… a c-crush?’ Gods how she wanted that to be true. She looked at the desperate stallion, his eyes set in a knotted frown, teeth grit, nostrils flaring with frustration. He looked just like somepony who’d been badly wronged, who wanted to lash out against some cosmic injustice done to them. She knew that feeling well. Her gut twisted with anxiety — she didn’t want this complication! Anger and outrage were so much easier. “H-horseapples.” “I swear.” Jot stomped his hoof, grinding it into the dirt. “I… I really like you, Trixie. I used to think you were just another pompous half-villain, back when I first started looking into your story, but then I saw how you are with your fans, with foals… and I got to know the real you. I’ve been writing a piece about you, yes. But it was a good story—" “Stop.” Trixie breathed, twisting her head away as if trying to reduce the force of the words impacting her ears. “NO!” Jot pressed on. “I need you to hear this. I want to tell the whole world how special you are Trixie, how you saved Equestria, how you help ponies all across your tour, how you won a place in my h—" “STOP.” The shout came out of her, fading into a soft sob as it did. Why were there tears again? She’d just spent the whole morning crying out every last tear… getting over this… over him. how could she still cry? “Trixie, it’s OK. Just let me—" “NO!” Trixie flared a burst of magic through her horn again, a force bubble flashing outward. She wanted to believe him, wanted it so badly. That fantastic feeling she’d experienced the night before, excitement and anticipation, the feeling of being wanted, loved… Could she get back to that? “I… I’ve just cast a truth spell, I’ll know if you’re lying!” She sobbed, fibbing about the nature of the magic outburst she’d just released. “Trixie calm down, it’s… it’s OK, I’m not lying. I’m your friend.” He hadn’t even hesitated, hadn’t flinched — he either wasn’t lying — or he knew that she couldn’t tell. But maybe… maybe she could give him the benefit of the doubt? ‘No!’ Memories of her awful morning surfaced, the hurt, the betrayal. The only thing that had kept her from packing up and making a retreat to the comfort of Ponyville and her friends was the significant monetary penalty in her contract to perform for Manehattan Park. And after such a miserable morning, such a betrayal, out of it all, all the mistrust and sadness, she’d come to ask herself a single important question: why? Why was she even putting herself through this? Life on her own wasn’t so bad. Certainly not so bad that she needed to expose herself to so much pain. She took in a sobbing breath, chewing her cheek to stave off a complete breakdown. She might not be able to tell if Jot was telling the truth, but if she was OK on her own… did she need to? “No.” “No?” “No — I don’t believe you, Jot.” Trixie hung her head, watching her massive tears fall to the ground. “W-what?” “What kind of idiot falls in love with somepony he’s never met in person? With somepony that he only knows from research and stories?” “T-Trixie…” She looked up at him, hoping that he could see the sincerity in her eyes. “You don’t know Trixie Jot. Even if you’re telling the truth — it doesn’t change anything. Thinking Trixie is some hero-mare is just as asinine as thinking Trixie is a villain.” “I’m not—" “Trixie is not a good pony, Jot.” Trixie cut him off before he could speak. “And she’s not a bad one. Trixie doesn’t know what she was thinking yesterday, but she’s thinking clearly now- you don’t know who she really is, you never did... and your precious story, good or bad, could never capture the real Trixie.” It hurt to say these things, hurt to see their impact on the earnest pegasus, to see his ears folding back in anguish as she went on. “I-I wanted to get to know you, the real you…. I thought I w—" “You thought wrong.” Trixie sniffled, clearing her throat. “I’m sorry, Jot — but… you never will. Goodbye.” Trixie turned away from the stallion’s stunned face before the sight caused her to reconsider, slammed the door behind her…. And started to sob. As hot streams poured down her cheeks, she realized how foolish she was to have wanted Jot to be telling the truth, to truly be in love with her — it would have been so much easier to know that he was an evil bastard. To know that she was hurting a pony who deserved it, and not somepony who had just gotten too close. She couldn’t help but imagine the doors she was closing to protect herself. Those sobs became heavy, uncontrolled, heaving. Apparently, she wasn’t done crying yet. Not by a long shot. Jot - Day 5 Jot stared at the page on his typewriter. The damn hum of the light on his desk lamp was far too loud for his comfort. The rattling of his keys was usually enough to overwhelm the dim buzz of the fluorescent bulb, but the blank white page partially fed through the antique writing-device betrayed the complete lack of progress he’d made on the article. It was infuriating. For so many months, he had been ready to write — all his bullet points, all his research, all the opening paragraphs he’d planned. Hay, he’d even punched out several drafts of the article that he had planned to write — all of them completely useless now. Trixie’s harsh words still echoed in his ears. In his heart. He had never wanted to hear such things from her, to know that it was even possible he really hurt her in such a profound way. He’d never wanted to do that to her… not to anypony… but especially not her. How could he have gone so wrong as to make her cry? Buck. He tore the draft piece of paper from the side of his desk, crumpling it into oblivion and firing it over his shoulder into the growing pile of detritus that had been building up there over the past few hours. She was right of course. And wrong. Mostly wrong. Maybe. He had been a bucking idiot, putting her on so high a pedestal. He wasn’t sure why his opinion had changed so much since he’d first heard of her — was he trying to like her? Was he rebelling against the status quo so that he could feel high and mighty compared to all those other judgemental Manehattan ponies? So that he could feel like he was a real reporter while all those others were something more? Was he so vain that he’d convinced himself that he could see the good in Trixie, just so that he could convince himself that he was special? No. It wasn’t just that. He shook the self-deprecating thoughts out of his head. Somewhere along the way, during all the time that he’d spent with her... he’d fallen for her. Jot tapped on the space bar on his typewriter several times, advancing the key position without adding any ink, letting out a sigh as he did so. If he kept pressing space, if he filled the entire page with nothing, he’d walk away from the article loving that pony in his own heart. The story he was going to tell was really for other ponies. Not him. How he felt didn’t have anything to do with his story. Not anymore. She must have known that too, known that whatever he wrote at this point would not change their feelings for one another. So why had she been hurt so badly by the possibility he might have written an attack piece? There was no way he could hurt somepony like Trixie without actually having found some spot in her heart — she wouldn’t care about the impact of a story on the public… she cared because she thought it might show how he felt… and she was too smart to think her affection was a one-way street. A slow shake of his head accompanied the memory of Trixie slamming the door shut in his face. Maybe she’d been so brutal to convince herself she didn’t want to be with him… to risk being hurt... but she’d also done it to hurt him. There had been spite in those words. There had to be. So… She really wasn’t a good pony. Nor a bad one… she was just damaged, scared, alone… Like him. Like Trixie. Like every other pony on this planet. “And just where the buck does that leave me?” He asked the empty room, slumping to his elbows and digging a hoof into his cheek. He could write the slander piece. Trixie wouldn’t care. It would probably torpedo all of Hard Copy’s machinations. That would give Jot a chance to skyrocket in the eyes of the senior management at the paper, launching his career to the next level… but he would care. It might be bad for his career, but he couldn’t distance himself from his writing, couldn’t pretend that what he put to paper didn’t matter. He could write his puff-piece and get fired. Become a pariah among the various writing outlets — lose any hope at being a professional writer in the city. Accept life as a despised pony on the streets — the loser who had tried to defend one of Equestria’s greatest villains. He could run away. But really, the blank page had already told him exactly what he had to do. Write. Never meet your heroes. An editorial by Bawdy Jot. You’ve probably heard the adage many times. But how many of us actually take the prescription as issued? How many of us, instead, congregate around the various politicians, athletes, actors and heroes that grace our beautiful city, desperate to bask in the limelight of their celebrity, even if only for a moment? Some of you are aware that our city has had a visitor for the past few weeks. You probably wouldn’t have known it but for the advertisement in the paper on Thursday. That’s right, Trixie Lulamoon has graced Manehattan as part of the summer festival’s ‘Play in the Park’ spectacle. The one-time supervillain has been delighting the city’s foals and families for almost a month, with feats of magical daring and flashy fireworks. If you hadn’t known, Trixie would likely have returned next year as well, becoming the popular summer festival’s longest-standing attraction. Ever since the uproar, I’ve been informed that Manehattan’s Central Park Planning Committee will not be inviting the mare to return. Many fans who have waited long hours in line to speak with the showmare after her shows will be disappointed not to receive a follow-up next year and a chance to experience another special night filled with memories of Equestria’s greatest magic show. But who can blame those denizens of our fine city demanding her immediate expulsion? We all know the details about how Trixie Lulamoon remained one of the few villains to have escaped the Princesses’ justice. Nopony has forgotten just how she enslaved one of Equestria’s more productive farming hamlets for days and even threatened the safety of our most recently anointed Princess, Twilight. But how familiar are you with the facts of the story, really? We often gloss over details when the narrative is so compelling. We salivate with anticipation and jerk at our chains, eager to abandon the subtlety and nuance of a situation, discarding them as mere fluff, unneeded brakes applied to a steaming locomotive of self-assured righteousness. Still, I owe it to our readers to make them aware of all the facts. For instance, Trixie was under the influence of a cursed magical artifact, now known as the Alicorn Amulet. This device compelled its user to corruption and evil. She had obtained this artifact after a dispute months earlier with Twilight Sparkle as a means to level the magical playing field between them. And no, she didn’t know that the artifact had such corrupting properties. After being freed of its influence, Trixie remained in the affected hamlet town until all of the damage she’d done had been repaired, and she personally apologized to Twilight before leaving in self-imposed exile from the area. Few ponies know that she voluntarily surrendered to Princess Celestia’s royal academy for a thorough investigation of any ongoing corruption and the effects of the amulet. Even after being cleared, Trixie asked what she could do as a means to receive forgiveness from the solar diarch. My court sources in Canterlot told me that the Princess was surprised that any punishment was even being considered and cleared the unicorn’s record of any blemish. A pardon was not even offered - because in the Princess’ eyes, she hadn’t done anything wrong. She didn’t run from justice — she faced it. But that doesn’t sell papers. That doesn’t empower our legislators to raid and regulate magical artifact shops across our country. That doesn’t help our news reporters to stir panic and division, or our business ponies to exact revenge on rivals. Few ponies are aware that the owners of our publication, as well as several other media outlets in Equestria, obscure their holdings through an elaborate set of shell companies, trusts, and legal vehicles. Ultimately, over seventy percent of mainstream media groups are beholden to the Flim and Flam brothers. Those same brothers had a long-standing dispute with Trixie when she violated contracts with the brothers regarding endorsement of their brand of discount wands, capes and magical supplies. Although it’s impossible to go into detail for each of the editorial decisions made by the Flim and Flam brothers-owned news organizations, a simple mathematical analysis shows that they ran with stories that portrayed Trixie negatively over 85% of the time during the year after the incident, while other more ‘neutral agencies’ averaged only 10%. So who is Trixie, really? Try asking your neighbors, friends, and family members that have gone to see one of her shows. Fan reviews of her events are always glowing. “I wouldn’t miss it even if the Wonderbolts were hosting free-shows the same night. I haven’t skipped a show since I first saw one five years ago!” Said Skip Hoofsmith, a thirty-year-old accountant at Tuesday’s show. “Trixie’s amazing, and I’m taking my niece to get her poster signed afterward, last year Trixie gave her a magic lesson!” Another glowing review from Jumble Jumper, a teenage mare in line last Friday with her younger niece for the much-beloved meet and greet that has become a staple of Trixie’s shows. Trixie’s insistence on keeping her shows run out of smaller venues, and personal settings have kept her fanbase from exploding — but allowed her to keep a core, dedicated smaller group of fans. Although, looking at the lines after her shows might make you doubt that assertion, with lines that stretch out for hours. But Trixie spends time with each and every one. Stories abound from her fans about times that she has gone that extra-special mile for her supporters — even following one family home to provide a private magic-show to a sick filly who was unable to attend the actual show. But so what? Just because she’s a good showmare, that doesn’t excuse a terrible and dangerous mistake, does it? Maybe not — but she also saved thousands of ponies, the princesses themselves, and all of Equestria! And not in some obtuse, indirect way. I’m definitely not suggesting that the increased regulation of magical trinkets has prevented further amulet catastrophes from occurring. She literally saved our nation. We all recall the panic from two years ago when our capital suddenly went dark. Communications and infrastructure in the central core of our country abruptly cutting off, only to be replaced with confusing replies and bizarre outputs from ponies that seemed off. Only later would it be revealed just how close our society came to complete destruction, with whole swathes of the population replaced by Changeling interlopers. This included our princesses, taken by surprise in their sleep. Only the quick thinking and brave actions of former villain-unicorn turned hero managed to free our monarchs — freeing our new friends the changelings from Chrysalis’s grasp in the process. We celebrated Starlight Glimmer as a triumphant hero of Equestria. We even gave the mare a ticker-tape parade through our busiest streets, giving her the key to the city and hosting her on all our morning TV shows and late-night programs as a mare all of our fillies could look up to. And she deserved it. But ponies quickly forget that she had help. Again, news agencies suspiciously downplayed the fact that a group of four stormed the anti-magic citadel to rescue our princesses. In the case of King Thorax and Discord, this is somewhat understandable. One was a member of the race that had just made the coup attempt, which could confuse the story. The other is a well-known memetic hazard, and by convention, we try to avoid invoking the chaos god too often. But Trixie was there too. From direct testimony at the Canterlot Noble’s Special Commission on Capital Security after the incident, Starlight pointed out numerous times that Trixie risked her life and prevented the mission from failing. Efforts which received her commendations from the commission and the Hero of Equestria award, the highest honor our nation can bestow. Strangely, that was not mentioned in the press, which chose to cover Baltimare’s Humie-con instead, burying the award ceremony which was attended by all four princesses deep in the pages of their journals. So, who is Trixie? A hero. My hero. And I made the mistake of meeting her. When you elevate somepony to the level of hero, you set unrealistic expectations for them. We have been spoiled by Princess Celestia, who appears to be without fault, excepting the odd scandal involving cake and sweets. We have seen ponies who embrace fame and celebrity by choice, like the Wonderbolts or our actors and politicians, who are ready to handle all the pressure that comes with it. Trixie wasn’t used to being treated like a hero. She was used to being treated like a villain. The burden of simply being a hero can be crushing, overwhelming. She rejected it when I tried to give those burdens to her. In doing so, she reminded me that ponies are not archetypes of justice and evil, not paragons of light and dark… but complex, nuanced creatures. It was a valuable lesson, but a hard one. And during it, I didn’t meet a hero. I met Trixie. So don’t meet your heroes, don’t meet your villains. Meet the real pony underneath, if you’re ever so lucky as to get the chance. This will likely be the last article that I can write for this paper — and as I depart I place my faith in my fellow Manehattanites that we give Trixie the benefit of a fair shake — as a real, good, pony. -Bawdy Jot He slammed out the last letter on the typewriter, then gripped the page and pulled it out with a single motion, placing it reverently in the stack that he would shortly edit and proof before delivering directly to his contact in the printing room. It had taken a hefty bribe and promises that no blame would fall on the printing staff, but he had been able to convince the crew awaiting the final copy that his story could be submitted directly to them, as opposed to the usual channels through the senior editors and the final proofreading teams. It was a sneaky way to sidestep Hard Copy and his demand for a hit-piece, but it would work. As it currently stood, the machiavellian editor had no idea: Jot had submitted a completely separate, faked article for his sign-off, and that vile, slander-filled piece was what he thought would come out the next morning. Wouldn’t he be surprised! Jot shook his head with half-bemused mirth. If he was at all responsible, he would be using this time to update his resume and make sure that the important personal effects that littered his workspace came home with him. His termination was all-but-guaranteed; in fact, he would be lucky if he was able to avoid a civil suit for what he was doing. His career was over too — how could you employ a writer who had a history of going rogue and burning down the establishment that he worked for? But he was too tired to care about that now. Writing his article had drained him. Emptied him. All he wanted to do was sleep. For a week. Maybe the whole thing would have blown over by then. He snapped the light on his desk off, likely for the last time, and turned to leave. ...