Crux's request to HR for assistance during the Hearthswarming holiday rush was met with a delayed response that consisted of a small, poorly treated cardboard box and a sticky note. What he really needed, and had asked for, was someone to stand around and occasionally take orders in his place while he prepared drinks. He was fairly quick, but swapping between drink-making and order-taking during the occasional rush of departing or boarding customers had thrown him off pace once or twice. He figured his request would probably be granted, maybe, or at the very least denied in a dignified manner.
He wasn't sure what to make of what he got.
Crux didn't have time to open the box or read the note in the evening. The traveling crowd kept him busy, if just below overwhelmed. Little of note happened, which he was grateful for. Later into the night, when the car/cafe/thing was mostly devoid of other life- a unicorn from the train's decoration department was putting up a rather large painting on the wall across from the counter -Crux figured he had some free time to check out what HR had sent him earlier.
Picking up the note, he felt it lightly dusted in something ashy and burnt-smelling. A shake or two got most of the dust off, and he recognized the handwriting as belonging to whoever was behind the Mocha Mocha name. His paychecks had a stamped copy of their signature, and the dark purple calligraphy he was being treated to matched the signature loop for loop.
Crux, you amazingly fantastic avian feline! Why did you not write sooner? Thou'st surely knows we taketh the greatest care of our employees! Especially the toilsome few working nightmare shifts! However dost thou stayeth sane, aboard such a maddening vessel of corporate-consumer hell? Don't bother answering, for I already know'st it is because you are aptly suited for thine treacherous role in our journey to stability and economic salvation. It is with that in mind do I recognize that even the grandest champions sometimes require a suitable co-operator, for what is this troublesome trek without befitting companionship? All the best, ~MM
"Blegh."
He didn't even read it aloud and he still felt gross. Who still writes like this? Well- he could think of a few big-name ponies, but none of them seemed like they had the time to be running a shifty train cafe network. Beyond the terrible writing, the overly dramatic description of what he assumed to be the night shift was off-putting, like there was something he wasn't picking up on, or had yet to experience. Or this was just a company joke to make the night workers paranoid. He figured he'd start worrying about batshit crazy things when they started happening, rather than before. Returning his eyes to the note, he found a P.S.
Oh, and despite the item name and description, don't actually try to wash your hooves- or talons -with this. Also, don't get it wet. And please, in the name of all things jolly and warm, do not eat this. Not that you would, but just in case, know that this thing will literally go right through you. Like, right through. Instant stomach pump. Don't even lick it. Trust me. Do not lick the stone.
Well, that built up a good deal of interest. Sort of. Crux set the note on the counter, wiped his digits off on his apron, and opened the box with a claw. Inside was a pale rock, wrapped in a dirtied scrap of fabric. It was about as long as his hand, and roughly the width of one of the smaller mugs he had on a secured rack behind the counter. One of the ends outside the wrapping looked like it had been scraped and smoothed, while the other just looked like your average chunk of faintly glowing stone.
He gently set it on the counter, stuck a note to it warning customers not to lick it, and stared at it in contemplation. How exactly did this help? Was it one of those stress relief things? Was he supposed to talk to the rock about his feelings? Throw it at annoying customers? Squeeze it passive aggressively?
His attention was yanked back to things that actually mattered when an interesting duo entered the car. Coming through the door was a tall, regal unicorn who was, well, very red. Her mane, a dark cherry red, contrasted her bright, eye-snaring coat. She wore a fittingly reddish-brown overcoat, and had black winter boots on her hooves.
Seated on her withers- oh, and for the reader's sense of scale, she bumped her forehead on the doorframe before entering. Anyway -was a compact little unicorn whose eyes were concealed beneath a mane worthy of a kirin. The only things immediately indicating he wasn't a child were the long, stabby horn and the mane-colored tufts of a goatee. His coat was a pale grey and his mane (and 'facial hair') was(were) a charcoal black. He was fairly underdressed in comparison to the red mare, only sporting a maroon bowtie and woolen slipper-socks. "Comfy", thought Crux, kind of wishing he had slippers at work. He'd have to remember to get a pair to match the work uniform. Maybe some tipless gloves too-
The ordering went without issue, though the two would giggle often, nuzzling and poking noses. Crux felt a little fuzzy inside watching their sporadic, lovey-dovey antics, and he did his best not to think too hard on a literal interpretation of feeling fuzzy on the inside. He shuddered, having failed immediately, and went to work making their drinks. Lucky for him, they both just ordered the stuff from the pots, so they had their beverages in well under a minute. He went back to pondering the use of the stone while the two settled themselves at a corner booth, the pale stallion cozily snuggled in the tall mare's lap.
And the night moved on, quietly.