//------------------------------// // Rising through the ranks // Story: House of the Rising Sunflower // by kudzuhaiku //------------------------------// Standing in the shadow of the asylum entrance gate, Sundance shivered. Beneath the bridge he stood on, the water in the moat glistened with every colour of the rainbow—though not in a beautiful sort of way. The water was best described as a vile sludge with the consistency of runny, lumpy oatmeal. A drain pipe dribbled disgusting ooze, and Sundance suspected that the alchemical plant located here poured its waste directly into the moat.  As for the asylum itself…  It did not make a good first impression. There were dozens of buildings inside of the walls, all of them quite old, a relic of an earlier time. He saw bars on the windows and all of the fortified doors appeared to be made out of metal, which was painted a bright, garish red. The gate was black iron, spiked, and the spaces between the bars were too thin for a pony to slip through. If one climbed over the walls somehow, then one would land in the moat—and what a horror that would be.  To make things easier on himself, Sundance imagined that he was a knight sent to rescue a princess from some noxiously evil castle. Yes, a noble knight, who was fearless, bold, and brave. Though it could be argued that bravery was not the same as an immunity to overwhelming effects of fear. As he stood there pondering this subject, a little voice in the back of his mind suggested that he had to keep his fear in check; fear was the enemy here and if he went stupid while inside these gates, he might not ever come out again. The realisation made him swallow, and there was an uncomfortable lump in his throat that just wouldn't go down.  "Can I help you?" a guard on the other side of the gate asked.  "I'm here to pick somepony up," Sundance said to the guard.  "The residents here are incurables," the guard replied. "Nopony gets out. Ever. You must be mistaken."  "I have a writ," Sundance said. "I am supposed to pick up a filly named Sparrowhawk."  Chewing on his lip, the guard appeared to be quite dubious, and Sundance wondered if he would be denied access. Nothing was said; nothing happened. The sounds of the city somehow faded and the silence reigned supreme. Getting past the gate would be a challenge all its own—and getting out again might also prove difficult. Sundance wished that Corduroy was here, or maybe Paradox. More than anything, he just wished that he wasn't alone at this moment; he needed somepony—somebody—to save him from his own stupidity, should it happen.  "Can you come back at another time?" the guard asked.  "No," Sundance replied in as firm of a tone as he could muster. "I am Lord Sundance Sunfire, of the Sunfire Barony, and I will not be turned away. If I am made to come back, it will be with an army."  "Oh… crap. Look, I'm on hourly and don't get paid enough to deal with this kind of minotaur shit. I'll let you in, but you're going right to administration. Those assholes and their salary pay grade can deal with you." Heaving a sigh, the guard shook his head from side to side. "Those assholes in administration aren't going to like this at all. I'd better not lose my job over this crap. Come along, and follow me."    Administration stank of disinfectant, old paper, and stale ink. The floor was a checkerboard pattern of pale green and dingy white tiles. Scuffed, scarred wainscotting on the walls was evidence that this place had seen better days. Closer inspection revealed that the wood was practically decaying, and bricks bulged behind the yellowed, off-white wallpaper. Sunlight struggled to shine through windows stained with a film of nicotine. Above him, Sundance saw yellow-brown nicotinecicles, the sight of which threatened to turn his innards inside out.  An old mare with a leathery, sagging face squinted at Sundance through greasy bifocals. A cigarette hung out of the corner of her mouth, and her lips were stained an unpleasant yellow-orange, along with patches of her fuzzy face. Her eyes were festooned with red spiderwebs, and she appeared to not have slept at any time in the past two-hundred years. She wore a wig which fitted poorly around her stubby horn, and one ear was snagged on some clotted, clumped curls.  "This is highly unusual," the mare said in a frog-voiced croak. "You're here to pick up property. I don't know anything about this. Administration can't help you, sir. Perhaps management can sort this out. We here in administration don't actually do any real administration. We just fill out paperwork to satisfy union demands. I hope you understand."  "I do, actually. This is where ponies too old to work but too young to retire end up. A sort of bureaucratic vegetable bin where the useless sorts are put away to satisfy the unions."  Clearly offended, the mare sneered at him, and the cigarette held in the corner of her lips bobbed up and down, which caused the smoke to curl crazily. "You got a smart mouth on you, you do."  "Oh, I know." Sundance nodded, and allowed himself a sardonic smile. "There's ponies out there struggling to make ends meet and working two or three jobs, all while you get paid to smoke in your office. Just imagine what those freed up funds could do to help others."  "Well, there's no sense in delaying you. I'll take you to management. Right away."    Management was somewhat nicer, but not by much. There was less nicotine, but the stench of alcohol tickled Sundance's nose. Somepony around here imbibed a bit too much liquid lunch. He studied the floors, which were matted, faded carpet, and couldn't help but wonder what century they had been vacuumed last. Diplomas were hung on the wall, along with photos in chintzy wooden frames. Some of the photos were black and white—most of them in fact—but a few had colour.  A middle manager type read the writ over and over, his eyes darting back and forth like two weasels hyped up on caffeine. This pony was pudgy, pear-shaped, and he clearly spent too much time sitting in the comfortable chair behind his desk. His shirt and jacket were sweat stained, wrinkled, and in need of laundering. An atmosphere of boiled cabbage and bottom shelf booze lurked about him, a great guaranteer of equinal space.   "I don't recognise one of the names," the sweaty stallion said nervously. "For all I know, this might be a forgery. "Who in Tartarus in Mi Amore Cadenza? There's no Princess Mi Amore Cadenza, as far as I know. I recognise Princess Twilight Sparkle and Prince Blueblood. But I dunno who this Mi Amore Cadenza character is. I'm not sure this is legal."  "That's Princess Cadance. Of the Crystal Empire. Or, Empress Cadance if you—"  "Well why not just sign her proper name? For all I know, this is a forgery!"  "So, when I come back with an army of Royal Guardsponies, you can explain to them your ignorance and your—"  "Whoa, hey now!" The sweaty stallion bristled with offense, and bared his teeth. "We're a province of the City State of Fillydelphia. Don't you think you've done enough with your lockdown of the city? Now you gotta threaten us too?"  "Give me what I came for, and I will go away," Sundance said in neutral tones. "I can be reasoned with. For now." "I can't give you what you want," the sweaty stallion replied whilst he shook his head from side to side. "This will have to go through the directorate committee. All we do here is hires, fires, and payroll. Occasionally, we dole out severance packages when there's budget cuts and layoffs, but those have to be agreed upon by committee."  "So," Sundance said, his patience wearing thin, "stop wasting my time and take me to somepony competent enough to help me. Take me to somepony that's actually in charge… or else. You're about to be really busy with a backlog of firings."  "Eh… oh… oh shit." The sweaty stuffed shirt blinked in alarm. "Uh, follow me. Right this way."    The evidence of money and refinement could be found everywhere the eye dared to look. No trace of brick could be found; everything was covered in fine-textured plaster. Under hoof, the floors were fine hardwoods and luxurious rugs. The vents blew out cool air that was remarkably stench free. There were windows up here, clean, with fine shades and curtains. Money, like cream, rose to the top, and this office space was downright palatial.  In the middle of it all was Autumn Allium.  Sundance thought of his visit to Cactus Creek, and he could not help himself; he found himself comparing the two places. He found that he much prefered the perfect ponies that acted with altruism and kindness to the soulless bureaucrats found within this mouldering asylum. There was life to be found in Cactus Creek. Here, there was rot, shame, and horror. Director Buttergebäck was kind, warm, and inviting.  Autumn Allium was not.  The middle-aged earth pony sneered at him with open, brazen contempt, her absolute dislike for him evident upon her withered features. She'd been silent for some time now, and she just stared at him with outright loathing and resentment. He knew the gig; he'd worked his way up the food chain, and he'd spooked a few underlings. The bureaucratic game had strict rules, and he'd learned quite a few of them during his long project.  But now, he was in uncharted territory.  Sundance saw what he could become, and he didn't like it; not one bit, not one iota.  A caretaker that did not care was simply a taker, and nothing else.  "I don't even understand how you managed to get her name," Autumn Allium said to Sundance. "The names are unavailable to the public."  "That strikes me as suspicious," he replied.  "Then you are an ignorant fool," she snapped. "It is done to protect the patient's privacy. Once they are here, it is best that they are forgotten."  "I would imagine that it also makes it very difficult to find ponies that have gone missing from around here—"  "Don't even mention such slanderous gossip. It's all conspiracy! There's no proof!"  "There's no proof because the names are stricken from records," Sundance said as he fought to control his rising fear and anger. If he went stupid now, he worried that his own name would be stricken from the record. "I have her name, and I have a writ stating that she is to be released into my custody."  "Pfah, ownership! Disgusting! A relic of Equestria's barbaric past!"  "You don't get to talk, lady. How many ponies do you have here, held against their will, with no record of them even being here? How many captives do you hold?"  "How dare you speak to me in such a manner!"  "An accusation is not an answer," he said to her, mindful as ever of his own fear. "Like it or not, I'm here to fetch property. As owner, I have a right to what is mine."  "This is highly irregular," she said, her tone much softer now. "We don't just release patients. It's not done. For their own health, we keep them under a fixed routine. Change of any sort is traumatic to them. Do you really want to hurt this little girl? Hasn't she suffered enough?"  "I am almost certain that she's done nothing but suffer while in your care."  Hatred. Sundance saw outright hatred in the mare's eyes. She'd tried a softer, nuanced approach, which rather blew up in her face. If looks could kill, Sundance knew that he'd be a corpse on the floor, a heap on the fine paisley-printed carpet. Autumn Allium hated him and she did nothing to hide her rancor. It distorted her face with a great many wrinkles, and hidden fires burned just behind her narrowed eyes.  At first he thought about what his mother might do, but that was a bad idea. Officer Mom would beat this mare to within an inch of her life, he suspected. No, that would not do. As for his father, his father would never allow himself to be caught up in this sort of situation. His grandmother would likely deliver a righteous smiting of the hindquarters—Officer Mom got it from her mother, afterall. Which left him thinking of his Great Grandmother. What would Princess Celestia do about this?  Probably what he was doing now: staying the course.  "Please, can we get on with this?" he asked. "My time is actually quite valuable." The unsaid implication hung in the air very much like an anvil shoved out of a second story window and he saw her bristle. "Deliver to me what is mine so that I might go about my business. Only ponies who waste their own time have the time to waste the time of others."  "I can't do what you're asking," she said through teeth that clicked together with every movement of her jaw.  "You can," he returned, "and you will. Go on… hop to it. Be a good public servant… and serve." He double-tapped his hoof against the floor to indicate double time. "You and I have the same job descriptions. But unlike you, I do my job, and I do it well. Might I recommend submitting requisition forms for a public relations agent? You seem to have some difficulty. Just a suggestion."  She ground her teeth together, which made an awful sound, but offered no other response. Sundance listened, and while he did so, he did his best to control his breathing. Short steady breaths. Regular. Rhythmic. She'd lost her cool, but he hadn't, and so, for the moment at least, he had the advantage. Princess Celestia might have handled this with a bit more grace and nuance, a bit more diplomacy, but Sundance was pleased with himself—at least for now.  "Very well," she said with visible ire, which could be seen with every muscle twitch. "Follow me, if you will…"