//------------------------------// // Chapter 24 — Pretty in Pink // Story: The Runaway Bodyguard // by scifipony //------------------------------// I got a different impression of the gym than I'd gotten having passed it by. A tenement faced the cross-street, a former warehouse that like this one had been converted into housing. You could see extra floors through the tall warehouse windows, the type with wire in the glass to withstand breaking when hit with stones. The new floors were hard to miss, as was the laundry hung to dry from the awning windows that were operable. Built on a downslope between streets, it revealed a long angling solid wall like a receding gum line reveals the roots of an old pony's teeth. I took a good look at the white paint that curled away from the reclaimed brick lower class buildings were typically built with. It looked like dried mud, and made the building resemble a cockroach going through a molt. The sign, though... The rusty bolts were intentional decoration. The real fasteners held the unlucky horseshoe tight to the wall. A close look reminded me of the good silver back home, just before some hoofpony polished it, you know, oily black dust on dull metal... The sign might really be silver. Didn't bode well for membership costs. The open door was big, blocky, solid metal, painted blue, and repainted so many times that I could see ridges where previous brush strokes had forced subsequent paint to augment existing grooves. The stairs downward were swept clean up to the grit accumulated in the space between the riser and tread. The wood had worn into visible troughs to show where right and left hooves had trod over some untold eon. The light shone brightly, even if it were a naked bulb in a cheap porcelain fixture. The grunge ambience, if you could call it that, struck me as calculated. It didn't take more than a few steps before that old gym-sock smell, mixed with the stink of excessive perspiration, struck my nose like a punch to the muzzle. This was no gym for wimps or norms. Nah-uh. The bottom of the stairs revealed a basement that had once been cold storage for the former warehouse. Brick partitions criss-crossed the space with wide arches that buttressed and supported the weight of the building. It reminded me of the wine catacombs I'd seen in an archeology book. Intervening non-load-bearing walls had been demolished, and you could see bricks that hung from mortar but did naught but make the space look demolished. The decorating themes had undoubtedly been both "crude" and "unrefined." For all that, a string of bare bulbs left the whole expanse exceptionally well lit. With the calculated slipshod opening of the space, half a block in depth and breadth, every nook and cranny looked stocked or utilized— I reflexively jumped back onto the steps. A three lane running track ran the perimeter of the space and a pegasus a-hoof had purposely sped past my nose. I saw his moss green tail snap at me; the tan cur raised a wing to wave. He chuckled as he called back, "Foals should look both ways before crossing a street!" Face hearting up, I jerked—catching myself before racing after. Though my upbringing taught me little about sports, other than my self-defense training, I'd read a novel or two where the stallion love interest had endured fraternal or military hazing to the empathetic consternation of the mare protagonist. I'd been hazed myself, having become a nomad (ponies didn't like the name hobo), having lived in homeless encampments last year. Depending on how threatened I'd felt, it didn't end well for the hazing individual—nor me. I remember one snowy night being stupidly left no choice but to seek the protection of a tree and the heat of a blanket of rotting leaves heaped there by the wind. "Self-control," I admonished myself, hopping over the track despite the next red stallion being ten pony lengths away. "There's always later." I smiled. "Honey catches the unsuspecting flies." Coach Whistlebutt came trotting from the weigh-training machines. One clattered loudly as a bulky white earth pony released a stack of square weights on a cable. The word "gym" came from the root of a word that meant "exercise naked." Many stallions did just that, providing, for example an—let's just say educational—view of the white male mammal that had been doing squats at the machine that had just clattered. I gave him a calculated grin before looking dismissively away. Despite my history of using nudity psychology to my advantage, I was about to turn that strategy on its ear. Yesterday afternoon, a race official had trotted over with news after Whistlebutt had left. He'd said, "There's a cash prize for unicorn first place—at the dinner." He'd read me well. He'd handed me two tickets, though I judged that wearing the gold medal meant I'd get in. I'd sold both. Two things about the soirée, no three: One, it was a mob scene; I was happy to stand behind the velvet ropes. Two, the buffet was good—and the nine medal winners got first dibs. Three, I shocked the pegasus second place winner, her name was Lift, when I went directly for the grilled salmon and crab cakes. She stumbled and broke her plate. The five gold-bit prize made me happy. I'd left after the after-dinner presentation, avoiding the meet-and-greet. It meant shoving aside a particularly persistent purple paparazzi. Considering my prospective new career, it was time to build a reputation. Besides, I had shopping to do before Sacks or Needful Markups closed downtown. I was preparing for my next career, one where I'd have to deal with muscle-herds of the stallion persuasion. While I found some of my ensemble off the shelf, I also had to buy some fabric and pieces in need of tailoring by closing time. With silver bits to throw around, I convinced a pair of sisters to run their sewing machines past midnight, darting and seaming very special outfits to my specifications. Here's a lesson: Anything you learn can be useful. The year before I ran away, the manor housed a servant named Thimblelina, a unicorn with a scary silver needle and thimble cutie mark, a silver-white coat, and a red and purple streaked mane. The name "Mousey" would have suited her better for that's the way she acted, scared of her shadow, always skulking in and out without interacting. Proper Step had tasked her with tailoring my wardrobe. Fillies grow out of clothes quickly. Already deep in my goth period, I wasn't particularly pleased that Proper Step had ordered that my black and grey-brown frill skirts and button-down blouses be hemmed last. I'd ordered Thimblelina to work on what I'd wanted, not the waltzing dresses she been told to work on for an upcoming event. Yes, in my desperation that I might not be able to wear my favorite clothes, I had threatened to rip the hems she worked on. That merited me massive waterworks; she thought I might fire her, which I guess was what I'd implied. She acted like she might die. Thus I learned the facts of class oppression first-hoof. I also realized the whole thing might backfire and I might lose what little I'd won in my musical and clothing rebellions. I apologized and apologized, and began wheedling to get her to teach me how to sew. She liked that about as much me threatening to rip hems. It was "below my station!", but I'd demonstrated I could be the cur and insisted. What could she do but comply? She'd been taught by her mother, and when I stopped being threatening, she taught me what she could. It was beneath my station; she worried what she did might get out, but I liked the extended periods of silent concentration as we worked together. She liked the warmth and comfort of my "parlor", my room, over the stark servants' workroom despite the boy-band framed posters, the thick curtains I kept shut, and the occult pentagon and skull souvenirs of concerts I'd never been allowed to attend. The work involved magic and calculation, constantly moving needles, tying knots, releasing hems, cutting fabric, and holding fabric together in shape and in place. She taught me how to build dresses from scratch, using and authoring patterns. Thimbles fascinated her because she'd failed to learn how to provide an opposite magic force when she pushed a needle. It had been one of the things Sunburst helped me with so I helped her improve her magic over the four months we worked together. She still liked thimbles when she departed for her next position, but the last thing she told me was she was faster now and would be able to earn a better wage. It left me wondering about ponies being bound to their cutie marks. Was the thimble on her flank obsolete? Along the way, I'd learned the fundamentals of dressmaking. I added to my wardrobe enough elegant dark pieces that I could occasionally slip them into my daily wear. With that knowledge, I'd prepared for my adventure at the gym. I wore pink. Don't laugh! I pretty much instantly had all pony eyes on me for being flash, if not for nearly getting flattened by a pegasus on the track, or overtly ogling an earth stallion, or for having a famous fight coach trotting over to greet me. Of the hundred-odd ponies working out, even the dozen or so mares looked my way. I merited frowns and a few looks of disgust from that quarter. I huffed. I didn't care a single horse apple; if they thought it reflected badly on sports-mares, they needed to toughen up. I wore a hoodie of a thin velvety material that felt like velour, but kept me cool as I had trotted in the warming morning air. It would breathe because it was an enchanted "technical" fabric far too expensive for me to have budgeted—but if it worked as it should when I sweated, it would be worth it. I'd tailored it. It draped exactly along my barrel with slits to allow freedom of movement and dipped into tails exactly where it fastened at my dock, as if it had been made especially for me, which it had. I'd braided my tail and dyed it completely purple. The tails of the hoodie hid my actual tail, but if I lashed it they didn't restrict me. I'd dyed and braided my mane, also, piling it up into a couple of loops atop my head like a basket and pinned it there with a stick. The hoodie hid it all, and shadowed me up to the end of my muzzle. This counterintuitively made my eyes standout—I'd checked in a mirror. The brightness of the pink made my lavender coat grey by contrast; I liked that. The color and cut left no dispute as to my gender. "Gelding?" I lowered my hood and smiled. "You've reinvented yourself, again." "Too subtle?" I asked and batted my eyelashes. He narrowed his eyes and sighed loudly. "We have an agreement." "Flirting, not allowed." "Good, then. Follow me. I chose this gym not because it's close to you, but because it's the best fight gym and it'll accommodate your, uh, peculiarities." Besides the red of the bricks and the dirty grey-color carpeted floors, blackened steel machines dominated our path beside the running path perpendicular to the entrance. The primary colors—reds, deep blues, dark greens, and golden brown—of the ponies sitting between stacks of weighted cables added color as we passed. Many looked bewildered. I kind of liked bewildered in ponies. As we approached the east wall of the gym, the clack of weights going up and down returned, along with the chatter of voices. I saw signs that were drawings, suggesting exercises and repetitions. I saw others that warned about using weights properly, doing stretches, and how to stop bleeding. Sweet. We headed toward wide-open double-doors from which came a damp scent. I looked both ways before crossing the running track. I heard showers. The floor changed from grey carpeting to white and green hexagon tile, the type laid down in mats. The grouting around the sheet seams looked cockeyed and was a different color than that around the smaller square pale yellow wall tile. Inside, I saw a long line of green stalls, which from the sound of flushing had to be the loos. A rose-pink pegasus mare fluffed her feathered wings in front of one of a long line of steel sinks admiring herself in front of a scratched mirror, then proceeded to preen with her lips. Beyond her, I saw a line of lockers also painted green, some of which were either bagged up or had been pried open and mostly fixed. Across from them came clouds of steam. In between was a blond wood bench. It looked in good shape, polished smooth by an endless supply of pony flanks. A palomino earth pony with a white towel over his withers sat hunched over, looking exhausted, beside a folded business suit and a red tie. He didn't notice when we walked by. I passed the open showers. Two mares soaped each other to one side. An old blue unicorn stallion stood with his eyes closed, blissfully enjoying an endless stream of hot water. I felt my lips compress. Unisex facilities. At the end, we came to a partition. Stained brown canvas had been stretched over yellow scaffolding and irregularly sewn into a "room." It cut off five pony lengths of the communal showers and a third of a bench. A gate was wired into the scaffold and had been locked with a padlock. Whistlebutt held the key in his magic. "How thoughtful," I said, taking it. "Not 'thank you?'" "Thank you," I said, curtseying. He pointed at my hoodie and said, "Please don't make this harder for me than it has to be." I unlocked the padlock and pushed open the gate. I saw an open floor-to-ceiling locker with another padlock and a key, a third of a protruding bench, and a shower nozzle at the other end. A mirror had been hastily nailed to the wall. I said, "You were the one that said you liked how I was making like a muscle-herd at the press gathering yesterday. Attitude. Being unique." He peered in as I slid off the hoodie and stowed it with my saddlebags in the locker. I slammed it shut, latched the padlock, then proceed to pull at it until the metal hasp and the locker itself began to complain, then let go so it clanked. He eyed my tank top. It resembled satin, blazed fluorescent pink, but was another technical fabric. It fit so tightly that you could see in detail how I had curry combed my fur this morning, but you couldn't see color through it. Even wet, it wouldn't turn transparent. It was the same with my tights that went from my waist, over my haunches and down to my fetlocks. Stretchy in the extreme, it fit similarly tightly but didn't feel constricting. Best of all, for my purpose, it outlined every curve, every joint, every tendon, and every muscle. It revealed everything when I swished my tail, but securely hid my lack of a cutie mark. The tights were deep black, with a pink stripe leading to my dock before splitting to run over my flanks to my lower ankle. Whistlebutt, well, whistled. "This goes beyond being unique into the realm of trouble. This isn't the time to be playing dress up. Silver's likes having a reputation for training champions, but we aren't the only customers." "I know what I'm doing," I said, shouldering him aside as I exited my little domain. As I stepped out, the green earth pony mare with an orange mane hanging down her neck dropped her soap, but didn't pick it up. She tapped the pegasus beside her, who looked up, then also starred. I waved. "Stop that," Whistlebutt said. "I'm just being friendly." "I know you need to dress up, but I have a bit more experience in this—" "Do you—?" "I want you to go home and change into your Bite o'Kale giddy-up from yesterday." I lowered my voice. "I know what I'm doing." "And that's what, pray tell?" I stepped closer so the audience of four—no five now that a brown pegasus had stepped out of a loo and noticed the pink blazing at this end of the room—couldn't overhear. "Have you ever lived in a homeless encampment?" "I— What—? No." "You've got a bunch of ponies; some are just scared, some down on their luck, some sick, some willing to throw their lives away to drink cider until they can't see straight, and some of the above a little crazy and possibly mean on top of it. The city gives them tents, wants them to stay hidden in the parks, but they choose the streets to huddle upon. They have blankets. They graze or beg for bits. It's not ponies you choose to live around, but when they group together regular ponies aren't going to chase them off, and your homeless neighbor isn't going to rip you off. They shout at one another for the most minor of minor things, and laugh until others feel slighted, then shove and posture. I've had to live with them dozens of times, and you know how you get left alone? You shout the loudest, you shove the hardest, and you make everypony think that they'll hurt worse than you will if they cross you." His mouth dropped open. I smiled. "Pink says more elegantly, don't you think?" He blinked. His voice was a whisper. "You lived in a—a—" "Homeless encampment? Many, coach. In Baltimare. In the Tincup Wildlife Preserve outside of Fillydelphia. In fallow fields herding with the migratory workers. Brings new meaning to adapt or die, doesn't it? I guess you didn't get it when I hinted at my past that night at your place. I'm not crazy or sick, and my seemingly lousy luck is simply because I left an untenable situation with insufficient resources. I will earn my way, and, to be clear, if I can't get ahead here, or you happen to ruin what I've gotten so far for myself, I will start over and learn from my mistakes. I am not stupid. I may be wrong, but don't mistake me for stupid." "This explains much." "Like what?" "How you can fight..." He gasped. "That monster you mentioned!" "A learning experience." He looked at the hexagonal tile floor for about a half-minute, then shrugged. "The accommodation meets your approval?" I latched the outer padlock and said, "I've seen mansions less accommodating of my needs." "Really?" "Look, I didn't mean to frighten you." He tensed up. I walked ahead, nodded to the gawking mares who still dripped soap. I said, "Feel free to rise," as I passed them. Oops. I'd meant to say rinse. Whistlebutt trotted up and led the way out. "I am beginning to understand you better." "Good," I said. "When you fully understand me, fill me in." He laughed.