//------------------------------//
// Chapter 50 — A Proposition 
// Story: The Runaway Bodyguard 
// by scifipony 
//------------------------------//

None of the other mares in the house would speak to me. They ignored me at the table, except to pass platters when I requested it, never asking any returned. I guessed everypony took it personally that I'd had the temerity to speak up to our shared hunk of a stallion.

"I've been ostracized from the herd," I pouted at breakfast.

That got me looks.

When I started laughing so hard I had to steady myself from sliding off the chair, eyes that had alighted on me darted elsewhere. Those same eyes went wide when I received a note from the staff ponies. Gold and silver bits lay on the silver tray.

Reading it, I said, "Goodie. An assignment. Thank the dear colt for keeping his side of our bargain."

The escort job would take me three leagues north of Baltimare to the very north end of Lake Raven Reservoir. I'd never been there, so I took day trips to Roosterville, Phoenix, and Weather Bee, to see how the locals spent their pre-dawn and early mornings, memorizing the map book pages for the area. The afternoons, I trekked through the park. I picnicked under canopies of beech, hemlock, and hickory. With nopony around, I grazed on yellow-flowered wood sorrel and green vines of spicy garlic mustard. Both made for a tasty breakfast.

The old earth pony we escorted from the docks at 3 AM four days later wore a blue pork pie hat that matched his dyed mane and fur. His mackintosh repelled the dewy morning fog. He kept the collar flared, but his shifty green eyes made me speculate he might be wanted by the constabulary. I didn't want to know. I explicitly told everypony my preference.

Citron and a couple earth ponies I worked with once before accompanied me. It was good that I had the lemon meringue colt, since at dawn we encountered a "forest ranger" at the periphery of the park. Citron knew our routine, and he'd grown nicely into his hooves during the last few months. He trotted nonchalantly onward as I blocked the thirty-something palomino unicorn. The "ranger" wore a believable uniform khaki shirt with brass buttons and a like-colored wide-brimmed campaign hat. Dew had stained his clothes and hat darkly. His breath condensed in the morning coolness.

I saw no copper badge, but I could pretend, right?

I asked, "We were looking for a picnic area with benches. Can you direct me?"

"No." He made to pass me on the trail.

I pulled back my chin as if shocked, stepping in his path, reaching into my saddle bags. "How unfriendly. It's right on my map, but I can't figure out where we are." I now had spells queuing and a random piece of paper floating in the dusky light. His eyes were caramel brown and angry.

He tried to peer into my hood, but I pulled it forward and kept the sunrise behind me. He grunted before trying to shoulder past me, the former prizefighter.

"Hey!" I said as he bounced off trained muscle. I added a flank butt to make him stumble. I saw, and smelled, horse sweat. Despite the cold. "How rude. I just want—"

From zero to cast, most unicorns that are trying to be fast take one-half to a full second to prep a spell and cast it. He was fast, but I was prepped already. I dropped, in case he aimed Force. His Push sparked gold as it hit the top of my Push. He'd aimed at my face. I'd aimed for his back legs, and he folded backwards, skidding across wet grass, sitting.

"Are you trying to pet me?" I asked demurely.

He leapt, trying to barrel by me offthe trail, hitting my Shield. He sank in a half a pony length, then rebounded hooves over hindquarters. He rolled back up to all fours. At least a street fighter. Okay; I might learn something. Teeth clenched, he pointed his gold-glowing horn at my chest. Or maybe not.

Newbie error. You don't have to point your horn to cast in that direction. It telegraphs your intent.

By the time his spell, some kind of static shock spell, crackled through where I'd been, I'd bull-rammed him in the stomach and threw him. Fortunately for him, I had a stubby horn. He rolled over my back and landed with a thud and an, "Ugh!"

I pinned him. He didn't fight back with horn or hoof. Instead he started retching. Horn. Stomach. Right? (He'd had hay and carrots for breakfast.)

"Really!" I huffed. "You could have just told me where the picnic benches were. I mean. Come on!"

When he got control of his stomach, he tried to yell. I ended up holding his muzzle shut for about five minutes, in his sick due to our mutual geometry, until he nodded that he would return the way he came, quietly.

That's a snapshot of what an eventful job looks like. Most of them are nothing hay-burgers.

I caught up to Citron at the edge of the lake, small waves clacking beach pebbles together in a meditative quiet, spiced with bird song. I saw a magically propelled-boat round a tree-lined point with a waving red hazard flag. I let my protégé report the successful send-off and went directly to Prancetown. 

I found my flat newly emptied and the middle of the room illuminated by the morning sun. I sat, rolled on my side, and slept contentedly until evening. A long gurgly noise woke me. I stretched out, pointing my hooves and tail and sighing, before massaging a shoulder stiff from laying on a wood floor. My stomach growled plaintively.

"Okay! Okay. The Red Noodle, was it?"

The day I'd signed the lease, Broomhill Dare had used Levitate to send a whisk-broom with a note to the restaurant; she had an incredible range. They'd sent a delivery colt. Today, I walked around the block of whitewashed townhouses and multi-level homes, some also painted yellow or light blue, all with white trim under generous elms. Each street corner had catty-corner restaurants, though I found a laundry and a couple of markets. The north side of Birch Ave had a few tall buildings, the brick five-story, right across from the Red Noodle, being the largest. Tape and traffic cones highlighted where the town was narrowing the cobblestone streets by adding modern cement sidewalks. Some gravel-filled wood-lined holes waited to be poured. I sniffed and caught garlic on the breeze.

I stepped around the construction obstacles to the restaurant. Looking down, I saw something that made me smile. Somepony had dropped a broom on the cement before it completely set. I saw hoof prints roughly astride where the earth pony must have stepped to retrieve the tool and inadvertently sat. 

The wait for a table was an hour, so I elected to sit at the bar. Perhaps my mane still pushed into a bouffant deflected the inevitable question of my age. I had dug into my spaghetti and treat-balls, magically twirling pasta around my fork, when I felt somepony watching me.

I kept eating until the bartender in a white shirt and black bow tie placed a pink drink before me. I smelled almond, chocolate, and based on the condensation on the outside, vanilla ice cream. Red sugar sprinkles rimmed what Proper Step had taught me was a martini glass, and a cider-soaked cherry sat on top. The bartender pointed a black polished hoof.

A tan earth pony sat around the corner. He had a horse-crest cut just past hoof-length and wore an open-collared blue shirt. He had some Saddle Arabian in him because he was tall and refined-looking, though only in his mid-twenties. A long scar on his jawline and blue eyes made him look both weathered and intriguing. I gave him a come-hither wave.

He started, "Hi. I'm—"

Waving a hoof, I said, "Sorry. I can't accept this. I'm underage and I don't want the restaurant to loose its cidering license."

"Oh." He sounded surprised, but only an ear flicked. The bartender slid the drink in front of him. Helpful Hanna. The stallion sat on the stool beside me. 

Before I could object, he said, "Hey, Blender! A Surely Contemplative for Lady—" He raised an eyebrow at me.

Wasn't going to say Aurora Midnight. 

"Gelding." I wasn't working—when I saw the bartender pour ginger soda and Grenadine into a tall glass of ice, I didn't add my catchphrase. 

The fellow smelled like he had been doing hard labor as earth ponies are wont. Not horsey in a bad way. Thanks to Steeple Chase, I was becoming a connoisseur of stallion physicality. In my ingenué-like momentary examination of him, he added, "I'm Safe. That's my name, not an adjective. You'll have to decide that yourself."

"Nice pickup line," I said as he swiveled on the stool to show his cutie mark on a muscular flank. I, of course, looked closely. I saw a warding hoof held up and a white picket fence. "Safe, huh?"

He smiled. "New to the neighborhood?"

The Surely Contemplative arrived with two straws and two Mareschino cherries. I popped a cherry in my mouth. It tasted like pure sugar, but not like a cherry, disappointingly. I was fond of cherries. I followed with a sip. The fizzy ginger soda cut the garlic flavor in my mouth nicely.

I faced him. "Well, thank you," I said, sketching a sitting curtsy, then channeling my patrician accent. "That said, sir, I'm not a filly to fancy rolling in the hay. That is the correct phrase?"

"Uh, close," he said, his ears flicking again. The way-too-helpful bartender slid Safe's dinner plate before him. I saw aubergine and white cheese, breaded and pan fried, in a red lake of chunky tomato sauce and toasted garlic.

Not trying to be annoying or anything, I floated my fork and knife over and cut a piece, before saying, "May I?"

I had it to my mouth before he answered, "Sure."

"Oh, that's really good!" Gooey cheese, garlic, rough cut polenta breading. Fragrant oregano. How could it not be?

"I'm glad."

"And, yes."

His left ear flicked. "Yes? Huh?"

"Yes. New to the neighborhood."

More ear flicks. He cut a piece of his dinner, then stirred the rejected drink and sipped it.

I asked, "What is it?"

"This? A Pink Squirrel."

"Doesn't taste like squirrel, I hope."

"Squirrel?"

"A scarred bush-tailed scoundrel and I once had a disagreement over some acorns. He bit. I bit back. Nasty. His hair, that is."

He chuckled. "Your reputation precedes you."

I put down my fork and knife with two loud clacks. I narrowed my eyes in his direction, but kept my horn lit with a Push.

I saw my blue-green aura reflected in his too cool blue eyes. "As advertised," he added. He smiled, finally, though I didn't take it as friendly.

"My name, you know, is a—"

"—Gelding is a verb—"

"You are making me wish this really was about a roll in the hay. I might learn something. As it is, you're ruining my supper."

"That's not my intention. I'm told you are what mages call a high-level unicorn, one with ambivalent ethics."

"Let's call them uniquely fungible," I corrected. "Was that supposed to be a complement?"

"It's a proposition."

I sucked in a breath. "That is an overloaded word, dear sir."

"No sense of humor, so I've heard." He raised both hooves. "Sorry. I've got a job you might be interested in."

I found myself breathing faster and my heartbeat becoming rapid. I swallowed and inhaled deeply. Keeping him in my peripheral vision, I sedately picked up my utensils. I twirled my spaghetti while queuing up Teleport. He let me stew almost five minutes as I finished my dinner. My best guess was Safe was a member of a rival gang, despite the lack of tattoos, chains, loud dress, or other signaling.

He took out a coin purse and nonchalantly stacked gold bits near my vaguely red drink. I blinked, then looked up. He was taller than I.

I wiped sauce from my lips, saying, "What kind of job?"

"Oh, this and that," he prevaricated.

My tail swished. "You are paying for my dinner."

He lay a hoof on my shoulder, and it was no accident. Doing so connected our two masses, his 150% of mine, and made Teleport immediately untenable because I would have to teleport him and I would be over my mass limit. He knew that.

Somehow. 

Maybe.

My hoof firmly on his, ready to brush it away, I said, "I have a job already." Lower, I added, "You cave-horse-brain stallion gangster-types just don't get that I do what I do because I want to, not because I have to. I earn my bits. I can start again and I'll earn again just fine. Worse for you, I don't have to earn any bits and I'd be perfectly fine." I thought, Homeless or back at Grin Having, didn't matter.

While I had been speaking, he'd added more gold bits to the stack with his other hoof.

I growled. "Not happening."

I pushed his hoof hard enough to rotate his stool, but not to knock him over. I trotted away, unwilling to telegraph to everypony that I really was the highest-level unicorn this side of Canterlot—and to test if he had brought friends.

He hadn't.

Over my shoulder, I added, "If you see me again, walk away. I'd hate to see such a handsome colt accidentally trip and hurt his pretty face."

I was on the train back into Baltimare before I realized it. I huffed. Well, I did need a mattress for my Prancetown flat, anyway.