Chapter 3: Liars, Cheats, and Other Proud Equestrians
Princess Celestia strode down the hall, her steps purposeful, a fire burning in her eyes. Ponies parted before her in reverent fear. No longer was she the gentle monarch of Equestria. This was a monarch of decades, if not centuries past. A monarch on the warpath.
And war it most certainly was. The Canterlot Whisperer had humiliated her not once, but twice. Three times, if one counted the original dentures article Sunset had shown her. They’d thrown her court into chaos, delayed the great work of ruling her nation, and with this latest insult, had created yet another lawsuit against her.
More than the artists, it seemed that everypony that had ever used the colors of her mane for anything was suing her for loss of value. For Mother’s sake, even that pool toy manufacturer she’d investigated after the incident in summer was throwing their hat into the ring. Altogether, this lawsuit had swelled to an enormous two-hundred fifty thousand bits in damages.
Supply Curve had actually fainted when he saw it.
The Whisperer was targeting her like locusts on a harvest, and it would not stand. She had not endured centuries of loneliness, conflict and disasters, both natural and unnatural, to let this tabloid get the better of her. Had she not personally led the charge when her nation had been in conflict with the dragons? Had she not led her nation in the war with the griffons?
If it was a fight The Whisperer wanted, then it was a fight they’d get, and Celestia was determined to once again grasp victory in her hooves.
But this was not the usual sort of war. There would be no need for soldiers, for dramatic charges or harrowing sieges. No, this required something special, something unique to get the tabloid to back down.
Her first thought was to sic the royal attorneys on The Whisperer and sue them for defamation and liable. But according to Jurisprudence, the mare in charge of the royal law firm, that was not a viable option.
When a public figure such as herself sued for defamation, you had to prove that the defendant, in this case, The Canterlot Whisperer, had acted with malicious intent. Such a thing was very hard to prove, said Prudence, and would only serve to add to the frenzy, drawing more public attention and helping the story spread down from the lofty heights of Canterlot.
That was why Celestia was here, rather than within the rough stone walls of her barracks. Though some ponies, she knew, would have found this place far more intimidating than any barracks. A place whose agents were more bemoaned than any military force.
The Equestrian Revenue Service.
Finding her destination, Celestia walked into the office. If she were forced to describe the space in a single word, Celestia’s choice would have been dense. Though it was small, every wall was covered in bookcases and shelves, each one crammed with binders, their spines meticulously labeled with perfectly centered stickers.
In the middle was a large oak desk, its surface completely filled with work implements, from stacks of papers to one of the largest account books she’d ever seen, to copious pots of ink and enough quills to fill a pegasi’s wing. Not a single shred of space had been wasted, not even for personal effects such as photographs or the odd knickknack.
From behind this desk sat a single earth pony. His face was...bland. In fact, to the passerby, he was perhaps better labeled as the blandest pony one was ever likely to see. Everything, from the muted colors of his beige mane and tail, to his average face, to his cutie mark, a simple “2+2=4,” to his mild expression and professional, yet at the same time, unremarkable attire, screamed “bland.”
This was the sort of pony that other ponies imagined whenever they thought of a faceless government bureaucrat. The sort that came by to enforce some random and archaic regulation. The sort of pony that every citizen of Equestria prayed to avoid for the whole of their lives.
He was exactly what Celestia needed to win this war.
The stallion got up from his seat, looking at her with a dispassionate stare. “Your Majesty?” he said evenly. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”
The alicorn strode up to his desk. “Number Cruncher,” she said, “I heard from the director of the ERS that you’re the most effective agent they have.”
“I don’t like to brag, Your Majesty,” drawled the stallion. Indeed, bragging would have required some form of emotion, which this pony seemed wholly incapable of. “But I take it you have need of my services?”
Celestia locked her magenta eyes with his gray ones. “Tell me, Number Cruncher, to your knowledge, has The Canterlot Whisperer ever been audited before?”
The stallion didn’t look at his files, didn’t even blink, before giving a confident “No, Your Majesty, they never have.”
From what Celestia had heard, he didn’t even need to look at his files. Every numerical factoid of the ERS was logged into his mighty, calculating brain.
“I take it you would like to correct this?”
Celestia nodded curtly. “Yes. I want them audited, Number Cruncher. Do your most thorough work. Examine everything. Follow every procedure to the letter, and don’t bother with any consideration.” Anger boiled in her chest as she remembered the last few days, and her voice rose to a more passionate pitch.
“I want every inch of this business put under a microscope, and any impropriety, no matter how small, to be paid for.” She leaned in, her gaze never wavering an inch. “I need you to do this for me, Number Cruncher. You and only you have the skill needed to carry this out correctly. Not to mention,” she added. “It would be a great personal favor to me, as well as the Equestrian government. Can you do this for me?”
Most ponies, after receiving such an impassioned request from Princess Celestia herself, would’ve jumped at the chance to serve, the fire in her eyes filling them with the fighting spirit of a thousand marching soldiers.
Number Cruncher merely gave a placid nod of his head. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
Celestia grinned. This would be the easiest war she’d ever won.
“And you will turn over all the relevant documents?” droned the government agent.
“Of course,” said Salacious Gossip, editor-in-chief of The Canterlot Whisperer. “We’ll have all the account books sent down to you by the end of the week.” He put on his most cheerful fake smile. “Anything to cooperate with the ERS.”
The other stallion nodded his head, an action so stiff that Salacious could practically hear the creak, like his neck was a hinge almost eaten through by rust. If it had been any stiffer, Salacious would have thought the earth pony’s head would have fallen off.
“Good,” he said. “Have them delivered to my office as soon as possible. I will be in touch.” The pony then attempted what Salacious could swear might have been a smile, but was so devoid of any actual emotion that it was more disturbing than comforting. “Good day to you, sir.” Turning around, he walked out of the office with all the grace of an old tin soldier.
Once the agent was out of earshot, Salacious jumped to his hooves. “TATTLE TALE! GET IN HERE!”
Several of his reporters ducked for cover as his voice thundered and reverberated around the office floor. Some even shielded themselves with their notebooks, while others held up their pencils in terrified self-defense.
A minute later, Tattle Tale swaggered in. “You wanted to see me, chief?”
Salacious eyed the unicorn balefully. “Yes, Tattle, I wanted to see you,” he seethed, feeling a painful beat between his eyes. “Do you know what I had to do just now?”
“Not a clue, chief.”
“I had to deal with a government agent,” Salacious said, his anger rising with every painful beat. “We’re being audited, Tattle Tale. Audited by the most mechanical pony I’ve ever seen in my life. And who do you want to bet is responsible for this? Hmm? It’s you!”
Salacious threw open one of his drawers, withdrawing a bottle of pills, and quickly popped one into his mouth. “You stirred this thing up with Princess Celestia, and now she’s having us audited!”
Tattle Tale didn’t even seem bothered by his boss’s outrage. That was the thing with him, he always seemed as smooth as silk, a trait that was useful in certain situations, but highly irritating in others, particularly when he got himself, and the paper, into trouble.
“Come on, boss. Just because some ERS pony shows up for an audit doesn’t mean it’s because of me.”
“Oh please,” shot back Salacious. “That’s horseapples and you know it.” He massaged his forehead, willing the medicine to kick in. “I should never have let you keep going with that stuff. It was bound to turn out badly, like provoking a nest of flash bees.” The stallion slumped back in his swivel chair. “What am I going to do now, Tattle Tale? Huh?”
“Hey, take it easy, chief,” said Tattle. “Keep that up and you’ll keel over.”
“Take it easy? Take it easy?!” The headache pulsed even harder now, a steady, powerful thumping in his brain. “You started a war with the crown, for crying out loud! I will not take it easy! You’re always so confident, Tattle Tale. You think you’re so smart! So, tell me, how are you going to fix this?”
Staring into his chief’s now tomato-red face, Tattle Tale just grinned. “I got a plan.”
“I’m telling you it’s true!”
“And I’m telling you it’s false!”
“You’re a fool to believe that!”
“You’re a fool not to believe it!”
Princess Celestia sighed contentedly as she watched the two stallions yell back and forth. It was Day Court, and, as usual, she was hearing petitioners.
These particular petitioners, Cold Spot and Paranormal Activity, were semi-professional ghost hunters who had gotten into a heated argument, which they’d come to her to ultimately resolve. The former believed that run-down houses became haunted simply on the merit of being run down, and furthermore, that renovation acted as a form of ghostly exorcism. The latter adamantly denied this as ridiculous.
“Why, I bet,” said Cold Spot, “that simply seeing a better kept house nearby makes the run-down house jealous, thereby attracting even more spirits.”
“Now you’re really off the deep end!” snapped Paranormal. “Ascribing emotion to houses? And really, what makes you think that ghosts want to dwell in run-down buildings?”
“Because they usually do,” insisted Cold Spot. “The restless and morose nature of spirits are naturally attracted to places that are empty and broken.”
“Not all ghosts are sad or angry,” said Paranormal Activity, stamping a hoof.
“Really? Come on, Paranormal, they’re ghosts, they’re not exactly going to be happy-go-lucky, are they?”
Honestly, if these two had come to her at any other time, she’d have probably been annoyed by the inanity of it all. However, today was not like most days. Today was another blissful reprieve from the chaos of the tabloids. It had only been a couple days since she’d commanded Number Cruncher to the front lines of battle, but in that time, The Canterlot Whisperer had caused her no more grief.
No doubt, they had been cowed into keeping their distance at the appearance of a sudden audit, scrambling to get their records together and praying that her agent didn’t find any discrepancies.
Which he would. Even if the paper didn’t have any outstanding violations, Number Cruncher was known to compulsively pursue even the smallest of infractions, every misplaced comma and decimal point. She doubted The Whisperer’s records were that pristine.
And now, here she was, doing actual work again. Actual, legitimate work of ruling a nation. No absurd questions about her teeth or mane being thrown at her, no more lawsuits being filed, no salesponies trying to sell her things. Just actual petitioners with problems they needed her help with. Her mood was so light and giddy that not even this rather ridiculous scuffle could bring her down.
“Gentlecolts,” she said serenely, interrupting the two stallions. “I understand why you came to me to mediate this rather...unique debate of yours, but sadly, despite my years, I do not have much experience with ghosts.”
When the two started to protest, she held up a gold-clad hoof to silence them. “However, I do believe I have a solution you will find acceptable. Does your field of study not have some form of publication dedicated to it? A journal, perhaps, which like-minded ponies can use to discuss and debate their own theories?”
Both ponies looked at each other in confusion. “I...don’t think so?” said Cold Spot. “I mean, I know about magazines, but...”
“Yes, yes there is,” said Paranormal Activity, face lighting up with recovered memories. “The Ghost Hunter’s Quarterly. A very fine journal, if I do say so myself. Stopped publishing a few months ago when they ran into some financial trouble.”
“Then,” suggested Celestia, “why don’t you both try to get the journal back on its hooves? I’m sure your fellow ghost hunters would be glad to pitch in. And once it’s back in operation, you can present your theories to your peers and discuss it among yourselves. A civil discussion, of course.” She gave both ponies a chastising look. “Grown ponies and scholars in a field of study should not resort to insults or name-calling. Do I make myself clear?”
The stallions looked away, now embarrassed. “We’re sorry, Your Majesty,” said Paranormal Activity.
“Yeah,” agreed Cold Spot. “But we’ll get the journal back up and running. You’ll see.”
Celestia nodded approvingly. “Good.” She turned her attention to her guards. “Bring forth the next petitioner.”
Just as a meek-looking pegasus was about to step forward, there was a commotion from the back of the line. “Let me through!” barked a stallion. “Let me through!”
The unmistakable form of Baron Silverhoof appeared before her, shoving ponies aside in his wake like a raging yak. He was the latest in the line of Baron Silverhoofs, a title that stretched back to Canterlot’s earliest days. They’d made the base of their fortune in silver mining, back before mining was banned on Mt. Canterlot for fear of destabilizing the city.
He was very much like his ancestors, to the point that Celestia often had a hard time telling them apart, and sometimes, couldn’t even remember this baron’s actual name beyond his title. He had the same dark gray coat and off-white mane as his predecessor, and flaunted the source of his ancestral wealth by draping himself in enough silver finery that even Luna, who’d absolutely adored the metal, would have called it grossly excessive.
“Princess Celestia, I demand an audience!” declared the baron, his long, carefully coiffed mane shaking from the power of his vibrato. That, at least, was different. His father hadn’t nearly been able to reach that kind of pitch “I demand it this instant!”
“You’re supposed to wait in line,” said one of the guards tersely.
Silverhoof turned to the guard, giving him a derisive sneer. “I am a member of the nobility, you armor-clad buffoon. My time is more valuable than this rabble.” He looked back at the assembled ponies, daring them to challenge him. None did.
Annoyed at both his disruption, his complete disregard of civil procedure, and just plain lack of civility in general, Celestia cleared her throat, masking her expression with a pleasant smile. “Baron Silverhoof? To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? If it’s regarding that...matter you discussed with me recently, I’m sure we can discuss that privately.”
Even in the tranquility of the last few days, Celestia had forgotten that Silverhoof’s two-hundred thousand-bit lawsuit was still pending. With the audit having done its work and things quieting down, Celestia had been hoping that she could get the stallion to drop his suit entirely, not to mention all the other plaintiffs.
But Celestia had reasoned that she’d need to set up a meeting with him for that, where both their attorneys could be present. After all, the last time they’d met, Baron Silverhoof had hardly been in a mood to negotiate outside of a courtroom.
An unpleasant thought suddenly crossed the alicorn’s mind. He wasn’t here to increase the damages, was he? If he did that, Supply Curve wouldn’t just have an aneurysm, he’d simply die on the spot.
“No, it’s not about that!” fumed the stallion. “It’s about this!” Reaching into his jewel-encrusted saddlebag, he threw something down at the base of her throne.
Celestia picked it up in her magic. To her distaste, it was a copy of The Canterlot Whisperer, dated today. Her eyes drifted to the headline.
“ERS OUT OF CONTROL! FLAGRANT AUDITS ON THE RISE!”
Celestia’s practiced smile faltered.
“It’s disgraceful!” shouted Silverhoof. “To think that the Equestrian Revenue Service is suddenly auditing hundreds of ponies, some of which were already audited last year. All this to line their own pockets.”
His chin rose up sharply, the muscles in his neck tightening. The sudden motion made his silver jewelry clatter loudly like the pieces of a suit of armor. “Well, let me tell you, Your Highness, the house of Silverhoof will not give in to this harassment!”
“I…” Celestia began, trying to regain her mental hoofing.
The baron jabbed a silver-clad hoof accusingly at her. “Did you know about this?!”
By this point, whatever enmity Silverhoof had garnered from the other petitioners had vanished. Now, everypony in line was silent, staring anxiously at her, waiting for an answer.
“I…” Celestia began again. “I was not aware of the problem, Baron Silverhoof.” Of course, she wasn’t. How could she be aware of a problem that didn’t exist?!
Silverhoof’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Or perhaps...I wonder, is this a plot of yours to fatten the crown’s coffers against my lawsuit?”
“N-No, of course not,” said Celestia, her practiced control beginning to slip. “I would never do such a thing.”
Behind Silverhoof, she could see the other ponies beginning to whisper, shifting from hoof to hoof in barely suppressed panic. Muttering of taxes and audits rose up from the crowd, about the stability of their businesses.
Celestia needed to do damage control, and quickly. Her little ponies were always so easy to spook. “I’m sure this is just some sort of clerical error with the ERS,” she reassured the crowd. “After all, nopony is perfect. There is no need to be alarmed.”
Unfortunately, it was too late. Like a match on a powder keg, her words ignited the growing terror in the room. The once peaceful, reasonable petitioners exploded into a frantic mob, and the throne room was filled with a cacophony of desperate shouts and pleas.
“Princess, my store is all I have!”
“I already paid my taxes. Every last bit! I can’t pay anything else!”
“I can’t handle an audit right now, my grandmother’s in the hospital!”
As her guards tried to get the room back under control, the princess of the sun could only sink into her great, gilded throne, wishing it would swallow her up like a dragon's maw.
The next day, Celestia canceled hearing petitions in favor of regrouping.
Her first plan of attack had completely backfired. With these accusations about the ERS causing a panic among the citizenry, getting The Whisperer to back off via an audit was all but impossible. If word even got out that they’d been audited in the first place, it would make the situation even worse.
The princess grimaced. Those tabloid ponies were far craftier than she’d given them credit for.
Celestia had no choice. She had to cancel the audit of The Whisperer. More than that, the ERS would have to cancel any upcoming audits for the foreseeable future. Even the director of the ERS had agreed, albeit reluctantly, that it was the best course of action, both to minimize the damage to the ERS’ reputation, and to quell the general panic fomenting in the capital.
Number Cruncher was not taking it well.
“But the discrepancies, Your Majesty,” he replied, sounding as emotional and equine as Celestia had ever seen him. “If work is not done, they’ll be uncorrected.” His body began to shake. “The ledgers will be…inaccurate!”
“Regardless,” answered Celestia, keeping her voice as gentle as possible. “This is the decision that both I and your director have come to, and I expect you to abide by it.”
Number Cruncher nodded weakly. “Yes…Your Majesty.” He turned around, slowly making his way lethargically out of the throne room. Before he did, he turned his head back one more time to look at her, his eyes sparkling with actual tears.
Then he disappeared down the hall, seeming like a broken clockwork toy. A casualty of war.
Celestia made a mental note to have the director of the ERS keep an eye on him.
For now, she needed a Plan B, something harder to deflect, something with a subtler touch. Thankfully, an idea had already occurred to her.
“Guard,” she called, addressing the white-coated stallion by the door. “Send in my next appointment.”
The guard frowned. “There’s nopony waiting outside, Your Majesty.”
Celestia’s brow furrowed, turning her attention to a nearby clock. It was ten minutes after their scheduled appointment time. “Hold off any other visitors until I say so,” she told the guard.
The alicorn began to pace, anxiety burning in her stomach. Every minute wasted was more time for The Canterlot Whisperer to devise some new, horrible headline to both humiliate her, and disrupt her work, and even this wait was only compounding her work day, tightening her already restrictive schedule.
Finally, after another fifteen minutes, there came a knock at the door, and Byline entered the throne room. “Good afternoon, Your Majesty,” greeted the unicorn.
“You’re late, Mr. Byline,” replied Celestia sourly.
“What?” The reporter blinked slowly, glancing at the clock, and then at his watch. “Oh!” he cried. “I’m so sorry! My watch seems to be running a little behind.”
Celestia almost made a comment about how twenty-five minutes was hardly “A little behind,” but managed to stop herself.
“Really,” continued the stallion. “I don’t know how that happened. Please forgive me—”
Celestia raised a hoof to stop him. “It’s alright, my little pony. The important thing is that you’re here.” Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm herself. Her irritation at The Canterlot Whisperer shouldn’t be taken out on innocent ponies.
Though now that she got a better look at him, the unicorn seemed a little...rougher than the last time she’d seen him. His tie was loose, his face shadowed with stubble, and there were even telltale food stains dotting his overcoat. “Are you alright, Mr. Byline?”
“Hmm?” The unicorn blinked, having lost himself in his own thoughts. “Oh, yes. Yes, I’m just fine, Your Majesty. Thank you for asking. Now,” His horn glowed, and his coat opened up. “Let me just get out my...where did I put my notepad?” He looked in the pocket, finding it empty, then proceeded to check every other pocket. “Where did I put it? No, no, ah, here it is.”
Pulling out a thick pad of paper, he proceeded to fumble around for a pencil, finding that equally hard to find, before addressing Celestia again. “I assume you want me to do another interview? Perhaps another exclusive? I’ve actually been wanting to ask you about a report of a new train to Griffinstone—”
“Not quite,” corrected Celestia, eying the stallion with concern. His demeanor was not comforting, to say the least. Had something happened to him since last time? Perhaps the results of the last article had taken a toll on him.
Still, he was the most respected reporter in the capital, and what counted were his words, not his personal habits.
“I called you here,” she continued, slipping into her usual, regal tone, “to write another article. No, not about me,” she added, seeing the questioning look on his face. “I want you to write about The Canterlot Whisperer. I want you to find some of their most ridiculous headlines from years past and remind readers why their articles are not to be trusted so implicitly.”
She walked back over to her throne, sitting down upon the seat, and looked down at Byline. “I think we can both agree this entire situation with them is getting out of hoof, and I would like your help in stopping it before it goes any further.”
Byline’s face had lost a bit of its color. His pencil almost impaled his notepad. “T-The…Canterlot Whisperer?”
The solar alicorn frowned. “Is that a problem?” She looked over his disheveled form again. Perhaps he wasn’t up to this task, after all. Guilt pricked her insides.
“If you would rather not do it, I understand,” she soothed. “You do seem to be a bit out of sorts. If you like, I can contact your editor to see about giving you a paid vacation.”
“N-NO!” cried Byline, almost startling the alicorn with his ferocity. “I mean...of course it’s not a problem, Your Majesty.” He took a moment to fix his crooked tie. “I’d be glad to assist you. The Whisperer may have gotten the better of me once, but not the second time, no, sir, er, ma’am.”
There was a gleam in the unicorn’s eyes now, a fire of determination, with perhaps just a hint of madness. “I’ll show you what the power of good journalism can do. I’ll show all of them! The pen is mightier than the sword, and the journalist’s pen is mightier than the tabloids!”
With a sharp salute, he galloped from the throne room.
Celestia made a second mental note to contact the editor of The Times and be extra vigilant with Byline’s work.
Slightly unhinged reporters or not, it was a sound strategy, and the bulk of the effort lay in The Whisperer itself, and its ridiculous headlines. It wouldn’t be hard to find examples that would knock the scales from the eyes of Canterlot.
Celestia allowed her body to relax on the cushions of her throne, content that Plan B was off to a good start.
“I don’t believe this!”
Celestia grit her teeth, hot incredulity pumping through her veins. It was impossible. The plan had been sound, more than sound, and yet, it had still failed. Huffing in rage, the princess cast her eye to Byline’s article, scanning the collection of old headlines he’d chosen.
They were all perfect to highlight The Whisperer’s erroneous publication history. ”Nightmare Moon Stole All My Cheese!”, “Duke Hoofington Allergic to Doors!”, “Aliens Land at Base of Mt. Canterlot!”, “I Had A Bat Pony’s Foal!”, “Discord Discos at Royal Theater!”, “Royal Theater Haunted by Critic’s Ghost!”, “Miniature Seaponies Found in Canterlot Sewer System!”
Nopony in their right mind would believe those sorts of headlines, and in the years before, they’d passed through Equestrian society like water under a bridge. But now? Now that they’d been brought back into the light of day, rather than realize The Whisperer was nothing more than a gossip rag unfit to clear one’s floors with, ponies had instead chosen to believe the old articles.
Now her workday had been flooded from the very start with things like complaints about bat pony foals running wild in Canterlot General Hospital, a dozen “sightings” of seaponies singing in the city’s pipes, questions about how she would greet their extraterrestrial visitors and if new diplomatic positions had opened up in light of the visit.
Then there had been furious demands from cheese makers in Canterlot and beyond to do something about Nightmare Moon and her plans to “use their goods to construct her lunar fortifications, and eventually weaponize the cheese into a deadly projectile.”
She’d had panicked questions from the architects and interior designers about the origins of door allergies. Was it wooden doors, or did stone or glass doors count? Was a cure in progress? What would they do when they started losing customers? Was Duke Hoofington available to comment on the nature of his allergy?
He was not. The duke was out on one of his international trips. A pity. She could have used another pony to commiserate with. She could have even broken out a few bottles from the castle cellar. It had been a quite a while since she’d touched alcohol.
And, of course, she couldn’t forget how she’d been asked what the critic’s ghost had thought of Discord’s dancing. Had he given it a hoof up or down? Did Discord still disco there, or had he transitioned to some other style of dance? Could the critic give them a free review of their new show?
After that headache-inducing conversation, she’d actually gone to the garden to check on the petrified draconequus, just to make sure this wasn’t all his doing somehow. But, no, he was still there, still frozen mid-laugh, as if he was mocking her constant misfortune.
She’d double-checked the spell, anyway. It was still holding. Because that would have been too easy, wouldn’t it?
It was maddening. Why were her little ponies so very gullible? Even worse, The Whisperer had finally begun selling beyond the capital. She could only pray none of their other headlines surfaced, or complete nationwide pandemonium might break out.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the throne room door.
“Enter,” she said automatically.
To her great surprise, Sunset Shimmer came trotting slowly into the room. Celestia glanced at the clock. “Sunset, what are you doing here?” she asked. “It’s far too early for classes to be over.”
The little unicorn said nothing, instead just walking meekly up to her, and held out a letter.
Raising a single, regal eyebrow, Celestia took the letter in her magic and unsealed it. As her magenta eyes scanned the contents, the princess’s jaw fell slack. “You got into a fight?!”
Sunset winced, nodding her head. “Yes, ma’am...”
Celestia gave her student an incredulous stare. “Sunset Shimmer, you should know better than to pick fights with the other students. I know I taught you better than that!” She jabbed a hoof at the letter. “The principal says you blackened this filly’s eye. Explain yourself this instant!”
The unicorn’s head dipped to her chest, and her tiny body seemed to shrink into itself. “T-They…”
“They what?” snapped the alicorn. “Out with it, young filly.”
“They were talking about you,” muttered the seven-year-old.
Celestia blinked, taken aback. The anger in her voice audibly melted away with her next words. “What did you say?”
“Rainbow Swirl and her friends. They were saying mean things about you,” answered Sunset. “They said...they said you were just an old, gray, toothless mare. So, I told them they were wrong. I told them they were stupid for believing that mean tabloid.”
Sunset glanced up, meeting her mentor’s eyes just for a moment, before returning to the floor. “Rainbow Swirl said I was stupid, and kept saying so many mean things about you. So...I used the Hot Hoof spell on her. Then she lost her balance and fell over on Wish Blossom, and Wish Blossom hit her eye on the shelf.
“Star Tulip and Candlelight got mad, and I gave them a shove with my magic, and they landed on Rainbow Swirl and Wish Blossom. Then...then some books fell off the shelf and hit Rainbow, Star, and Candlelight on the head. Then the librarian came over.”
The little filly glanced up again. “I’m sorry,” she sniffled. “Am...” she glanced up at Celestia again, eyes prickled with tears. “Am I going to be kicked out of school? Can I not be your student anymore?”
Celestia paused, the sight of that tear-stained face dissolving her the rest of her anger in a single instant. What was wrong with her? First, she’d gotten irritated at Byline, and now she was snapping at Sunset. This tabloid mess was affecting her far more than she was comfortable with.
Letting out a long breath, Celestia shook her head, allowing her features to shift in a more soothing expression. “No, Sunset, you are not going to get kicked out of school, and you can still be my student.”
The unicorn looked at her in surprise. “Really?”
Celestia reached down with a wing and dried one of Sunset’s tears. “Really. I will speak to the fillies’ parents. I’m sure I can smooth things over.”
The parents. The solar alicorn groaned internally. Since this was Sunset’s first infraction, expulsion wasn’t a given as far as the school rules were concerned. But those parents were going to be a different matter. For as much as she was in charge, both in terms of the school and Equestria itself, the parents could exert enormous pressure if they saw fit.
Still, there was no need to worry her student over such things.
“However,” she added firmly. “As much as I am touched by your willingness to help me, you shouldn’t have used your magic like that. For now, I have something I must attend to. I’d like you to go to your room, and we can discuss this later. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes. ma’am.” With that, the little unicorn scampered off.
Once she was gone, Celestia sighed, and began to pace. A fight. Her student, her student, had gotten into a fight with her classmates. An actual, physical fight. She had a mark on her record, not to mention what this might do to her reputation among the other students. Sunset had barely even begun school, for Mother’s sake!
It was all because of her, because of this insane tabloid campaign geared against her. It had already caused so much trouble, and now, Sunset was beginning to be drawn into this web of madness.
This was the final straw. It had to stop. It had to stop.
It would stop.
An idea came to Celestia’s mind. It was desperate, dangerous, and even reckless, and yet, Celestia didn’t care. She’d tried all the other ways. Now was the time to deal a decisive blow. This was going to end, and it would end now.
“KIBITZ!” she thundered, summoning her majordomo.
The unicorn scrambled into the throne room immediately, looking more than a little startled. “Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Tell the director of S.M.I.L.E. I wish to speak with him. Immediately.”
Kibitz gave her a curious look, but didn’t question it. He simply nodded his head in agreement. “At once, Your Majesty.”
It was time for Plan C.
Agent Furlong was on a mission.
This wasn’t the usual sort of mission from S.M.I.L.E, the Secret Monster Intelligence League of Equestria, one of the crown’s most covert agencies. Technically, it wasn’t a S.M.I.L.E. mission at all. But after being briefed by the director, Agent Furlong was more than willing to do his duty for crown and country.
Celestia had reasoned that a S.M.I.L.E. agent was a better pick for this sort of dangerous, underhooved task, rather than a member of the guard. There wasn’t a risk of being recognized, as well as plausible deniability if things went south.
Not that things would go south. Agent Furlong was one of the agency’s best assets, heavily favored to lead the Canterlot branch when the current head retired.
He glanced at the building across the street, popping his head discreetly out from his hiding place in the bushes. Standing before him, only a few feet away, was the home of The Canterlot Whisperer.
The building that housed The Whisperer was one of the few “modern style,” aka “Manehattan style” structures in the city. Attempts had been made many times by the locals to have the buildings torn down, remarking on how badly they clashed against the white towers and classical architecture, with no real success.
It did offer one advantage, though. Thanks to the glass doors, Furlong had a perfect view of the main lobby, and also his first major obstacle: The lone security guard.
Furlong had been observing the other unicorn for the last half hour. It wasn’t that he was actually threatening, not to somepony with Furlong’s training. But he was still there, and still facing the main entrance. There was no way Furlong could enter the building without being spotted.
On top of that, the guard hadn’t left his station in all the time Furlong had been observing him. If Furlong weren’t trying to sneak in, he might have been pleased, rather than annoyed.
His mind flipped through several protocols he could use to distract or disable the guard, trying to decide which would be the most effective. Before he could choose, the guard suddenly got up and walked away from the lobby. If Furlong’s understanding of the building’s floor plans was correct, and it was, then based on the way he was going, he was probably headed to the restroom, which would take him away for several minutes.
Grinning at the miraculous opportunity, Furlong leapt into action, knowing exactly what method to use.
When the guard returned to his desk, he was greeted by the sight of a carryout doughnut box. Furlong watched as the guard licked his lips. His head turned left and right, searching for anypony that would catch him snacking on duty. Satisfied, he opened the box, and dug into the large chocolate glazed doughnut within.
Exactly three minutes later, the guard was passed out in his seat. The Delectable Drowsy Decoy Doughnut had worked like a charm. And why wouldn’t it have worked? The agency’s top pastry engineers had designed it to not only be irresistible to the average pony, but made sure it contained enough sedatives to knock out an angry yak for hours.
Casually entering the lobby with only the slightest swagger in his step, Furlong swiped the now empty doughnut box, and pulled the guard behind his desk, far out of sight. That done, he ducked into the restroom and donned a set of dark clothes, covering up his face, his coat, and his cutie mark. To the average eye, he was now a simple cat burglar.
Operation Stop the Presses was a go.
The reporters worked on the sixth floor, but Furlong didn’t go to the nearby elevator. It could draw too much attention from any ponies still in the building. Instead, he went toward the stairwell. Tilting his head up, Furlong surveyed the dozens upon dozens of steps that separated him from his target. An arduous and exhausting climb for anypony.
Reaching into his saddlebags, Furlong pulled out a short umbrella. With the press of a button, the top of the umbrella shot out, opening up into a grappling hook. The steel claw flew upward through the air before finding purchase on a section of railing several flights up.
Pressing another button, the cable began to retract, and Furlong silently ascended the stairwell. It only managed to get him to the third floor, so Furlong had to swing himself to the closest landing and fire the grapple again. Part of him wanted to take the stairs the rest of the way, just for a bit of a workout. But Celestia had been very clear that this mission was to be as quiet as possible, and the echo of his hoofsteps could be as troublesome as the sounds from the elevator. So, grappling hook it was.
Once he reached the sixth floor, Furlong packed up his grappling hook umbrella and slowly opened the stairwell door. He was greeted by a darkened hallway, and up ahead was the bullpen of The Canterlot Whisperer, the workplace for the reporters, and Furlong’s target.
The mission objective was a simple one. Furlong would break into the desk of Tattle Tale, the reporter responsible for the princess’s recent troubles, and remove any and all notes on the princess he could find. Without that research material at his hooves, Tattle Tale and his attacks on the princess would be up in smoke, or, at the very least, significantly hampered.
Furlong approached the bullpen slowly, creeping along the wall the way the agency’s field manual had taught him to. He moved from hiding place to hiding place, making sure that he was never spotted for more than the briefest of moments.
Upon reaching the rows of desks, he began his search. Which one belonged to Tattle Tale? He read the little bronze nameplates, glittering in the moonlight. No, not that one. No, not that one, either. Ah, yes, the one at the far right. There it was!
Sliding over, Furlong inspected the desk like a safecracker would a vault. Multiple storage spaces. He’d have to try them one by one. Grabbing a drawer handle in his magic, he gave a tug. It jiggled, but wouldn’t open. Locked. This pleased the unicorn. If it was locked, that raised the possibility that the gossip files lay within. After all, why lock up your desk when you leave if there’s nothing important inside?
Furlong drew out a lock pick kit. He’d have this thing open in minutes. He inserted the pick into the lock, ready to begin cracking the flimsy barrier that stood between him and his goal.
Squeak.
Furlong stopped cold. It came from down the hall. He ducked, dropping his lock picks as he scrambled under the desk.
He watched as one by one, the lights in the hall came on. A unicorn mare came trotting in, pushing a cleaning cart with horribly squeaky wheels. The agent frowned. This could jeopardize the entire operation. Weighing his options, he decided there was only choice: RefDef.
RefDef, short for the Reflection Deflection spell, was a special trick used by S.M.I.L.E. agents. With the use of a small mirror, an agent could erase a subject’s memory entirely. Perfect for getting out of compromising situations. Furlong pulled his mirror out of its hiding place in his mane, and began to creep forward.
The mare was whistling a mindless tune as he approached, gliding her mop across the floor, and totally unaware of his presence. Just a bit closer...a bit closer...
Furlong was so focused on his target that he failed to pay attention to his surroundings, specifically, the wet floor. His hoof took one step onto the fresh water and suds, and immediately slid out from under him. With a barely contained yelp, he fell backwards onto his plot.
Operatic shrieking rang in his ears, shaking him from his stunned daze. He scrambled to his hooves, desperately searching for his mirror. But just when he saw the glint of polished glass, his face was assaulted by a set of thick, soapy tendrils.
As an agent of S.M.I.L.E., Furlong had been trained to deal with a variety of combat situations. Spells, poisonous stingers and claws, fire breath, even fighting with weapons or hoof-to-hoof, he’d been through it all, and had the commendations, medals, and black belts to prove it.
Or at least he thought he’d been through it all. Mop combat had most decidedly not been in the regimen.
He tried to shut her down with a strike to the face, but she dodged to the side and brought the mop handle down on his head. Furlong staggered. Who in their right mind made a mop handle out of oak?
“BURGLAR!” the maid screamed in a soprano that could have shattered glass. “THERE’S A BURGLAR! HELP!”
Furlong made a grab for her, but once again, the maid slipped around him, before locking her forelegs around his and spinning him around in a powerful throwing maneuver. His flailing hooves knocked over the carefully placed water bucket as he spun, so that when she finally let go, Furlong was sent sliding across a fresh line of soapy floor, and only stopped when he crashed into the side of a desk.
Furlong struggled to his hooves just as the maid, still crying her lungs out, descended upon him again, bringing her mop to bear.
The S.M.I.L.E. agent was forced onto the defensive, unable to counter the fury of attacks the screaming maid brought down on him. He called on all of his training, employing every blocking and dodging technique he knew. But like a master of the combat arts, the maid always found a way around his impeccable guard.
Not that the soapy floor was helping. Furlong could still barely keep his hoofing against it. The maid, by contrast, stood among the suds as poised as a ballerina, as if the soap didn’t exist at all. If anything, it seemed to improve her formidable skills.
Quite frankly, Agent Furlong decided as the maid delivered a well-timed strike to his ribs with the blunt end of her mop, if it wasn’t happening right in front of him, he would have considered it impossible.
He tried to get away, to get onto a dryer surface to improve his defenses, but the maid cut him off by kicking the now-empty bucket across the tile, sending Furlong sprawling onto his increasingly-soaked belly.
For a moment, he wondered if the soap suds were part of some devious strategy.
Agent Furlong struggled back to his hooves even as the maid came down on him again, sliding into range like a champion speed skater, still crying for help, and still besting his honed defenses. He even tried to use his magic amidst the scuffle, but every time he lit his horn, the maid responded with another painful blow to the head.
“HELP! BURGLAR! HELP!” she shouted, even as she landed another three blows that he would have sworn were deliberately targeted at pressure points to bring him down, because his legs automatically buckled.
“BURGLAR!” she shouted again, delivering a series of strikes all over his body, each one leaving him wetter and soapier than before. “BURGLAR!”
Furlong, who had now just managed to get to his hooves again, narrowly ducked under the sweep of the mop.
“I’m not a bur—!”
He wasn’t really sure what he would have said for an alternative, but he never got the chance. The moment he lowered his legs to talk, the maid took the opportunity for a powerful thrust, and the agent was left spitting and gagging from the mouthful of dirty, soapy water that had soaked through his mask.
Hoopsteps thundered distantly in the hallway leading to the bullpen. The maid’s cries had finally attracted attention. Furlong’s heart beat wildly. He needed an escape!
His gaze darted around the room, before spotting a window. He made a dash for it, almost falling to the floor again as the vicious maid delivered a hard blow to his flank. With barely a thought, Furlong took out his grappling hook umbrella, and leapt out the window.
Air whistling past his ears, he pressed the button. The hook shot out, clinging to a window ledge on the tower across the street. Not the best escape, but the lights were dark there, and he’d be able to raise himself up and move on from there.
Crack!
Confused, Furlong looked up at the hook. The window ledge it was attached to was buckling. With a sense of mounting dread, he realized that the ledge wasn’t stone as it should have been. It was plaster. Plaster that couldn’t handle his weight.
With a loud snap, the ledge gave way. Furlong screamed, his body falling toward the cobbled streets below. But luck was with him, because rather than hit the ground and shatter all of his legs, he hit an awning, bouncing off its cloth surface before hitting the street below.
It should be noted, however, that a safe landing was not the same thing as a soft landing. It was a distinction that Furlong came to recognize as he found himself sprawled out on the bricks, groaning in pain.
The shouts of another pony forced him back to his hooves. City guards were approaching. His heart hammered in his chest. He couldn’t get caught. With all the speed he could muster in his aching legs, Furlong rushed into a nearby alley, pressing his body flat against the bricks.
From his position in the darkness, he saw the glow of the guard’s horn. The alley wasn’t that deep. If the guard turned his head, even once, he’d spot Furlong for sure. Furlong would be arrested, and the agency would deny his very existence. He’d have failed the princess, and his career would come to an end. Though he would have denied it, fear coursed through his veins. He needed a better hiding spot.
That’s when his hoof brushed against something metal and round. A doorknob. His eyes already adjusting to the darkness, Furlong quickly took out a lock pick he’d hidden in his mane and quickly brought it to the keyhole. In a few seconds, he heard the blissful click of the lock giving way. Furlong rushed inside.
The unicorn found himself in some kind of sweets shop, the signs above the counter listing the prices of various delectable desserts. Keeping himself low to avoid being seen from the front windows, he slipped behind the counter, moving into the kitchen and far out of sight.
Furlong rested against one of the dispensing machines, breathing slowly to dispel his totally-nonexistent fear. There had to be a way to salvage this, a way he could get back in without raising too many suspicions.
Or maybe he should try Tattle Tale’s home instead? There might be fewer ponies around. Fewer to get in his way. And there probably wouldn’t be any martial arts maids lurking there. But what if the files weren’t there?
Maybe he could simply use RefDef to erase Tattle Tale’s memory completely? Not exactly what his princess had ordered, but the threat would be neutralized, regardless. More neutralized, in fact. Oh, but he’d have to get a new mirror. Probably have to steal one. But that wouldn’t be too hard.
As the unicorn contemplated his options, he failed to notice the wisps of deep black smoke rising from the inside of his saddlebags. Only when it reached his nose did he let out a cry of alarm, throwing the saddlebag away from him.
Among the many tools he’d brought with him were smokescreen horseshoes. They were standard issue for S.M.I.L.E agents, made for quick escapes. His unceremonious fall onto the street must have damaged them, because his saddlebags continued to leak smoke.
The wisps quickly transformed into great plumes, filling the whole store in a thick haze. Furlong coughed and gagged on the thickening smoke, until his highly-trained ears picked up a sound. From somewhere just beyond the gaseous cover, the unicorn heard the sound of city guards rushing into the store.
For the first time in his illustrious career, Furlong found himself silently cursing the high quality of his agency’s tools. The very thing that was meant to provide escape had both attracted attention, and, more ironically, made finding an avenue of escape all the more difficult. Blinded by tears, the unicorn reached out with his hooves, scrambling to find some sort of door.
Finally, he felt something. A doorknob! A path to freedom! Furlong pulled down with all his might. But rather than be greeted by the lightness of a cool night breeze, Furlong instead felt something thick and heavy drop onto his coat. What he’d pulled was not a doorknob, but rather the store’s jumbo-sized molasses dispenser.
The S.M.I.L.E. agent frantically pulled up his burglar’s mask, casting a protection spell over his eyes, nose, and mouth even as he did his best to stop the flow of syrup. Those spells were the only things that saved him from suffocation as the molasses slid down over his face.
Finally, with one last flail of his now-sticky hooves, he managed to switch the lever back.
“Halt!”
And that’s when the guards showed up.
Agent Furlong’s body sagged. He was caught, it was all over.
This was it. The end of his career. He would be arrested and burned by the agency for his spectacular foul up. He’d never become the director of the Canterlot branch. He’d be lucky if the higher ups didn’t use the RefDef spell on him just to cover their tracks.
But the guards didn’t advance. One, the shorter, tan-colored earth pony, gazed at Furlong warily. “What is it?” he said.
“I don’t know,” replied the other earth pony, this one ocean blue. “Hey, whatever you are, don’t move!”
Furlong stood in stunned, sticky amazement. Could it be...yes. They couldn’t tell that he was a pony. This was his chance. His possibility of escape. Scrunching up his shoulders, he took a deep breath, and yelled.
“AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!”
The two guards jumped back. “It’s a monster!” cried the tan guard.
Furlong waved his forehooves in a vaguely menacing manner. The guards backed away, and Furlong took his chance to rush past them and out the door, grabbing his saddlebags in the process. Well, rush was a relative term, since the molasses was making it hard to move. But Furlong’s agency conditioning made him strong, strong enough to resist the sugary mass attempting to pin him down.
He ran down the street, trying to find another escape route. His hooves plopped against the stone, the molasses still threatening to trap him, but he continued on. Behind him rose the shouts and clattering armor of the guards.
He would escape. He had to escape. If he could just lose the guards, he’d be home free. He could retreat and form a new strategy.
Unfortunately for Agent Furlong, he would not be that lucky.
“SLIME MONSTER!” came a cry from above him as he half-galloped through a residential street. Furlong’s head snapped up in the direction of the voice, just catching the sight of a navy unicorn mare when his world was engulfed in darkness. Something large and soft had draped itself over him.
Instincts screamed net, and he furiously struggled to get it off, a task that was considerably harder with the sticky molasses already coating his body. Finally, the covering gave way with a loud ripping sound. Furlong tossed it aside with his magic.
“My comforter!” screamed the mare from above.
By now, the commotion had drawn other ponies from their beds, heads poking out windows to see the source of the noise.
“It’s a giant chicken!” cried a stallion.
Confused, and momentarily distracted, Furlong looked down at himself. Atop his coating of sugary syrup, there was now a layer of white, downy feathers, the contents of the comforter that lay ripped open in the street. He tried to shake them off, but they held firm in the molasses’ iron grip.
“There it is!” cried a voice from around the corner. The guards had caught up to him!
Furlong headed down side street after side street, but no matter how many turns he took, the frantic cries of fearful ponies gave him away. Finally, he had no choice but to escape to higher ground, climbing up the staircase of a high tower. Up and up he went, until finally, the stairs terminated in a landing with a single wooden door. Furlong pulled on the handle. It was locked.
He fumbled in his bag, the adrenaline coursing through his system rendering his magical grip weak and trembling, before pulling out another lockpick and quickly inserting it into the tumblers.
The syrup-coated pick stuck in the lock.
He pounded on the door, trying to break it down. Under normal circumstances, he’d have succeeded, but the chase and the stickiness of the syrup had drained his strength. Now, faced with a door he couldn’t get past and the stone wall of the landing, there was literally nowhere left to run.
“HALT!”
Furlong pressed his flank against the wall as the guards approached, swords drawn. His soon-to-be ex-career once again flashed before his eyes.
“You’re coming with us, whatever you are,” said the tan guard.
There was no room to barrel past them this time. No way around them. In an act of desperation, Furlong did the only other thing he could. He flung himself over the landing wall to the street below.
The fall was short, only about fifteen feet, but it felt like forever, and even as he did it, he realized he hadn’t checked to see what was below him. Then Furlong realized that he didn’t care. Either way, this was the end.
SLAM!
All at once, Agent Furlong hit something soft. For a moment, he thought he’d be safe. Safe, uninjured, other than his pride, and more importantly, uncaught.
And then, he noticed the smell.
“Hey, Kludge, did you hear something?” asked Petrichor, the large blue earth pony.
Kludge, an equally large unicorn, sighed. “Probably just your imagination.”
“But I could have sworn something fell into the cart!”
“Shut up, Pet! The sooner we can get this round to the dump, the sooner we can end our shift.” The unicorn lifted a dumpster off the ground, turning it over to deposit its contents into the oversized garbage cart they’d been pulling.
Petrichor wanted to protest, but he knew Kludge wasn’t going to give in. It was pretty much useless talking to him when he was in this kind of mood. Shrugging his shoulders, he adjusts the harness on the cart and begins to pull. Just a few more streets, and then they’d have to haul this thing all the way down to the dump in Miner’s Hill.
Anyway, if anything had fallen into the cart, it probably wasn’t that important, otherwise somepony would be yelling at them from above.
Using his considerable strength, Petrichor pulled the heavy cart down the cobblestone streets, totally ignoring the muffled groans from behind him.