//------------------------------// // 1 Chance // Story: Mule PI: The Watchstallion // by Oat Cakes //------------------------------// 2 Aqu 999 Noble House of Keys Disgraced Count Corrugated Convicted! In the royal investigation with regards to Griffonian Espionage, Count Corrugated Keyway has been found guilty. The Nobility of the house of Keys has been revoked with all holdings forfeit to the crown. See the full story and interview on page 3. Tariffs Rising! The EOFA has issued increased tariffs for... “Quick,” Professor Quotient addressed sharply. “Huh, wh- yes Quotient?” Quick Sort was ripped from the news and returned to his seat. “Perhaps you need to step out for a moment?” Quotient all but commanded as she eyed the newspaper. “Yes. Thank you professor,” Quick spoke without thought as his eyes returned their lacking focus while he packed up his saddlebag. Fractional Quotient was by all definitions a task master but Quick hardly noted his arithmancy professor’s uncharacteristic charity, lost in thought as he imagined his future. Tuition for Celestia's Gifted was paid for in a hefty sum of bits and greased by noble titles, both of which Quick Sort found quite short. Quick reasoned that nepotism was out of the picture and so was graduation. Just a year more and he could have earned his stars in both arithmancy and enchantment. Quick took a moment to kick himself for attempting both stars at once. He knew that if he’d gotten just his enchantment star he would at least be employable in Canterlot. Maybe that was the solution, to leave Canterlot. There were always postings for bosun back home and he just had to make enough bits to finish his stars. On a train to Baltimare sat a young stallion. Beside him was a bag filled with stationary and a single bit. The stallion was difficult to see in the dim economy car, with the exception of a bright yellow cutie mark. Placed on his slate grey coat was a manila folder, left open to show three papers. His unkempt navy blue mane shook and his long legs were aching to be stretched as the train squealed and slowed. “Water stop! One hour! This station is Trottsville!” The conductor hollered to each car as she passed down the station platform. Quick groaned and strained his eyes as the afternoon sun entered the dark cabin. The platform outside the open door was hardly crowded as, despite the call to disembark, few ponies exited and fewer still waited for a train. Seeing the open space on the platform Quick felt it would be good to spend the hour on his hooves and, thinking better than to leave his meager funds unattended while he exercised, he wore his saddle bag. “Eeek!” he exclaimed as his loin was damp and cold. Tossing the bag to the ground, Quick found that the bag had been soaked through with ink. He craned his neck to look at his back. A tired sigh accompanied a tired walk to find some sort of rag. A paper stand caught his eye; it seemed news-rags would do the job. One inky bit and ten inky rags were spent before the considerably darkened saddlebag was clean. While tossing the papers a small and remarkably clean patch of text caught Quick’s eye: Help Wanted: Pony (EP)--wanted to haul grain; interview Lower Canterlot, Copper Mill; 2 bits Pony (EUP)--Young, wanted to file papers, general assistant; trot in interview Trottsville, Mule PI; 3 bits; immediately; NO POST Pony (P)--Dry thunder specialist; 10 bits; interview at Cloudsdale We... WOOOOOooooo , the train horn bellowed. “All Aboard!” the Conductor called. Quick pulled himself from reading to search for his ticket. “All Aboard!” was called again. His bag was turned out, empty. “All Aboard!” the Conductor called, one final time. Quick tore through the dirty rags to search; blackened and crumpled near the bottom of the pile was a single scrap of paper with the distinct shape of his ticket. “Ponyfeathers” “It’s a bit late for an interview,” a mule spoke from the doorway as he squinted to see through the setting sun. Above the doorway in faded black lettering hung a sign that read: Mule Private Investigation Appointment only “Sorry” Quick apologized, ducking his head slightly. “Hmp,” the mule grunted, turned and walked inside. He paused, “Well?” “Oh” Quick replied, nearly tripping over himself to follow the mule. They walked a short ways, down a short hallway, in a short building. The building was decorated with only a few windows, the hallway was decorated with only a few doors, and the walk was silent. “Here’s my office,” the mule spoke as they came to the end of the hall. The mule opened the door to reveal a simple robust desk accompanied by a cushioned seat. One wall was dominated by a large window, with the opposite wall being adorned with only a simple hat rack. On the rack was a weathered old fedora. Behind the desk, the wall was bare except for cracking tan paint. “There’s a chair in the corner, sit,” the mule said as he took his seat. From his simple wooden chair, Quick could finally take a good look at the mule who turned and looked out the window as he spoke, “Where are you from?” “Baltimare, sir,” Quick replied. “Train went east today. You walked?” the mule looked hale, but his gray coat was off. “Huh? No, I took the train from Canterlot.” “Hmp,” the mule grunted. “Can you read?” “Uhh,” Quick paused in confusion, “yeah.” “Hmp. Can you write?” it was the coloration, some parts of his coat darker and some lighter, that was off. Quick nodded... and then spoke, “Oh, yes.” “Whats your name?” the mule was gray with age, though he didn’t show his age in his eyes. “Quick Sort of house... of... just Quick Sort.” The mule grunted as he pulled out a desk drawer and rummaged through it. “Fill out page one”--A paper full of legal text and numbered boxes was hooved over with a pen--“front and back. The big box is for me. The date is the third of Aquamarine, ninety nine,” the mule spoke as he returned to looking out the window. Quick took the paper and pen in steady blue magic, filling the page from front to back in a moment of practiced ease. “Um, sir? The box for cutie mark is scratched out?” “Hmp. It is,” the mule eloquently clarified as he turned and gave the unicorn a deadpan look. “Oh,” Quick sheepishly looked away from the unmarked mule who was beginning to look over his paper. “They call me Mule,” the Mule stated and as he signed the document the sun set, dimming the room. “Just mule?” “Hmp. Mule.” Mule looked out the window and pointed to one of the few buildings with its lights on. “Brick Brack runs the inn; its expensive.” He pointed again to an unlit block of buildings. “Honey Paper has some cheap apartments; don’t go there. You got family in town?” “Um... no. Why cant I go to Honey Paper?” said Quick, leaving his lack of bits unspoken. “I owe her,” Mule said, then turned to Quick, “I have a room, downstairs. Clean it up and don't smoke. No company.” “Thank you.” “Hmp,” grunted Mule as he got to his hooves and slowly made his way around the darkened desk and out the door. He turned back to Quick, who was still seated, and called, “Well? Come on.” Behind an old door and down some old stairs was a large room. The room was furnished wall to wall with filing cabinets and a vintage collection of a dust enthusiast. All around the floor were empty paper boxes. Mule broke the silence, “Left wall is old cases, the rest are whatever.” “Whatever?” Quick asked. “Whatever.” “But how do you sort it?” “I don’t, that’s your job.” “No, I mean--” Mule interjected with a sigh, “Last hire put the boxed files in the cabinets.” “Well how’d they sort it? Is there an index?” “She couldn’t read.” “Oh...” said Quick as he took a better look at the many, many empty boxes. Mule grunted. “Just how long do I have to re-sort them?” “Until its sorted.” “No--” “Just have the files I need brought when I ask. Otherwise, whenever.” “Whenever.” Mule grunted.