//------------------------------// // A Party in Sator Square // Story: Binky Pie // by Miyajima //------------------------------// Pinkie Pie made her way out of the Street of Small Gods, leaving behind the bewildered and be-ballooned crowds, and entered the Plaza of Broken Moons. This was the largest open space on the streets of Ankh-Morpork, and was filled with all the hustle and bustle of busy city life, not to mention a few entrepreneurial balloon salesmen. The pink pony drew about as much attention to herself here as she did in the Street of Small Gods, and before long a second crowd was already following her. She still wasn’t entirely sure where she was going. Death’s preferred method of transportation tended to get the traveller from A to B without the intervening A.a, A.b, etc., which made retracing one’s hoofsteps without the aid of magical teleportation just a little difficult. She vaguely knew that the Unseen University was in the city somewhere, but exactly how to get there remained a bit of a mystery. Instead, she contented herself with taking in all the sights, sounds, and most especially, smells* of the great twin city of Ankh-Morpork. It definitely looked better with balloons. … But maybe it needed just a touch of confetti. Archchancellor Ridcully choked on a little paper horseshoe that had miraculously appeared in his wine goblet the moment before the contents began descending down his trachea. It did little to improve his mood. Decoration having been now fully accomplished, and the populace of Ankh-Morpork distracted by the sudden rain of paper in the shape of various lucky charms, Pinkie continued merrily on her way. Various street-soothsayers and wayside-oracles found themselves being demanded by recent customers for their money back for failing to correctly predict the weather, and they all, as one, calmly pointed to the sign directing ‘no refund for acts of the gods’. She exited the Plaza just as a flock (or gathering, or ruckus) of followers of the Pink Pony of Death entered it, having both heard rumours and seen evidence of miraculous acts being performed by their matron deity. They clutched at their balloons with religious fervor and stooped low to collect the fallen paper pieces that now littered the streets, all the while gathering up the otherwise religiously-indifferent populace of Ankh-Morpork into a whirling frenzy of party spirit, the likes of which the city had not seen since its last riot the previous Tuesday. They were kept so busy with dispensing complimentary party hats and slices of cake that they failed to notice the object of their ardent devotions was now trotting through The Cham and into Sator Square, the public space that sat before the great octiron gates and formidable walls of the Unseen University campus. Pinkie looked upon the square and beheld that it was large, mostly empty, and indeed, vaguely square-shaped. Most of the city’s day-to-day market trade took place in the Plaza, or around the Patrician’s Palace (at least, when he didn’t have a headache, which were becoming increasingly frequent), as setting up a stall in front of the Unseen University was metaphorically begging the universe to surprise you by making your stock of fresh fruit and vegetables burst into song. The ground was covered with confetti, and balloons still hung in the air, yet Pinkie still felt something was missing. She felt it with her very being, a part of her that felt like it would not be satisfied until all was set to rights. She sat down, in the centre of Sator Square, and pondered. Directly opposite her stood the looming gates of the University, but getting there had become a secondary aim to figuring out what, exactly, needed to be done. Then it hit her. The prayers and unspoken hopes of a thousand pink-robed worshippers flooded into her mind. It is a great shame that no bards were present in the coming moments, for what was about to be accomplished deserved to be recorded in song. As it was, even the second-hand accounts (with a little embellishment) went down in the annals of myth and legend. At this moment, Pinkie Pie, Goddess of the Afterparty, completed her great work in her manifestation upon the Disc. Her eyes aglow, she waved a hoof. An object enwrapped in a shining light descended from the heavens accompanied by what could charitably be called an angelic chorus, if flugelhorns and vuvuzelas were the chosen instruments of the celestial choir. It came to rest in Sator Square as crowds turned their heads to catch a glimpse of the strange device. Accounts varied as to its identity. Some said it was a great roaring beast that heralded the new era. Some said it was a machine, like a pipe, that belched fire, smoke, and cake mix. She spoke, and with her spoke the chorus of a thousand voices. “Never leave home without it.” *As has been previously stated, they are many, and without compare or equal. For the third time that day, the wizards of the Unseen University sat in silence, having just been half-deafened by the cataclysmic explosion that, judging from the trail of debris and de-headed hats, had emanated from Sator Square. “...” yelled the Archchancellor in the vague direction of the Dean. “WHAT?” he bellowed in response. “...” the Archchancellor restated, at a slightly increased level of volume. His cheeks began to gain a purple tinge. “HOLD ON, I THINK I HAVE SOMETHING LODGED IN MY EAR,” the Dean replied, digging in with his finger. He successfully managed to dislodge a piece of lobster shell, just in time to hear the full unfortunate tirade of rich and fascinating rural terms for various indescribable and unprintable acts, framed around a question that hung on everyone’s lips: What the hell was going on? This question could, of course, be answered with remarkable ease by any wizard choosing to look over the walls of the university and into Sator Square, but such ‘outside the box’ thinking was frowned upon by the faculty. It was a wizard’s firm belief that anything and everything could be answered within the realms of magic, and, more importantly, no more than fifty metres away from a pantry. “First balloons, then this bloody confetti everywhere, and then an explosion! And it’s not magic! Well if it bloody well isn’t magic then what is it?” the Archchancellor boomed, gesticulating wildly. “We could see if Hex has-” Ponder Stibbons began. “WE ARE NOT ASKING YOUR BLASTED ANT FARM,” The Archchancellor snapped back. As the echoes died away, a student cautiously raised a quivering arm, and nearly leapt under the table when the Archchancellor looked his way. Composing himself, he stuttered his suggestion: “We c-could... s-summon D-D-Death?” The Archchancellor sighed. It was always the same answer from the students. The moment they were taught the Rite of AshkEnte, it was all they could think of. Why bother studying and researching your own answers when Death already knew everything and was only a couple of wooden sticks and four cc of mouse blood away? Slowly, he began to realise why Death always seemed so irate about the issue. The sigh was enough to convince the student that his answer was poorly-timed, unneeded, and, perhaps, an indication to go hide in his dorm room for a few days until the Archchancellor forgot about it. There was a polite cough from somewhere near the back of the hall, where another student had his hand up. The Archchancellor merely glanced at him, this served as invitation enough. “Uh, sir, if it isn’t, well, magic, then it, uh, might possibly be, well, divine, you see, and if that’s, uh, the case, as it were, then perhaps we, uh, should talk to, what you might call, a priest?” The Archchancellor blinked. The faculty looked at him, as one, with rapt attention. “... Good idea, glad I thought of it. Go and get my brother.” In Ponyville, the days seemed to draw out longer and longer to Bill Door. The pile of books around Twilight Sparkle slowly grew into mountains as she attempted to research the spell that might allow her to cross dimensions and bring back Pinkie Pie. The pile around Bill Door was also growing, but directly proportional to the shrinking biography section of the Golden Oak Library. As he turned the final page of The Life and Times of a Pasta Farmer, a sensation that had been nagging him for some time over the past week returned in greater force. It was... He found it difficult to describe. A cloying sense of unease. A frustration with the way things were. A half-felt urge to change routine. Was there a name for this feeling? He was sure there must be. Mortals named everything. It had become blindingly clear from his reading that occasionally they even decided to rename bits of themselves. He ran through the list. It wasn’t love. Love was a confusing and somewhat terrifying mix of emotion, impulse and blind stupidity that he felt he would never fully understand. It wasn’t hunger. It felt similar to hunger, but he’d eaten only an hour ago, so it couldn’t be hunger. Anger? He knew anger quite well, but he certainly didn’t feel angry about anything. He continued in this vein for several minutes, mentally checking each known emotion, but without drawing a conclusion. “... Miss Sparkle!” he called, at last, his own knowledge exhausted. Twilight looked up from her books, looking a little haggard from lack of sleep. This tended to be symptomatic of whenever Twilight decided that a problem needed her attention and had to be solved. “Mm?” she grunted in reply. “I feel frustrated with the tedium of my current existence. Is there a name for this feeling?” Bill Door asked, deadpan. “You’re bored.” “Oh! Boredom. How interesting. Thank you.” Silence drifted in once more, broken only by the rustling of pages and the low hum of telekinetic magic. “... Miss Sparkle?” “Yes?” “What, exactly, does one do when one is... Bored?” Moments later, Bill Door found himself outside the library, with the door being slammed shut behind him. He wasn’t sure what had happened in the intervening seconds. He glanced around him. The Golden Oak Library was near the centre of Ponyville, facing a main street that led to the town hall and its surrounding market area. He could see ponies trotting back and forth across the street, occasionally giving him inscrutable looks before changing direction slightly. He decided to make his way down the grassy street, and see if there was something to dissuade this ‘boredom’ at the market. Ponies here and there seemed to be going out of their way to avoid him. He dimly recalled Twilight explaining (at great length) that certain of the Ponyville population had drawn connections between his appearance and Pinkie’s disappearance, and that rumour travels fast in a small town populated by a naturally skittish race. Apparently, some of the more outlandish rumours included that ‘Bill Door’ was really a creature from another dimension who collected the souls of the dead, and that Pinkie had made a dark and terrible pact to take his place. These were, understandably, laughed off as completely absurd. Shortly, Bill Door approached the edge of the green that encircled the Ponyville town hall. He could see stalls set up around roughly half the circumference, selling all kinds of grown produce, manufactured goods, and imported products. The Ponyville Market was a place where the community of the town came together, to trade, exchange news and haggle over that day’s best deals. It was late morning, so most of the town was out, shopping for their lunch, or merely looking for a pleasant distraction. Bill Door recognized the familiar shape of one pony in particular - a yellow-coated, pink-maned pegasus making her way around the stalls and deftly swerving in and out of the crowds, eyes down and avoiding contact as best as possible. He watched as she approached the stall of one obstinate-looking tomato salespony, and began to negotiate the price. The attempt did not appear to be going very well, as now the salespony was insisting on slightly above the original asking price. Bill Door decided to wander over and examine the tomatoes for himself. The two were so engrossed in the increasingly heated debate that they initially failed to notice his presence. He took the time to scrutinize the red, plump-looking fruits on offer, carefully looking at all angles and perspectives, and even going as far as gently prodding one with a hoof. It was this act that broke the salespony from her increasingly one-sided argument with Fluttershy and drew her attention to the new customer. “How much are you charging for these tomatoes?” he asked, before the salespony had time to open her mouth. “Oh, uh, as I was just explaining to Fluttershy here, being Spring and all, they’re two bits each.” she replied. “But they aren’t even ripe. They are probably only worth one bit each.” The salespony frowned. “Two bits.” “This one is green.” Bill Door continued. “Two. Bits.” “And this one is so hard as to be nearly inedible.” “If you don’t like my tomatoes, you are free to shop elsewhere.” the salespony replied, effectively shutting down all further conversation. But Bill Door continued regardless. “But you are the only pony selling tomatoes in the market.” “That’s right, I am, and they’re two bits, take it or leave it,” the salespony reiterated, jabbing a hoof at the sign. “R-really, it’s fine, I can j-just pay the full-” Fluttershy began, before being cut off. “The product you are selling is of inferior quality and clearly only worth half of what you are asking. I feel that this ought to be reported to a local authority as fraud,” Bill Door said, nodding solemnly. “... Two for three bits,” the salespony interjected, reluctantly. “One bit.” “I’m already making a loss! I’ve gotta eat too, you know. Two for three bits!” she repeated. “At one bit per tomato you are making an adequate profit during the off-season.” “You’re asking me to sell my fine, home-grown product at a loss, and then have the gall to say I’m making a profit? You’ve got some nerve! … And it’s still three bits for two,” she continued, beginning to go as red in the face as her tomatoes. “If you were truly offended by my offer you would not still be bartering. One bit,” Bill Door replied, voice level. The salespony wracked her mind trying to think of a suitably counter-argument, but the stern, icy-blue eyes of her customer froze her train of thought and left her stuttering. Finally, she slammed her hoof on the stall and gave up. “Fine! Customers these days...” As the grumbling salespony picked up her bits and pulled down a banner saying ‘Gone to Lunch’, Fluttershy scooped the tomatoes into her saddlebags and turned to thank Bill Door. If she had been looking directly at him (which she wasn’t), she might’ve noticed that he didn’t seem to be looking directly at her, either. “Uhm, thank you. For the help. I don’t think that mare likes me very much,” she opened, as they began to trot away. “Oh. You are welcome." They trotted together in silence for a few minutes. Both were trying to think of a suitable subject of conversation that neither seemed too intruding or too diffident. “... So, what are you... doing? Today?” Bill Door asked, having finally struck on a winner. “Oh, uhm, I’m going to see Applejack - you know, the apple farmer, my friend - her dog, Winona, is feeling poorly. I’m going to see if there’s anything I can... do.” The conversation laid to rest, once again. They soon reached the edge of Ponyville proper and entered the country roads, lined with cottages, that led to the farmlands outside of the town. Bill Door barely realised the time that had passed, despite normally being aware of every passing second. What he did realise was that the feelings of being ‘bored’ had given way to an altogether even more unfamiliar feeling. In some ways, it resembled fear, but also happiness. He had an inkling of what that meant, but decided to ignore it. In the same sense that one ignores things by locking them in something heavy and then burying it somewhere, or throwing it in a nearby body of water. The two wandered through the country lanes in silence, glancing around at everything except each other. Bill Door noted the particular shade of blue that the sky bore this morning. The notes and songs of at least six different species of bird. The last remnants of dew clinging to the grass. The three overburdened little fillies overtaking them on the path, screaming something about ‘cutie marks’ and ‘wilderness explorers’. Eventually, they reached the white fences and brightly-coloured trellises that marked the start of Sweet Apple Acres. Bill Door was snapped out of his reverie by Fluttershy’s quiet voice; “Uhm, thank you for... Walking with me. It was... nice,” she said, blushing, and moved to turn away. Then she stopped, took a deep breath, and turned back to face him. “Maybe-if-you’re-not-busy-later-this-afternoon-you-would-like-to-get-tea-or-something-if-that’s-alright-with-you-I-mean-oh-Celestia-I’m-sorry-never-mind-I-should-go.” The words streamed from her mouth at top speed, and before Bill Door had had time to properly process them, she was already a retreating yellow and pink blur. Nevertheless, he felt elated. And a little confused. More confused than elated, if he was honest. He wandered around the entrance to the farm for a few minutes, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. It was at this point that an orange earth pony in a brown felt hat spotted him. She trotted over, wearing a friendly expression. “Well, howdy! You must be the new stallion in town Rarity was talking about. Now, I know half the town’s saying you done something horrible to Pinkie and that’s why she’s gone missing around the time you turned up, and then the other half’s saying that you ain’t got nothing to do with that and it’s just pure coincidence, but I don't have any truck with rumour and gossip. I’m sure Pinkie’s fine, wherever she is, she’s just like that. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m worried for her and all, she’s a good friend, but she’s the sorta pony that makes a bright day out of a gloomy morning, if you get my meaning." Bill Door didn't. "Well now, where’re my manners? I ain’t even asked your name! I’m Applejack, it's a pleasure. What brings you ‘round ta my farm, now?” He blinked. “... My name is Bill Door. I was walking over here with Fluttershy. Good morning,” he managed to respond, in a deliberately slower pace. “Door? My cousin knows a Door over by Appleloosa way, don’t suppose you're related? Oh, I'm sorry, I'm prying again ain’t I." Bill Door said nothing. The silence stretched for a few seconds. Somewhere**, a cricket chirped. "So, you walked over with Fluttershy? She did seem a little flustered when I ran into her just now. Or rather, she ran into me!” Applejack continued, laughing. She noticed that Bill Door just watched her with an air of curiosity, rather than one of understanding. “... Say now, you busy?” she asked, sizing him up. “Uh... No.” “Well, that’s just swell! How’d you like to help me and my brother - he’s the red one, over there - with planting some of the new apple saplings in our south orchard? You look like you’ve got a strong back about you, and, well, Fluttershy will be here for a couple of hours yet, with Winona.” Bill Door pondered the offer. He was no stranger to farms or farm labour, in fact, he rather enjoyed it, but traditionally he was a Harvester, not a Planter. The notion of giving and nurturing new life rather than taking it away both excited and intrigued him. He smiled at the friendly farmpony. “That sounds delightful.” **That's not to say, somewhere they were currently standing. In fact this particular cricket was chirping merrily to itself somewhere in an unnamed forest on the far western coast of Equestria. It just happened to coincide with the lull in the conversation, as these things always do. The student wasted no time in fulfilling the request made for him, and, dodging the prize rose bushes and the compost heaps of the Unseen University’s campus gardens, he leapt over the broken section of wall that had, traditionally, been used as the main entrance to the university by both students and faculty staff alike since time immemorial***, and ran into Sator Square. He had difficulty continuing, as he found his path blocked by what appeared to be several hundred upstanding**** citizens of Ankh-Morpork holding on to one another and emulating the rhythmic movements of a type of legless reptile. Whilst singing. Badly. In the split-second that he paused, there was suddenly a pink pony-shaped thing standing next to him. “Hey! You’ve already got a pointy hat! Come on, they’re just refilling the punch!” ***Opening the vast octiron gates required at least four wizards of the Third Level. Unfortunately, finding them between meals, or when sober, was more trouble than it was worth. Often the wizards reserved gate-opening for special occasions, so it made a greater impact. ****Well. Some of them were upstanding. Others were nearly horizontal.