Late Night
Village of Oldenburg, Lipizza Province
Twelfth of High Summer, Anno Concordia 2067
In the silence of the empty diner, the chiming of the bell over the front door was almost impossible to miss. And in spite of this fact, the griffon presently making her exit paid it no mind. “Good night, Jack,” she called over her shoulder.
“Good night, Gert.”
As griffons went, Gertrude was unremarkable, save for being the sole griffon in a village of ponies, and perhaps also for having the grey and black feathers of a harpy eagle, when others might perhaps expect white and brown. A small, dark cloth purse slung round her neck was the only accessory that might have made her stand out, but it too was unremarkable. In the grand scheme of things, unremarkable appearance was fine: The unremarkable griffon Gertrude for the unremarkable village Oldenburg.
Stepping out into the night air, however, was decidedly less unremarkable than it typically was.
“I’m too late, aren’t I?” a voice asked of the griffon after the door had closed behind her, and Gertrude’s inspection of the voice’s owner revealed a pony who was not a native of the village. He was still almost unremarkable enough to fit right in.
As remarkable visitors went, a slate-grey, dark-eyed stallion in a waistcoat did not necessarily top the list. What stood out to the griffon — and really what was his only notable feature — was the capotain on his head: As hats went, it was not a style worn by anyone in Oldenburg. This simple gave is what gave Gertrude pause, being just remarkable enough to capture and hold her attention, if only for a moment.
“I’m afraid a bit too late, stranger. We just closed a few minutes ago,” Gertrude said.
The stallion heaved a light sigh. “It was a bit much to hope for, I suppose,” he replied, “But might you have some old coffee left you could part with? It’s been a long ride from the Midland.”
For the second time, the stranger gave Gertrude pause, this time with his words. “The Midland? As in, the middle of Equestria?” A nod confirmed the supposition. “Good grief! What’s a Canterlan doing out here? And why are you still outside? Come in! I’m sure we have something warm to drink.”
Without wasting another moment, the griffon turned and pushed the diner’s door open and stepped inside. The stallion followed, and was greeted by a diner that was empty, save for a single, surprised-looking earth pony sitting at one of the tables and in the middle of counting the day’s earnings, bits, paper and an inkwell with quill spread out before him; butter white coat and brown mane that was reminiscent of maple wood, the Canterlan noted. “One more guest tonight, Jack. He’s a Canterlan. Do we still have coffee left?”
Gertrude was already moving towards the back with routine timing before she was stopped by that earth pony’s voice. “You’ve been here for thirteen hours already, Gert,” the earth pony said, “Go home. I’ll take care of him.”
The griffon’s feathers ruffled in irritation, although it would be difficult for anypony (or anyone, for that matter) to take seriously thanks to the hyper-exaggerated expression of droll boredom she was wearing simultaneously. “Now, Jack, it’s only coffee,” she said, examining her talons for dirt which was not there. “No trouble at all, won’t take but a moment.”
‘Jack,’ perhaps predictably, was not buying it.
“Don’t you have a filly to go to?” he said, before turning his gaze down to the table in thought. “I think it’s a filly, at least. Either a filly, or a very pretty colt.”
In an instant, Gertrude’s expression switched to amused exasperation. “Now, Jack, you know I don’t have anypony out there waiting for me. Even as much as I would like to have a pretty, pretty princess of a colt.”
“Well, it’s never too late to get one. Here’s an advance. Spend it poorly.” The pony, without so much as bothering to count, pushed a small pile of bits to the other side of the table.
“An advance?” Gertrude sounded incredulous. “Oh, I can’t take an advance,” she replied with a wave of her talons.
“Of course you can,” the pony countered, “Just scoop them up and drop them into your purse.”
“Really, I can’t.” Gertrude pushed the bits back across the table.
“I insist.” Jack pushed them back, and made a point of keeping his hoof on the pile.
“Jack, no.”
“Not taking that for an answer.”
For a few brief moments, both diner representatives narrowed their eyes at each other, and then the griffon heaved a melodramatic sign and adopted an easy smile. “Fine,” she said as Jack removed his hoof and she pushed the bits into her purse. “You win.”
“You’re damn right, I win. Now, go, be free, do something irresponsible, but also nonfatal. If you die, I will get very sad and cry.”
Gertrude threw one arm around her partner’s withers and gave him a quick, and quickly returned hug. “Good night, Jack.” Breaking the hug and advancing towards the exit in a silly pirouette, Gertrude balanced on her hind legs and leaned down in an equally silly courtesy, wings splayed far wider than could be considered practical in any social situation. “Sir Canterlot.”
Without missing a beat, the grey stallion doffed his hat with his hoof, revealing the very base of a unicorn’s horn. “Lady Griff.”
With a giggle, Gertrude rose and all but skipped out the door.
Once she’d left, the unicorn lowered his hat back to his head. “Not quite an employee, but not quite a co-owner, either,” he said, turning his attention to the diner’s other occupant.
Jack responded in kind. “I think ‘apprentice’ is the best way to describe her, Mister…”
“Second Glance.”
“Call me Jack,” the earth pony replied, this time with a nod, “Everypony else does.” Without wasting a moment, the earth pony rose from his seat and moved towards the kitchen. “Sit wherever you like. Open seating tonight!”
With a satisfied grunt, Second Glance took a seat at the nearest table. His hat briefly shimmered with a silver-grey aura before levitating into the air and gracefully alighting on the tabletop. After a few moments more, Jack reappeared with a mug balanced on his head and a carafe half-filled with dark coffee gripped in his teeth. Second Glance noted his bright blue eyes. With precision befitting the best of the Royal Guard, he ducked his head, slid the empty mug onto Second Glance’s table, rose and then filled it before setting the carafe down. No hesitations, no spilled liquid, nothing out of place. A perfect delivery.
“I’ll be counting a while yet, so feel free to stay for a bit,” the earth pony remarked before turning and moving back towards the table he was himself occupying. “I cannot promise, however, that I’ll be much for conversation. Still plenty left to do.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Second Glance replied. Magic shimmered around the coffee mug, and like his hat, it floated into the air. “My job’s all about conversation. Sometimes, it’s nice to have some quiet background noise to organize the thoughts with.”
As he sat back down, Jack stole a quick look at the unicorn’s flank to spy his mark: A magnifying glass with a loupe in front of it. Just the thing for taking another look at some in more detail. “Well, with a mark like that, I’m guessing… a consultant? Consulting detective?”
Second Glance gave a nod. “Close,” he said, before taking a sip of his coffee and pausing. “For old coffee, this is pretty good.” Jack offered a shrug in response. “But, as I was saying, close.” Second Glance took another sip before continuing. “I’m actually a Crown Investigator, sent here to the ‘provinces,’ so the Canterlans would say as if the Midland weren’t a province of its own, to look into a ‘matter of interest’ for the Princesses. Really, that’s a fancy way of saying they want me to hunt for changelings. The exact reasons why I’ve been sent out here are not clearly understood by anypony, least of all me.”
Jack stopped his counting to flash Second Glance a look of incomprehension. “It would seem,” he said, “That if you’ve been sent to the provinces, as the Canterlans would say as if the Midland weren’t a province of its own, to hunt for changelings, it would be because there are changelings here.”
“And yet, there are none. There are exactly zero changelings this far north. After their expulsion from Canterlot, they would have either stayed in the Midland, and been caught in short order, or would have returned south to where the came from. They control the Badlands, they can do whatever they want there, and we would be reduced to using harsh language against them. Princess Celestia herself could do naught but write strongly-worded letters in a fruitless attempt to hurt their feelings. But here, in the provinces? A dead end, nowhere to run when they get caught. We’d drive them all into the ocean or the mountains. Only a stupid bug-pony would think to hide here, or anywhere outside the Badlands. There are no more changelings in Equestria because, contrary to what my superiors seem to think, changelings are not stupid bug-ponies.”
“Implying,” Jack began, “That your superiors are stupid bug-ponies.”
Second Glance raised his mug in a mock toast. “No apologies.”
“Implying, also, that the Princesses, all three of them, are stupid bug-ponies.”
Once again, Second Glance raised his mug. “No comment.” Jack could only respond with a bark of barely stifled laughter. “You see, that’s what I like best about you provincials, Flapjack. You take your business very seriously, and nothing else too seriously. A Canterlan like me could learn from a pony like you.”
It was not the sip of coffee Second Glance then took that captured the earth pony’s rapt attention, but the words he’d said immediately before it. “You just arrived from the Midland, and Gert didn’t mention my full name. I didn’t mention my full name. How do you know that about me?” Second Glance gave him a hard, piercing look, directly into his eyes.
“I feel pretty confident that the only thing I don’t know about you is how long ago you replaced him.”
A silence, devoid of words or the counting of bits, passed between the two stallions. That silence stretched for several seconds, slowly approaching half a minute. Second Glance turned his attention back to his coffee, taking another sip as a flash of green briefly illuminated the diner. A moment later, the jangle of bits being counted resumed, albeit at a much faster pace and assisted now by an acid green glow of magic. When the unicorn again turned his gaze towards the other table, Flapjack was gone, his place now occupied by the black chitin of a changeling. The bright blue eyes remained, even if the pupils more now more closely resembled a snake’s rather than a pony’s, but the mane had given way to bright blue silk the same shade as those eyes. To each of their credits, neither reacted adversely to the change in their situation.
The changeling broke the new silence, devoid only of words, that stretched between them with a single, simple question posed in Flapjack’s voice: “What happens now?” To his continued credit, he did not stop counting the bits before him, save to occasionally switch to the quill pen to write some figures on the paper.
“You could run,” the unicorn said, the phrasing making it sound less like a proposition and more like a suggestion.
Without stopping, the changeling shook his head. “No time,” he replied. It was, admittedly, not the answer — one of the answers — that Second Glance was expecting.
“No time?”
Again, the changeling shook his head. “I need to settle the accounts from today,” he began. “The kitchen needs to be cleaned, the floors and tables need to be washed, and I need to take inventory so we know what we need to buy from the market tomorrow.” For a brief moment, he turned his attention fully to the Investigator. “Even if it were true that you didn’t have your underlings watching the exits to prevent me from running, who has time for that with all this other work?” The moment passed, and the changeling once more focused on the money in front of him, counting and tallying.
Second Glance paused just long enough for another draught of his coffee, using the time to think. “I think your disguise is what interests me most,” he said.
The changeling paused, but did not look up, resuming its counting almost immediately. “Yes?” it asked.
“It’s just that it seems to be an unusual disguise. You see, what tipped me off is that I know Flapjack. He works in a diner like this one, although as a waiter rather than the proprietor, a five days’ ride east of here, and is very much at large. It would create a problem, don’t you think, if one day there were two Flapjacks in Oldenburg.”
A shrug prefaced the response. “Flapjack is reliable,” said the changeling. “He was never interested in traveling before, and I don’t expect that to change.”
“You’re familiar with him yourself, I see,” Second Glance remarked.
The changeling shrugged again, briefly switching to the quill. “Familiar enough to know he has no interest in travel. To know that I could borrow his appearance and go elsewhere, and as long as it was far enough away, no one would catch on.” He paused in his counting again. “That’s the way things used to be, at the least. I suppose that with what happened in Canterlot, everything’s changed. Maybe the bounties are gone, but I guess the Crown is still looking for changelings after all.”
“I admit to misleading you about why I’m here, Jack,” Second Glance said. Finally, the changeling did stop counting and looked up at the unicorn. “It’s true that I’m looking for a changeling, but only for one, and he isn’t you. So, while I don’t particularly approve of your deception, I’m also in no position to do anything about it.”
Flapjack stared for a moment more, and then returned to his counting. “I don’t think I believe that,” he said between the jangle of bits.
“In that case, I’m in no position to want to do anything about it,” Second Glance replied. “Without telling you much of anything, there’s been a development, and the Crown is no longer as blind as it used to be where it comes to changelings.” He took another sip of his coffee. “Why breakfast?”
“What do you mean?” Flapjack asked, switching to his quill again.
“I glanced at the menus up front. A couple of sandwiches were there, yes, but otherwise, it’s all breakfast. There’s a chalkboard with the specials written on it, all breakfast. And yet, here you are still counting, meaning you serve breakfast well into the evening. An unusual choice, all things considered. Even the specialized diners in the Midland don’t serve breakfast all day. I’ve only personally encountered one diner that serves breakfast the entire time that it’s opened, in Manehattan, and they still close at half past three in the afternoon. Why breakfast?” Second Glance ended his statement with another sip of coffee.
Flapjack set his quill on the rest beside the ink pot. “There’s a special kind of reward in serving breakfast. There was colt during my first week, I remember. The special that day was ‘Taters and Mash.’ Two eggs, any style, mashed potatoes with white gravy, and two potato pancakes.” He began telekinetically shoveling the bits on the tabletop into bags, probably to be deposited in a safe. “This colt, he had his eggs scrambled, didn’t particularly care for them, but I’ll never forget the look of bliss, of pure, unrestrained joy he wore when he bit into his first potato pancake. He was happier, I think, then he’d been in a long while.
“Changelings need love to live, and there’s a certain kind of love that can only be brought out by good food. When one pony, just one pony feels that love, all the ponies around them feel that love. They all smile a bit more brightly, converse more happily, and for the rest of the day, that love follows them, and they pass it to other ponies they meet.
“Good food brings out the love in ponies. Good food make them smile, and makes them happy, and when I see those smiles, I feel energized. The love they feel keeps me alive, but those smiles make me feel alive, make me feel like I’ve done the right thing. Breakfast is just the tool that I’m best with.”
Whatever it was that Second Glance had hoped to learn from his interview, it seemed that he’d found it. With one final drink of his coffee, he placed the empty mug on the table, and rose from his seat. A pair of bits floated from inside his hat — coming to rest in front of the Flapjack — before it was replaced on his head and he turned toward the door to make his exit. Just before reaching the door, he paused, and then looked back over his shoulder at the changeling that was calmly watching.
“Thanks for the coffee, and for the chat” was the final statement the unicorn made, and then he was gone.
For several seconds, the changeling looked at the door, and then in a flash of green light, once again wore the guise of Flapjack. If he left right then, and no one was watching, he might have been able to slip past the Guard perimeter and buy himself a few more days of freedom before he was caught. If he ignored his hunger and pushed himself beyond what was reasonably safe, he might even make it to the Badlands and elude capture entirely.
He might’ve done either of these things had he not made the mistake of turning around.
The griddle had been pre-cleaned, but not cleaned properly. There were dishes in the sink that needed to be washed and dried. The floors needed to be mopped and the windows washed. There was still so much to be done before the diner was ready to be closed. And then, it would need to be opened in the morning, and as skilled as Gert was, as dedicated to her dream (and his) as she may have been, she wasn’t ready for that yet. Certainly not with absolutely no notice that opening, and cooking, and waiting, and busing, and cashiering, and closing would henceforth be her responsibility solely. If the changeling pretending to be Flapjack left right then, he might escape Second Glance, but then there was the risk that there would be even just a few moments where his diner was not perfect.
With a heavy sigh, he set himself to work upon the griddle, but even that could not demand all of his focus. There was still a question churning in the back of his mind: Second Glance had said that he was looking for a changeling, and Flapjack would spend the rest of the night wondering what to do with the knowledge that it wasn’t him.
In the din of the busy diner, the chiming of the bell over the front door was almost impossible to hear. In spite of this fact, Flapjack’s attention was drawn to the door when he was certain he’d heard someone come in. Sure enough, there stood Second Glance, waiting patiently and smiling happily. The disguised changeling politely excused himself from the conversation he was in and made his way over. “I was expecting you at sunrise,” he said.
Second Glance gave a short chuckle. “Too early. How the Princess manages it everyday I’ll never understand,” he said before bring attention back to the matter at hoof, “I’m a bit surprised, really. You’re taking my presence here in excellent stride. I thought you’d be worried.”
To Flapjack’s credit still again, he managed to somehow not lose his smile. “I am worried. I’m very worried, but I was even more worried when you didn’t show at the crack of dawn. Who can say why?” he said.
Second Glance chuckled again. “Who indeed?” he replied. As had happened several times the night before, a brief silence passed between the two stallions before Second Glance broke it. “I notice that you’re not in your kitchen.”
The smile that Flapjack wore grew even wider on his face. “Gert’s cooking today,” he said, “The full day. She’s ready for it.”
“And how is she doing so far?” the investigator asked.
For a few moments, Flapjack simply glanced towards the kitchen. “Today is going to be perfect,” he said. Earth pony turned back to unicorn and said, in the way that a father might say of his daughter, “I’m so proud of her.”
Second Glance smiled a wide smile of his own. “Give her my regards, if you could. I’d tell her myself, but I’m already late. It’ll be a hard ride to make the next village before nightfall. I haven’t finished my investigation, so onward.”
At that, Flapjack cocked his head to the side. “Sure you can’t stick around for ten minutes? That’s all it’ll take for Gert to make you two of the best potato pancakes you’ll ever eat,” he said, but Second Glance shook his head.
“I have to pass this time,” he said, “But I do imagine I’ll be back this way in a few weeks time. It could be quite late by the time I do.” At that moment, Flapjack’s smile was exactly the kind he liked wearing the most: Genuine.
“I’ll leave the light on for you.”
“I’m not terribly fond of saying goodbye,” Second Glance said, “And so, I would instead like to say to you —” The unicorn paused long enough to tip his hat- “Until next time.” His smile was met with Flapjack’s own.
“Until next time, Sir Canterlot. Travel safely.”
With a final nod, Second Glance turned to the door, but was stopped when Flapjack said, “Investigator.” He turned to be met with a pony who looked uncertain of what he was about to say. After dithering for a moment, Flapjack nodded firmly — perhaps to himself — and said, “Go west.”
Second Glance nodded himself. “West,” he said, and stepped out the door, heaving a sigh as the door closed behind him and his legs mechanically carried him towards the Guard cohort on the outskirts of the village. Despite the personal detachment he felt from the world around him as he walked, he could not help but feel a swell of joy at what he had discovered in that village all the same
It was, ultimately, a short-lived swell. As soon as he entered the Guard encampment, receiving quick salutes from those ponies who weren’t too busy breaking camp to notice him, it was back to business. Immediately, he sought out the unicorn in command, Lieutenant Trench Broom, and made his way over.
The Lieutenant was perched over an unfolded card table, examining a map of the region, and, upon noticing that Second Glance had returned from the village, looked as pleased as she always did. Which is to say, not pleased at all, despite the gleam of her armor.
“Welcome back, Investigator,” was all the greeting that was offered. A curt nod nod was the only response, and Trench Broom went right back to her map, plotting the best routes to push ahead along. After a moment, she broke the relative silence that had fallen over them. “I trust my intelligence was correct.”
“Perfectly correct, as always. A single changeling. Fortunately, this one poses no immediate threat to the populace.” Second Glance though for a moment, and then added to his terse report: "If he is discovered, I suspect he will be rapidly reintegrated into the community, once breakfast time rolls around.”
“Your recommendation?” Trench Broom asked without missing a beat.
“My recommendation is that we leave him be,” Second Glance replied, “His presence will be noted in my next report, but there is no need to tie up resources when they are needed elsewhere.”
Conversation halted for a moment when another guardspony, an earth pony Corporal, came to the table, snapping a crisp salute.
“Ready to depart in five minutes, Lieutenant.”
Trench Broom nodded, and then turned her attention back to Second Glance. “And what about the other matter, Investigator? Any evidence to suggest he was here?”
“We can thank that one changeling in residence for that,” Second Glance replied. “He didn’t say so outright, and nothing in he mannerisms indicated that he spent a great deal of time with him, but he did say that we should ‘go west.’ He was forthright in his other answers, so I don’t doubt the truth of this one. Never mind that it matches with his other behavior so far.”
A forest green shimmer surrounded the map as Trench Broom's horn sparked to life, and it promptly furled up and floated into the air.
The Lieutenant had but one word to offer — “Good.” — before she stalked away, barking orders to prepare for the ride ahead. Second Glance turned to leave for his own preparations before a voice stopped him.
“Investigator, may I ask a question?” the Corporal began.
After a moment, Second Glance turned back and focused on him. “You may, Corporal.”
There was no hesitation. “This is not the first time I've heard you and the Lieutenant speak about, 'him.' If I may ask, Investigator, who exactly is he?”
This time, there were several seconds that passed as Second Glance considered the Corporal's question.
“This information is not restricted, but it is to be controlled. Is that understood, Corporal?”
Again, there was no hesitation. “That is understood perfectly, Investigator.”
“Then tell me, Corporal...
“Have you heard of the Prince of Ponyton?”