Inspiration
Conference Call
I wake up, my head throbbing. The fandom was certainly enthusiastic, if nothing else. For the first time in years, I feel like an irresponsible college student ditching class to go party. But now con appearances are expected of me and part of my job, in a way. Writers never know when a job might fall out, so a bit of self-promotion is never out of place. And if you can have fun at the same time, more power to you.
Still, this type of "promotion" is draining to say the least. At the moment I'm wondering if attending the rave was a particularly good idea. I'm an old man now, even compared to most of the con-goers. Some of the parents there even asked me if I was there with my kids. No, I don't have any kids. Well, yes, I do like the show, by default almost. I'm more here on business, you could say. What kind of business? Well, you see...
After persuading myself out of bed, I make my way down the narrow, wooden stairs to the kitchen, start up the coffee, then head back up to my bedroom to make myself presentable. I have an important appointment this morning and, despite the entreaties of my aching head, it's time to get to work. I can smell the roasting coffee as I adjust my tie in the mirror. My profession isn't particularly known for its affluence, but I do have a few good outfits that at least let me look important. Working from home, I don't make a habit of dressing up in anything more professional than PJs, but certain clients require a more dignified and polished appearance.
I'm in a mood for a solid plate of bacon and eggs, but that probably won't be such a good idea this morning, all things considered. I instead pop a couple of bagels in the old metal toaster, multitasking making breakfast and readying everything for my "conference call." I tidy up the counter and the petite, yellow kitchen table to make room for my work things before scooting the table to the side to make more room in the center of the compact kitchen. I get out some jam, cream cheese, a couple of plates with silverware, a thick piece of chalk... By the time I'm done drawing the circle the bagels are nice and toasty. I spread out the cream cheese on mine as I speak the incantation.
The air over the circle shivers and ripples, aligning itself with the other side. I take a bite of my bagel, inspecting the phenomenon. Sometimes the process takes a while and requires some gentle prodding, but this time the gate quickly snaps into place with sudden clarity. A bright background comes into view within the tear in space that has settled in the middle of my kitchen. Fabrics and sewing materials can be seen strewn about the room on the other side. I hope I didn't catch my guest at an inconvenient time. A quick glance to the antiquated clock on the wall reassures me I'm on time. I frown over my coffee, seeing a particularly pampered and well-groomed cat slide its head into view for a peek.
"That's a very important client, Opal, don't bother him." A refined voice wafts unseen from the rip. A moment later my guest steps forward. She shoos the cat away before stepping seamlessly from her world to ours.
"Good morning, Rarity."
"Good morning," she greets, taking a seat at the table. "I must say, you are looking rather nice today. The variety of your outfits never fails to astound me!" I serve her bagel in front of her with a side of butter and jam. She levitates a knife and delicately spreads a pat of butter over her bagel, then dabs a minute amount of preserve before taking the daintiest of bites. I have to admit, seeing magic done like this makes me a bit jealous. No circles, no incantations, no tedious preparations. Just natural, effortless intuition.
"Thank you, I try," I accept modestly.
"So I take it you've restocked since last time, Mr. Markel?" she asks. I smile knowingly, gesturing behind her. She turns around and sets eyes on a large wooden trunk behind the portal she'd stepped in from. "I'll take that as a 'yes,' then," she says, making her way over. A blue aura surrounds the lid of the box, pulling it up. A rainbow of color spills out as soon as the trunk cracks open, lighting up the room. Interestingly, I note some reflected light shining through into my client's workshop in her world.
"Will that be satisfactory payment?" I ask somewhat smugly.
"Oh... Oh my." Rarity gazes from one corner of the trunk to the other. It's filled to the brim with a well-stocked collection of rare and exotic gems. She carefully lifts up a sample and brings it in close to examine it. "It will indeed!" Slowly, she sets the jewel back where it was and turns to face me. "Sadly, I only have the one story to tell you this time. I cannot allow myself to accept all of this for merely that."
I take a sip of my coffee before responding. The arrangement between Rarity and I is a simple one: I trade her gems that I've acquired through... various means in exchange for a moment of her time and having her tell me the occasional story or two or twenty-six. It's mutually beneficial and takes care of my needs quite well. However, there's a question that I've been dying to ask the unicorn since our last meet-up.
"Rarity, I hope you don't take this the wrong way," I tentatively begin, raising my cup, "but this time I have a slightly different... proposition in mind." She looks over at me with a shocked expression that quickly melts into a self-satisfied smile.
"My dear," she scoffs with a toss of her mane. "I do think you'd need a bit more than a box of trinkets for something like that!" She pauses a moment in her dramatic indignation before casting a wistful glance back at the treasure trove behind her. I take another, longer sip of my coffee before moving ahead with the conversation.
"Actually," I resume, "I wanted to see if you could arrange a conversation between me and your friend Twilight. For a while now I've been intrigued by unicorn magic and, from what I've heard from you, it sounds like she's somewhat an expert on the subject."
Rarity awkwardly clears her throat and considers for a moment. "Ah, well, that's a bit different then, isn’t it?" She crinkles her brow with a moment's thought. "I certainly don't see why not. I imagine she'd be thrilled by the opportunity." She retakes her seat at the table and takes on a serious expression. "However, as much as our dealings have been both profitable and delightful, I cannot, in good faith, send Twilight to the home of a veritable stranger. No offense intended, of course, Mr. Markel."
I admit, I expected some initial resistance to the idea. To be fair, I'd been practically interrogating my guest in past visits on her many adventures, but nowhere near that amount of information had flowed in the opposite direction. To simplify matters when dealing with my various "suppliers," I assume the guise of a collector and purveyor of tales and stories. It's close enough to the truth, any which way you slice it.
"I can understand that, but the venture is purely academic," I explain in soothing tones. "If you only have the one tale for me today, that's fine. Consider the rest a bonus for putting in a good word with Twilight for me. If she doesn't wish to come, then I won't press the issue."
"You're not planning anything… shady, are you, sir?" She casts a dubious look in my direction.
My only reply is a teasing grin, albeit quickly allayed.
"Even if I were, your Twilight could blast me into next Tuesday if she ever felt the inclination. I'm sure she'd definitely be capable of handling a minor charlatan such as myself."
Much to my chagrin, this is not a bluff, nor a ruse, nor any sort of duplicitous manipulation on my part. I've seen power, and I know enough to know I don't have it. If we were being generous, we could describe my talents as modest, and I would hesitate to say even that. This is the greater part of my reason to speak with Twilight: I've been aching to learn more about impromptu casting, and unicorn magic seems to nail the arcane nail on the head. As it is, in most cases I have to depend on memorized incantations and pre-planned rituals in order to get anything done around here. It just takes so much time, and everything has to be just right, and by the time you're done setting up even the simplest spell the whole day's gone by. And yeah, I know, I can hear people whining already… Hey buddy, nobody wants to hear you complain about your First World magical problems. Don't you know there are starving children in Africa that are going without any magic powers right now? Yeah, well okay, sorry. My heart bleeds for all you non-magic folk. Really.
"Mr. Markel, you do yourself a discredit," Rarity politely offers. She considers briefly, then replies. "Very well. I'll inform Twilight of your wish to speak with her and share in your admirable pursuit of magical knowledge," she says with a dramatic flair, followed by a slight roll of the eyes. "I'm sure she'll be only all too eager."
"Excellent, so it's a deal, then," I announce. Rarity nods her affirmation. "Now on to our usual business," I begin. "You said you had a story for me?"
Rarity's genial demeanor changes drastically at the reminder.
"Yes, yes I do," she says with a heavy reluctance. She takes a long, healthy look back at the trunk full of gems, as if to steel herself. "I just don't see how these stories always end up being so embarrassing to me…" I lean forward, my fork dangling idly from my fingers. I do still remember the ordeal with the Best Young Flier's Competition. As mortifying it may have been to Rarity here, it sure did turn out to be a fan favorite.
"I'm not here to judge," I reassure her, despite my mischievous grin. Somehow my assurances have failed to comfort my guest, as she glares at me from across the table.
"As you may know," she grudgingly starts, "Pinkie and myself have not typically have had the closest of relationships. To be frank, I couldn't count on one hoof the things we have in common…"
"…and after the beast had been bested and everypony was safely accounted for, I realized that you may not always have the world in common with your friends, or even see them every day, but that doesn't have to mean you care for each other any less," she finishes. "I'm just glad that ordeal turned out for the best. If Pinkie and I hadn't reached an understanding just then, I simply don't know what we would've done!"
I look up from my notepad and smile at her. It truly was a heartfelt story, but, then again, I can't truthfully say I haven't been moved by her tales before. Sometimes I have to remind myself that these events really are happening over on her side, albeit universes away. I feel a slight twinge of guilt at exploiting my client's sincerity, but it is quickly quashed by the force of repetitive routine. I finish up scribbling the last of my notes down.
"I think I have it all," I tell her. Rarity lets out a sigh of reprieve at having finished her tale. Both our breakfasts have long since vanished, our cups carrying the remnants of cold coffee.
"In that case, I'll be off," she says, her brow creasing slightly in concentration as a blue light envelopes the wooden trunk full of jewels. Would Twilight blink an eye at the effort? I suppose I'll just have to wait to find that out. "Thank you, Mr. Markel, I look forward to our next meeting."
"Likewise," I put forward. "And on Twilight Sparkle?" Rarity floats the trunk into her workshop with no small effort, relaxing only when it sets down with a hefty thud.
"I'll make it a point to discuss the matter with her." She must see something in my face, because she continues with a shining smile. "Trust me, sir, I will paint you in the best possible light!"
I watch the white pony saunter back into her workshop. After she has gone, I utter the words to break off the connection. I wait for the window to the other world to abruptly fade to transparency before toeing the now-vulnerable circle of chalk, interrupting the leylines of force. Grabbing my notepad, I walk up the creaky stairs to my office. I plop down into my chair and swivel to face my other magical portal, clicking hurriedly on the mouse, rudely waking up my computer. With a hum and a persistent yet mysterious plinking noise, the computer rouses from its slumber, the screen flickering to life.
If I were the more productive sort, I'd immediately log into my account and send off the latest episode. How responsible. As it goes, however, the next couple of hours are spent dicking around my prerequisite list of various websites before I can actually get anything done.
In between friend-list updates and internet Best-Of articles, I'm able to mold Rarity's rough personal accounts into a coherent script with a clear and concise introduction, intermission, and denouement, all topped off with a classic Letter-To-The-Princess.
At this point, some people may justly wonder why I even bother at all. I admit that to some, my life must seem like some bizarre Rube Goldberg machine. I venture forth to foreign lands to trade and barter for exotic goods, then return home where aforementioned commodities would net me a guaranteed fortune or a Nobel Prize at the very least. Yet in lieu of cashing in like any sane person might do, given the circumstances, I meander into yet another reality to trade off these treasures in exchange for… stories? Tales and recollections? Which I then take no small amount of time and effort to craft into cartoons and children's books? Why would anyone go through this, some people might wonder? Well, if you're the sort that sees the culmination of life as owning the biggest and best stuff, then maybe you'll have some trouble understanding this next part.
Gold is worthless in a gold mine, as one old proverb goes. In all its many forms, money is merely a means to an end, and, unlike many others, my end destination isn't "get more money." I think that's actually the starting point, if you ask me. I have enough to make sure my needs are taken care of, and I enjoy what I do. Besides, I've grown fond of the bohemian image the lifestyle of a writer often necessitates.
Leaning back in my chair, I let my mind drift off. I take another look over the words in front of me, mulling over plot and dialog. It's not always the easiest thing, transcribing interviews into workable, marketable pieces, but thankfully this instance is fairly straightforward. Yes, for all my disregard of traditional work-ethic, this is hard work. Don't tell anyone.
Eventually, I get the narrative sorted out and sent to the show runner. Pending minor edits, the episode should be good as is. It isn't always as easy as this, though. For all its sugary sweetness, on any given day Equestria can out-grit any reality show MTV has to offer. The real world of Equestria isn't always so family-friendly as we see on Saturday mornings, but I consider it all part of the job to make sure things stay relatively G-rated. After a hard day of editing, slacking off, and more "editing," I lean forward to grab a book I've been working on.
A loud noise interrupts my slumber.
The light is on. Funny, I can't even remember falling asleep. I look outside the window in front of me and all I see is darkness. I grab my cell phone, wincing from aching muscles, the consequence of falling asleep in my office chair. Four in the morning…
There's a crashing noise downstairs. It wasn't just part of a dream. I have wards on my house to protect from break-ins, which you'd think would be reassuring, but this information only serves to narrow the possibilities down to things actually strong enough to break through those wards. One or more of which could be downstairs in my kitchen right now. I quickly consider my options. Oh yeah, there's the Staff of Obli… ah, wait, that's downstairs… Then maybe the Ring of Annihi… damnit, that's shut away in a box in the basement, isn't it?
I grab a bat from under the bed.
Voices drift from downstairs, setting me on edge. I peer into the doorway leading into the stairway. Between the bright light of my bedroom and the pitch black encompassing the lower level of my house, I can't see further than a few feet. This all does not make for a very persuading case to explore downstairs. Still, something must be done.
I scoot downstairs along the staircase beside the wall, bat in hand. My steps are painstakingly slow as I will the steps not to creak. What is this thing? My mind races, thinking of the various worlds I've exploit-… ah, explored. But why would they come here? I usually work as the middle-man, really. I can't imagine how any inhabitant could be upset at the slight use of their entire reality for personal profit. Quickly, I run through my mental rolodex; did I owe anyone (or anything) money?
I wince as a step creeeeaks beneath my foot. The vague whisperings immediately cease. My grip tightens.
Gearing up my guts, I take my bat and charge down screaming the rest of the steps into the darkness. A frightened girly cry mimics my own, and a bright purple light erupts forth and sends me crashing into the wall behind me.