A fragrant scent of fresh-mown hay drifted to my nose on the warm breeze. Cotton candy clouds floated through the blueberry sky, casting their licorice string shadows onto the spring grass. Dancing along on the breeze came a small brown wren, its liquid voice warbling softly in the sunlit air. It cut a long circle out over the surface of the lake, and then lazily turned back toward shore, lighting in a nearby bush, where it continued its joyful tune.
The bird's song mingled with the rustling of the wind upon grass and water to compose the most peaceful melody I had ever heard. As I dipped my hooves in the cool water of the lake and watched the tiny bird peck at the leaves, I sighed happily and wondered how I could forever keep this complete state of relaxation.
As if in answer to my unspoken question, the friendly wren cocked its head to the side, opened its beak - and proceeded to scream at me like a fire alarm.
I rolled over in bed with an annoyed groan, slapping blindly at the alarm clock on my nightstand, but my thrashing hoof only succeeded in knocking over the half-empty glass of water that sat there. I raised my muzzle from the pillow, a string of drool still hanging from the corner of my mouth, and glared at my alarm clock, which somehow had removed itself conveniently from my reach to the top of my desk, across the room. Sheer annoyance gave me the presence of mind to direct a weak surge of energy into my horn. I watched with rather foalish amusement as a burst of lemon-yellow light surrounded the screeching clock and hurled it against the wall with a clanking thud. Silence restored, I dropped my head back onto my pillow with every intention of drifting back to that peaceful meadow.
But the moment had passed, and no matter how I tossed about under the sheets I just couldn't find a position comfortable enough to fall back asleep.
Position. Now why did that word seem to ring its own metaphorical alarm bell in my sleep-muddled brain? For that matter, what had possessed my alarm clock to remove itself to my desk all the way across the room? "Comic," I muttered into my pillow, "clocks don't move themselves across rooms. You must have moved it. Why would you do that to yourself?"
Chalking it up to a masochistic subconscious, I decided that I might as well make a start of the day, and rolled out of bed. Of course, life being what it is, I stepped squarely in the puddle of water that had formed next to the bed and fell on my tail with a yelp, banging my head on the nightstand in the process. The empty glass rolled off and bopped me on the muzzle, and before I could capture it with my magic it had bounced to the floor and shattered.
Yeah, it was going to be another beautiful day in Baltimare.
A scant half-hour later I was seated at the wooden table in my tiny kitchen, working on my second scalding cup of coffee and almost feeling like I might survive the morning, when I heard a thump on the door of my apartment. I trotted over and opened the door to glance out; the tail end of the local papercolt was disappearing into the stairwell at the end of the hall, having deposited the morning copy of The Baltimare Examiner on my doorstep.
I pushed the door closed, the paper trailing behind me, caught in a cloud of magic that deposited it on the table next to my coffee cup. I scanned the headlines briefly (Princess Celestia Delivers Commencement at Johns Clopkins University; Baltimare Aerials Fire Head Coach) while indulging my taste buds in further caffeine.
As I read over the current events, I grimaced and grabbed up a pen in my mouth to correct a grammatical error in one of the articles - seriously, 'they're their there' should never be a mistake made in a major newspaper, even on page five! I dropped the pen back onto the table and slurped my cooling coffee.
The sprouting bud of unease I had felt since waking seemed to bloom a bit further as I read over the day’s news – enough so that I folded the paper and began to pensively tap it on my horn. “Okay, Comic. You moved your alarm clock across the room. You usually do that when you have a reason to wake up. Now you’re reading the newspaper and something’s trying to get your attention. What’s getting ready to bite your tail?” I muttered to myself.
Gathering up my now-empty coffee cup, I carried it across to the sink and stacked it with its numerous unwashed brother cups and sister plates. I really needed to get around to the doing my dishes at some point; I just kept putting off the job.
Job.
Oh, buck me.
With that, everything clicked into place: The alarm clock. Position. Newspaper. Job. A memory of last night down at The Cider Barrel and running into my ex-marefriend, Arial, who was having a drink with her boss and who (rather congenially given our history) had mentioned that I was an out-of-work ink slinger. And said boss, who had told me to stop by the offices of The Baltimare Bugle at 9:00 the next morning for some possible freelance work.
I nearly choked myself putting on my tie. The coat rack fell over as I whipped my fedora onto my head with my magic, and I knocked over several photographs as I tossed my saddlebags onto my back, but I dashed out of the apartment at fifteen minutes to nine – and I’ll admit that I was a little relieved to hear the crash of the mountain of dishes in the sink as the slamming door apparently dislodged them onto the kitchen floor. At least that was one less thing to worry about.
No one was in the hallway as I galloped toward the stairwell; I recklessly hopped down the steps three at a time and burst out into the lobby only a moment later, startling Miss Mack, the elderly mare from 3b, into dropping her mail. My hoof landed on one of the scattered envelopes and I went slip-sliding across the tile, barely maintaining my balance. I shouted an apology as I skidded out the front door and into the cool morning air; I took a split second to regain traction and then trotted off down the sidewalk. With luck, I could make it to the Bugle's office just on time.
And for once, my luck was decent. I didn't run across a single marching band blocking my route; no ponyhole covers had been conveniently left off to drop me into the sewers, and there wasn't even a misplaced vegetable cart to crash through. The only oddity I encountered was a rather heavyset mare with far too much hair spray in her mane, riding along on the back of a garbage wagon singing good morning to the city - but I simply chalked that up to high spirits and Musical Spontaneity Theory, and ran on.
I could hear a nearby bell chiming the hour just as I rounded the corner of 13th and Mane and the offices of the Bugle came into view. The paper's building was smaller than I had expected - only three stories of brown brick, set back slightly from the street behind a green wrought-iron fence. I slowed to catch my breath and make sure that I looked neat - or as neat as I ever could look - as I walked through the gates toward the building.
As I approached the glass double doors, I could feel a thrumming vibration through my hooves, the heartbeat of that beast called Journalism - a printing press grinding out copy; I smiled at the feeling. Above the entryway the words The Baltimare Bugle were carved; just below them in smaller letters was scribed the paper's motto: Tantus Refert Ad Verum - The Truth Matters Only. Pragmatic, but a bit cold, I thought as I entered the building.
The lobby of the Bugle was more grand than I expected, a three-story atrium of white marble tile that echoed with the clop of the ponies who rushed about the place, busy with their daily jobs. Two brass-and-glass elevators were set opposite the doors, floating slowly up and down on glimmering silver clouds of enchantment. But by far the most impressive sight was the large granite statue of the paper's founder, Veritas Bold; I'd heard the statue had been commissioned by his daughter from the unicorn artist Gradina Vetro, and that it was one of the only works of its size ever completed solely through telekinesis.
Below the statue was a circular receptionist's desk with a rather flustered-looking blue pegasus stallion sitting behind it. He was battling a huge stack of papers that, despite his best efforts, didn't want to cooperate with his efforts to cram them all into an envelope. As I walked up, he seemed completely unaware of my presence; I could hear him muttering to himself in an annoyed tone.
After a few moments of being unnoticed, I cleared my throat. The pegasus squeaked and the papers fountained into the air. I grabbed most of them with my magic and shuffled them back into a pile.
"Sorry about that, and thanks," apologized the receptionist in a soft voice. "Uh, welcome to The Baltimare Bugle. How can I help you?"
I smiled. "I'm the one who should be sorry, I didn't mean to startle you like that. I'm Comic - Comic Sans. I'm supposed to be interviewing for freelance work with Arial Black's boss, Freemont Leonis?"
The stallion flipped open a directory and glanced through the pages. "Let's see. Leonis . . . Office 213-B. Take the right-hand elevator behind me to the second floor, turn left, and follow the hallway until you see the Local Press department." He passed me a clip-on badge that said "Guest" and I hooked it to my vest.
"Thanks, Mister…"
"Oh, just call me Wingding. I'm an intern from Baltimare U, and so when the receptionist called out sick - well, let's just say I do what they tell me."
I nodded, and remembered my own days as an intern (read: legal slave). "I guess I might see you around then, Wingding. Thanks again!" I tipped my fedora and trotted over to the elevator as the pegasus went back to battling with paperwork.
A few moments later I trotted out of the elevator and down a second floor hallway, where I found the sign reading Local Press hanging above a suite of offices. Somepony with a sense of humor had hung a paper banner just below it that read Abandon all tropes, ye who enter here, and I snickered as I walked through the glass door.
The Local Press department smelled like stale coffee and old cigarettes, and looked like someone had given Discord a cup of espresso and then turned him loose on the place. The room was a maze of worn wooden desks covered in paperwork and empty Styrofoam cups, rolling desk chairs and scattered metal filing cabinets, drawers open to varying degrees. On the walls hung cork bulletin boards pinned with scores of photos and newspaper clippings covered in marker and ink scribbles. In the center of the room stood a Hearth's Warming tree (despite the fact that it was April); inexplicably it appeared to be decorated with toy donkeys and some sort of green stuffed reptiles.
As no one acknowledged my entrance, I figured I'd find my own way around the place. Despite the clutter, that wasn't too difficult, since I could see the only office door in the far corner of the room. I made my way through the organized chaos, passing by an empty desk with Arial's nameplate sitting on it, and then paused just before knocking as a loud and annoyed voice came from the other side of the door.
I don't normally eavesdrop (unless I really want to) and anyway, he was shouting loudly enough for me to hear without even trying.
"What do you mean, you can't do it? Puff, you've known about the resort opening since . . . Yes, I understand that your daughter is sick, and the flu doesn't get scheduled ahead of time. Can't you find someone to foalsit? . . . Damn it, you know I won't order you to leave your kid at home, Puff, don't be like that. But you're still putting me in a helluva bind."
I heard Leonis take a deep breath and then continue in a quieter voice. "Okay - yeah, I'll get someone else to cover it, Puff. And give Bubble a kiss for me, tell her Uncle Freemy says to feel better soon." There was a click, and then a quiet repeated thump, as if somepony were banging his head on a desk.
Great, first meeting with the boss and he's already ticked off, I thought as I rapped firmly on the door. I heard one more soft thud, and then the voice grunted, "Come in."
I pushed open the door and tried for a winning smile as I looked into the stressed-out face of my new (potential) boss. Freemont Leonis had a silver-feathered head with a somewhat bulbous steel-gray beak; he drummed his large ebon talons impatiently on the desk in front of him. The griffon looked like he may have been an athlete in his younger years; muscles still stood out beneath the white-peppered fur of his chest and at the base of his inky wings, but there was a bit of a paunch to his leonine stomach.
"Ah, Mr. Sans. You're late," graveled the griffon. Before I could protest, he held up a talon and continued. "Don't worry about it; I figure the few minutes you're late probably were spent getting through the mess out there to my office. Sit down and let's talk - or better yet, you listen, and I'll talk."
I sat as Leonis paced and spoke. "Comic - can I call you Comic?" I nodded - you're going to anyway, I thought wryly. "Comic, as it turns out I'm in a bit of a bind. One of my reporters just called out with a family emergency; she was due to cover the opening of the new Bonne Papillon boutique and spa this evening; it's a total fluff piece and a waste of print space if you ask me, but the chief editor's wife is friends with one of the spa's investors, and we need to keep the chief happy."
He paused and fumbled in a desk drawer, removing a manila folder and a pack of cigarettes. The manila folder he slide across the desktop toward me; the cellophane packet he shook, and then tossed into the trash with an irked glance. "So my misfortune is your fortune. Can you guess who's going to be covering the opening?"
I started to answer, and then decided to take his earlier comment literally and instead raised a hoof. Leonis smirked and nodded. "Yes, you. Consider it an on-the-job interview." He snatched up a pencil and scribbled hastily on a memo pad, and then tossed it on top of the folder. "Take this over to Employee Resources; they'll issue you a press pass and set up an expense account for you. I'll expect a draft on my desk tomorrow afternoon; if the copy's good, then we'll cut you some bits, standard freelance pay. Now, unless there are any questions . . ."
With a quiet cough, I blurted out, "Yes, I have one, Mr. Leonis. You seem pretty sure I'm taking the job. Do I get a choice?"
He snapped his beak closed in surprise and looked at me with some shock, but then cawed out a harsh, avian laugh. "Of course you are! Want to know how I know?"
"I wait with bated breath."
Leonis chuckled more softly this time. "That's why. Anyone who uses the word 'bated' in casual conversation needs to write. That, and Arial Black told me that you've been out of work from the journalism business since you moved to the city, and that you tend to get - er, I think her phrase was 'mentally constipated'? - when you don't put out some copy regularly."
I sighed somewhat theatrically, because Leonis was right."I'm a little miffed that Arial told you that, but yeah - she's right. And yes - I'll take the job." I caught up the folder and the memo with my magic and stood up, tipping my hat to my new boss. "Thanks, Mr. Leonis - "
"Call me Free, please. Mr. Leonis was my sire."
"Okay, then. Thank you, Free." I turned toward the door and bumped it open.
"Oh, and Comic?" I paused and spun back to find the griffon standing right behind me, a look of near-predatory amusement on his face; I stumbled back a step. "Arial also told me that the world has a tendency to make things, shall we say, 'interesting' for you? Just remember, you're there to cover a spa opening. Don't screw this up." The door slammed in my face.
As I turned back to face the journalistic mess behind me, I realized the room was dead quiet. The menagerie of other journalists working at the desks quickly snapped their attention back at their work - all of them except for Arial, now sitting at her desk, who cocked an eyebrow and grinned smugly at me while piping, "Welcome back to the pits, Comic."