The way I see it, my life right now is like an old mare’s tale right before the happy ending, with a stallion instead of a mare, minus the royalty and plus a stressful job, with no chance of getting the girl. Not only that, but it’s an orange, not an apple, that’s poisonous here, and the orange is alive and in the form of a pony. Come to think of it, I guess with all that said and done, my life is actually nothing like an old mare’s tale, is it? Except, of course, the bit about the poisonous orange. But enough with the metaphors: my boss might just be the biggest jerk in Equestria for all I know, and that’s saying a lot. The nice thing about internal narration is that nopony has any idea what you’re thinking, so therefore, there’s no need for self-censorship. And I’m not about to beat around the bush here.
Well, I guess I have to put things in perspective here. After finding out what happened not too long ago, I’ve started to feel more and more guilty about complaining about this 'Mosely Orange' figure I’m working for. I’ve done background checks, and from what I know, he doesn’t have any association with known criminals or anything of the sort. Considering we've worked together long enough for our little Bridleway team to get its own name, Stealer-Orange, I've had all the time in the world to investigate him. As odd as it might seem, there was a time when I was paranoid enough about him to actually check his records. Surprisingly, nothing of interest seemed to be in them except for the sorts of items that some of the more gossipy Manehattanites would die for, like the fact that he’d suddenly divorced his wife after at least fifteen years of what appeared to be a healthy relationship or that said ex-wife fell terminally ill not too long after all that hullabaloo. I tend not to focus on that, though. Melodrama in plays is one thing, but putting it in real life does nothing but complicate matters, so I prefer to stay out of it. Somehow, though, it always seems to find me.
Even after that exaggeration of a ukulele pull back when Coco first told me of the incident, I still chickened out of bursting right into Suri Polomare’s door and telling her exactly what was on my mind. At least, some ponies would call it cowardice. However, being raised in the theatre profession, I’d actually prefer to bide my time, to really think about what exactly to say. The role I’ve chosen to play next is one that requires the perfect words. Not that I’m hoping to reform her or anything; she’s far too irredeemable in my eyes to merit anything like that. In order to really get the public’s attention about her deeds, I have to stick to the best script I can. Nothing can be out of place. After all, I’m doing all of this for the greater good of Manehattan. The sooner figures like this are removed from our fair city, the better.
But deep inside, I can’t lie to myself: I know that I’m not doing a lot of what I do just to provide service to the city. I’ve heard, after all, that there’s no such thing as true altruism like that, and while I’m nowhere near that cynical, there’s some point to that. No matter how much ponies think they’re doing something for the greater good, there’s always some sort of underlying selfish purpose behind a good deed, no matter how small that might be. Mine just so happens to take the form of the sort of thing that reaches a lot of stallions’ minds at my age.
A mare.
Coco. More than anything else, I’m doing so much of this for Coco.
And what I think next is so much against all the standards I’ve been taught about being in a position of authority that I wince.
Out of love for her.
I’ve seen directors get fired for instances like that firsthand. We already get bad enough reputations from the whole “sleeping with the director” cliché that newbies supposedly use to get their hooves in the door, to the point where we’re basically drilled from the very beginning never to give into that sort of nonsense. What separates those who continue to be commissioned for plays and those who are fired immediately following their debut is how they handle their emotions, whether or not they let their personal life interfere with their work. Out of all the producers, Mosely is the most notorious for this, always willing to cancel production dates to make an example of those directors who fail to abide by his high standards. (The less I say about that Spider-Mare play, the better.) Seeing as this is at least my fourth successful production working with him, I thought for sure I was safe. Or at least, I would’ve been, had fate not changed itself at the last minute.
Mosely's original pick for costume designer bailed out on the shortest notice possible. I understand why she might have done so—after all, she’d been in very high demand, and working on the play would mean having to stay in one location for an extended period and to retire from the fashion industry for what could turn into several years if its run was extremely successful. While my boss was infuriated by the fact that the other designer she recommended to us was an absolute unknown, he was willing to play along for a while. After all, success stories like that do happen in show business, even if they aren’t very frequent. So, while he was never quite fond of the idea that Rarity would not, in fact, be handling the costumes for our play, he was able to put up with the new addition, or at least, as much as his personality would allow him to.
Then he found out about her darker secrets, and any respect he might’ve had for her vanished. I admit that he wouldn’t have been the only producer on Bridleway to be suspicious of her keeping such shady company, but however she got into it…it got to the point where it didn’t really matter as much to me. For one thing, it’s always important to keep the hidden circumstances in mind, as there was quite a chance that ponies didn’t go into this sort of business willingly. I’d already known her for a month or so before the news got out, and it was certainly enough time for me to know that she wasn’t a criminal or anything even resembling that sort. And as for the other side of the matter, the more I learned about her condition in her past job and the way she was being treated, the more I began to wonder if I was any different.
I know, it’s presumptuous and more than a little condescending to possibly think that a career that could launch you on a path to money and fame would be anywhere near as abusive as one where you constantly have to be one step ahead of the law, but there are the same sorts of ponies in both. Arguments with the higher ups are just plain universal, but I just get terrible feelings around Mosely. I get the feeling that he might be hiding something, many things. But more importantly, I’ve come to realize that to his types, regardless of the profession, anypony can be expendable. Unlike some of the other producers who have exclusive deals with a single director, he works with several at once, cycling between them at will. This time, I’ve just gotten lucky because not many ponies are daring enough to try to break Hinny of the Hills’ streak, but there have been times where he’d left without a single word so that he could consult with a completely different director for a completely different show. To him at least, I’m just a means to an end, somepony else to churn out some new production that’ll earn him more money, as if he didn’t already have enough to begin with.
Months ago, when this play was still in its planning stages, it wasn’t going to be anywhere near the beast that it’d become now. I’d been presented with several scripts written by both aspiring and veteran playwrights, but I barely needed to choose as soon as I’d seen one of the titles. The script that I’d instantly latched onto was for a classic play that had been performed in many playhouses, but had never gotten a full-blown Bridleway production. While at least a part of my inclination toward it was pure nostalgia—I had the lead role back in my high school’s production and found that performance to be one of my proudest achievements—I thought a revamp of such a well-known work would be plenty ambitious enough to quickly attract any producer to it. However, I wasn’t quite so lucky, as it didn’t seem to suit anypony’s “image” of the type of play they would like to work on, and even Mosely would have fought tooth and nail for me to get rid of the idea and do the one he recommended instead—a comedy about unicorn magic students at a spell-casting contest.
“We can’t do a play like that,” I recall myself saying.
"Just what are you talking about?” he scoffed. “Of course you can. You’re the only unicorn director available these days. Now, I’ll have you know that I’m friends with the original writer, and—“
“That’s just it,” I began, trying to remain as reasonable as possible. “A unicorn directing a play where the main characters are all unicorns. Don’t you see anything wrong with that?”
“Well, I see something wrong with an earth pony doing that sort of thing. They always say that you have to stick with what you know, after all. If you’ve never been in a position, it’s advised that you don’t go through with something based on it.”
“Yes, but have you seen the protesters these days spouting things about ‘unicorn racists’ and how they think that unicorns are the 'master race?' It’s bad enough that King Sombra’s very existence can be easily used to prove that, but if you so much as advertise that play, you know there’s going to be controversy. Your precious ticket sales will plummet, we won’t be able to pay the actors the amounts they insist, and they won’t be there for the next show.”
“So you’re rejecting this because you don’t want to be targeted? Seems like a cowardly decision to me.”
“I’m not doing this for myself; I’m doing it so the theatre doesn’t get a bad name. If we lower our standards like this—“
“Tell you what, we can just get earth ponies to play different roles like Hinny of the Hills did with that one pegasus character, use special effects for the magic parts, and they can’t possibly call us racist.”
“You think that just that one little change like that will keep them from attacking us? It’s just too big of a risk to take, I’m sorry. Besides, this is a completely new work that’s never been performed, so it has none of that ‘selling power’ you preach about. It’s a complete unknown. On the other hand, if we’re able to bring the other concept here—“
“Nopony cares about the classics anymore, Mr. Stealer. This is a different era and the gimmick factor just isn’t big enough with productions like those. With classics, you’ll only attract the theatre fanatics who’d just end up coming here regardless of the production.”
“Yes, but unlike your idea, which could be interpreted as promoting negative ideals that appear far too often in current news, this one includes accurate details of an underrepresented foreign culture. The public could come out of it learning something, even if it’s as small as traditional dancing or costumes of a certain part of Equestria.”
“Let me just give you the simple answer as to why your idea would fail,” Mosely answered bluntly. “Nopony cares about Scoltland.”
“Excuse me? Isn’t that a bit politically incorrect to say in a situation such as this?”
“What’s wrong with me just saying the truth? Scoltland has no selling power. Nopony wants to see little white dogs prancing about the stage as annoying bagpipes play and actors pretend ponies are actually interested in interpretive dance. Besides, everypony knows that a Scoltish play is bad luck in the theatre world. I don’t want actors to back out of it because they think ghosts are going to pop out backstage or some other preposterous reason like that.”
“That’s the wrong Scoltish play,” I sighed in annoyance, rolling my eyes. Under my breath, I muttered, “I think I know of at least one pony who doesn’t care about the classics.”
“What did you just say?!”
“Never mind, never mind, we’ll go with your idea. I’m tired of dealing with this drama, and I’m not so conceited as to continue to fight something solely because I didn’t come up with it. You win.”
Even now, I regret that decision. I just know that the controversy is going to come in waves once the public finds out, but at this point, I’m not afraid to fight back. If anypony asks, I’ll just tell them it was his dumb idea. Coco was able to stand up against her former boss, after all.
Deep within my heart, I feel like that was what attracted me to her in the first place, despite her legally being my subordinate and therefore making any connection between us a taboo discouraged by society. But even if I’m not able to fight my own battles, I know that she’s able to. I just wish I could be as courageous as her.
Then I look at the parchment on my desk and realize that I still can. She’s already left, so the information won’t get to her as fast as I would’ve liked it to, but she was able to divulge her greatest secret to me, and no matter how many tears resulted from it, it was still better than I’d done. But that wasn’t going to be the case anymore. I’d tell her what I knew, what I’d been warned of behind closed doors, been told never to give out to anypony else. She won’t be able to get to it while she’s on vacation, but I begin to think that, in hindsight, it’ll turn out for the best. Better for her to continue to be happily ignorant of the drama concerning her for a little bit longer than for her to learn of it right when she’s supposed to be bonding with her daughter. And with that thought in mind, I do the bravest thing I’ve done in a long while.
I pick up the quill and write:
Dear Coco,
You might think that things have been going a bit too well for you here so far. After all, nopony’s questioned the adoption here, you’ve still been allowed to work, and you’ve gotten a nice break out of the deal. For Celestia’s sake, it’s a stroke of fate that such an unknown as you has even been accepted within our doors. So you might be suspecting something suspicious about the whole deal. Even if you aren’t, though, it’s still there. You don’t know anything about it, but I’ve seen it. I’ve kept it secret for at least a month now, but when you let me know about what happened to Babs, I figured it only polite to do the same.
I’ve been in talks with the producer for a long time, and now I know that there’s a new and added pressure for me to work as hard as possible to make this play a success. Every once in a while, a more at-risk play ends up receiving a list of ponies who would be on the brink of being fired should it fail. And as for you…you’re at the top of this production’s list. I’m so sorry; I know that you’ve come here just months after quitting another job, but that doesn’t change anything. You’ve done nothing wrong, it’s just that Mosely…he thinks that you have. Your relations to Suri’s stupid knockoff clique or whatever the heck it’s called (you can see here why I’m not the costume designer) makes him all too suspicious of you, and no matter how many times I try to tell him that you didn’t break any laws, he still doesn’t believe me.
Well, I guess that just gives me another reason to hate that mare, doesn’t it?
If I could find a way to get you out of this situation, I would. Trust me on this. But when it comes to ponies like him, I’m too low in the pecking order to be able to do anything about it. I can only encourage you from the sidelines and hope that you prove him wrong about the type of pony you are. You can beat him, I’m sure of it. It’s going to be a struggle, but if you use the same qualities that led you here in the first place to keep your job, you aren’t going to lose.
There’s yet another secret I have to tell, though. I want you to know that there’s somepony out there who truly appreciates the struggles you’ve been through. As long as you know they exist, that’s good enough for me. I can’t tell you who or what yet, and I don’t know if I ever will. Just know. Just believe—in yourself, in me, in the mysterious one who’s watching over you. I hope someday, you’ll finally know who that pony is.
But for now, all I can say that the situation isn’t right for them to be revealed. My only hope is that someday, it will be.
--Scene Stealer