Upon examination, it turned out that there was no box. Figgwaggle's desk, immaculate as always, hid no secrets. The underside of the desk was as clear and pristine as the top. The credenza in the corner had nothing unexpected in it. His never-used typewriter sat lonely upon its stand. And still, there was no box.
Just to be sure, Figgwaggle checked his office again. And then again. There absolutely was no box containing evidence of misallocated cutie marks anywhere in his office.
The last hour Figgwaggle’s life had passed in something of a blur. He remembered the sinking feeling of being caught breaking the rules, of being chewed out by Tallywaddle. And he thought he remembered Tiddwiddle saying he’d brought the box to his office.
Or, had Tiddwiddle said that he had been planning on bringing the box over? Figgwaggle honestly couldn't recall.
Regardless, there was no box. So, obviously Tiddwiddle hadn’t brought the box over yet, Figgwaggle decided. The realization caught him halfway between relief and annoyance. Still, he decided, it would be a good idea to follow up with his fellow Counselor to make sure the box was destroyed as Tallywaddle had ordered.
Tiddwiddle was eventually located in the Research, with its rows of desks and its hard-eyed gnomes pouring over documentation and field reports. The aftermath of a Rainbow Dash event was always busy, even in comparison to a normal day.
The Research clerks that were here now weren't the same ones that had been here earlier, of course. The CMAA ran twenty-four hours a day, typically, though there was that one time that Celestia had slept in and they had worked twenty-six.
Figgwaggle sidled up next to Tiddwiddle and hissed “Psst!” into his ear, causing the heavier Counselor to yelp jump in surprise, completely destroying the pretense of subtlety that Figgy had been going for. Gimlet glares from nearby researchers turned their way from the nearby desks for a few seconds before the researchers focused back on the task at hand.
“What is it?” Tiddwiddle hissed back.
“About the box,” Figgwaggle said, sotto voce, “It’s gone?”
The problem with speaking softly, especially in a room as buzzing with noise and activity as the Research Department, is that it will often obscure any inflection to a word. For example, the gnome next to you might not pick up on the fact that there was a question mark at the end of your sentence, and instead assume that it was a statement.
In this case, Tiddwiddle assumed that Figgwaggle was telling him that he’d destroyed the box, which prompted him to say, “What box would that be?” and follow up by tipping his fellow counselor a conspicuous wink.
“Right.” Figgwaggle said, feeling vastly relieved. “So, that’s it, then?”
“It would seem so,” Tiddwiddle replied airily, obviously quite pleased.
“Well, then,” Figgy said. “Have a good night!”
“You as well!” Tiddwiddle replied with a grin and a wave.
As they went their separate ways, each of them were thinking the same thing: Thank goodness that’s over!
~~*~~
Tinseltoes was definitely, definitively lost in the twisting back-alleyways of Gnomington. He had long since given up any thought of finding his wayward uncle, and was now simply trying to find a landmark, any landmark, that would allow him to find his way back to his little one-room apartment.
Flickering yellow street lamps cast odd shadows across the walls and cobbles as Tinseltoes walked with increasing unease. It could be considered a sign of his extreme distress that, when he finally spotted the Whole in the Wall pub, his first thoughts weren’t of disgust but rather of relief.
The thought occurred, as he hurried towards the pub, that perhaps his uncle had returned. Tinseltoes thought up some choice words to deliver to Glummwriggle that, while he would never actually say them out loud, were nevertheless quite cutting indeed.
He was so pre-occupied with reaching the front door that he didn’t notice a young gnomette arriving at almost the same moment as him. He pulled up short, and so did she, and it was with great surprise that he realized that he knew her. There weren’t many young, pretty gnomettes in Tinseltoes’ life, which made this a very shocking occasion.
“You!” he blurted, the suddenness of it making her recoil. “Uh, sorry. Claribelle, right?”
The look of startled suspicion on her face faded, making way for curiosity and, finally, recognition.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “You’re Tinseltoes.”
“Yeah.” He took a closer look at her, noting that the cheerful smile she’d worn when they’d first met was gone, replaced by a tired scowl. “Rough day?”
“Don’t get me started,” she growled.
“I get it,” he said, holding up his hands defensively. “I just got lost in the back alleys of Gnomington while looking for my drunk uncle.”
Claribelle stared at him for a moment. “I got fired,” she replied flatly.
“Oh. Uh.” Tinseltoes fidgeted for a moment. “You win?”
“Yay for me. You going to keep on blocking this door? I need a drink.”
“Oh? Oh!” He looked at the door, then back at Claribelle in alarm. “You don’t want to go in there. This place is a dive.”
“Hey!” came the distant voice of the bartender. Both young gnomes ignored him.
“I don’t care,” Claribelle said. “The ale is cheap, which is good because that means I can buy a lot of it. And also, I don’t have a job anymore, so I have to save some money. So, move it, string bean.”
She pushed on his chest, shoving him aside before she made her way into the bar. Tinseltoes felt some growing spark within him, which may or may not have been ignited by the fact that Clari’s hand to his chest was the first physical contact with a female he’d had in years. At least, with a female who wasn’t his mother. He followed her into the bar.
“Anything I can do to help?” he asked.
She snorted as she hopped up into a barstool and signaled for a drink. “Not unless you can get them to change their minds. They escorted me out and won’t even let me back in to talk to Gnome Resources!”
Tinseltoes, who had helped himself to a barstool next to her, offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Well, perhaps I could take a message to them? I still work there, after all.”
Claribelle stopped with her mug of ginger ale halfway up to her mouth, giving him a weighing look. She put the mug back down on the scarred and dingy bar top. “Yes. Yes, you do, don’t you?”
She tapped a finger on her chin while humming and staring at him. Tinseltoes felt his reassuring smile start to wither around the edges as she kept staring with that calculating expression.
“Uh…” he said eventually, which seemed to prompt Claribelle back into motion.
“Look. This is important,” she said. “This is a really big deal. I know why I was fired, and it wasn’t for insubordination.” Claribelle looked to her left, then to her right, then leaned in thrillingly close to Tinseltoes’ left ear. “There’s a conspiracy to hide an incorrectly assigned cutie mark.”
“What?!”
“Shh!” she said, grabbing his arm. “Nobody can know what we’re planning!”
“We?” Tinseltoes asked weakly.
“Yes! You have to get me back inside. Tonight! Before they have a chance to hide the evidence. We can use your identification. We find the folders, maybe ransack Tiddwiddle’s office to find the box, and we can report them all to CMAA HQ!”
Not a lot of what Claribelle was telling Tinseltoes was making a lot of sense. For example, what folders? What box? Who was Tiddwiddle, and why did they have to ransack his office? For some reason, though, none of these questions found a voice. Instead, most of his attention was focused on the small, warm hand that was gripping his forearm.
“Okay,” he said.
“Yes!” Claribelle released his arm and gave a victorious punch in the air.
Sanity briefly surfaced once again in Tinseltoes’ mind. “Oh, wait. Except we can’t.”
“What?”
“I mean, I want to, but… I’m a rookie. I can’t bring in guests. I’m still on my trial period!”
“Oh, damn.” Clari pouted, and Tinseltoes’ brain short-circuited again. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Maybe my uncle could?” He offered her a hopeful grin. “I mean, he’s on unpaid suspension, but that doesn’t mean he can’t go back into the office. Right?”
“Hmm…” Claribelle tapped her chin again while she considered it. “Nothing against it in the rules, as far as I know.” She nodded and stood up. “Let’s go see your uncle!”
“Yes!” Tinseltoes said, standing as well. “Except… I have no idea where he lives!”
Claribelle stared at him. “You’re a little useless, aren’t you?”
A few seconds of hurt silence passed.
“Um… Ouch?” Tinseltoes ventured.
“Sorry! I only meant…” Claribelle shook her head. “This isn’t me,” she muttered. “I’m not rude like this.” She sighed and massaged her temples. “Tinseltoes. I’m sorry. It’s been a long and frustrating day. Do you know of any way we could find your uncle?”
“A mug of ale on a string should do it. We can go fishing!” Tinseltoes’ smile faltered at her utter lack of response and he cleared his throat. “Actually, we can go and ask my mother. She’ll know his address.”
A sunny smile appeared on Claribelle’s face. “Alright, then! Off to meet your mother!”
She marched out of the dingy bar, leaving her ale behind. Tinseltoes stared after her for a moment before hurrying to catch up. The thought that he was bringing a girl home to meet his mother popped into his head, bringing with it hysterical giggles that he tried desperately to clamp down on.
“What’s so funny?” Claribelle asked him.
“Nothing, nothing,” he said, red-faced but still grinning. “Let’s go see my mom!”
~~*~~
There was a tired old tatty sofa. Threadbare cushions and an unappealing design, though the design was partially obscured by disquieting and disturbing stains. Threads hung off of this sofa as the fabric unraveled, dangling towards the floor like moss. The center sagged mightily, even when unoccupied, thanks to some damage that had broken part of the frame. It was lumpy, it was ugly, and it was, simply, the most comfortable couch in the world.
At least, that’s what Glummwriggle would say if anygnome had asked him, which none did, as he never had anygnome over to what he liked to call his “bachelor’s pad”.
The gnome currently asleep and snoring greatly resembled the sofa he was currently sleeping on. He, also, was threadbare and lumpy and sagged a bit in the middle. He was also dreaming. In this dream, Glumm had stormed into Tallywaddle’s office, shoved the great fat gnome out of his chair, and berated him soundly for a period of indeterminate time.
The aftermath of this was that Tallywaddle was sobbing his eyes out while sitting on the floor, all while begging him desperately to come back to work. When Dream-Glumm had crossed his arms and said no, Tallywaddle had banged his head on the floor three times in rapid succession, bang, bang, bang!, startling Glumm to no end.
“Stop that,” Glumm ordered his boss, who ignored him and banged his head on the floor once again. Bang, bang, bang!
It was disturbing, and it made Glumm uncomfortable, even though he pretty much hated his old boss.
Bang, bang, bang!
Glumm jerked awake. Something had happened. He looked around his cluttered living room in the dim light let in through his windows. Menacing shapes lurked around him on all sides, obscured in shadows. Glumm relaxed. That was to be expected.
Bang, bang, bang!
That, however, was not. Something was making a loud banging noise. Glumm groaned and sat up, feeling his night's worth of ginger ale sloshing around his guts. He put his aching head between his hands, hoping that the noise would just stop.
Bang, bang, bang!
“Oi! Shut up!” one of his neighbors shouted.
“You shut up!” a female voice shouted back.
“Terribly sorry about this!” a vaguely familiar male voice added.
Bang, bang, bang!
Glumm blinked and realized that the noise was coming from his front door. Grumbling and cursing, he levered himself off of his dilapidated couch, took two staggering steps towards the door, and tripped over an unexpected object that was in his way. Glumm, now laying on the floor, cursed and kicked the object, which skid some ways across his floor.
Bang, bang, bang!
“Open up in there!” the female voice called. “It’s an emergency!”
“Damned well better be,” Glumm muttered as he got back up.
He staggered to the door and flung it open just before the young and pretty gnomette on the other side was about to knock again. Instead of hitting the door, she punched him in the nose.
“Argh!” Glumm shouted, staggering back.
“Oh! I’m so sorry!” the gnomette said, reaching out to steady him.
Glumm angrily slapped her hands away with his left hand while cradling his bruised nose in his right.
“Whaddayawant?” he managed to say.
“Hi, Uncle!” Tinseltoes said from behind the gnomette. “This is Claribelle! Clari, this is my uncle, Glumm.”
“He sure is,” Clari said, eying him warily.
“Well? What is it?” Glumm demanded. “Waking gnomes up in the middle of the night—”
“It’s nine-thirty in the evening, Uncle,” Tinseltoes supplied helpfully, wilting somewhat when Glumm glared at him.
“Fine. Whatever. What is it?”
“We need you to sneak me into the CMAA headquarters,” Claribelle said.
Glumm gawked at her, burst into laughter, then groaned and cradled his aching head. “Why would I do that? I’m already on thin ice.”
“There’s a conspiracy we have to uncover,” Claribelle said crisply. “A young filly by the name of Diamond Tiara got the wrong cutie mark, and Counselor Tiddwiddle is covering it up. I think Chief Tallywaddle is, too.”
“Huh.” Glumm blinked his grit-filled eyes at her. “Why do you think that?”
“Well, you see…” Clari began, and launched into an eager explanation as Glumm stood in his front doorway, swaying a little and trying not to fall over.
He tried to pay attention, he really did. But, between the ginger ale soaking his brain and the throbbing in his head and nose, he pretty much lost the thread of the conversation instantly. Something about a box full of evidence, as well as a pair of folders that proved it beyond a doubt. A memory tingled at the back of Glumm’s head at the mention of a box, but for the life of him, he couldn’t quite place it.
“And that’s why we have to get into the CMAA headquarters,” Claribelle said, her voice earnest.
“Huh.” Glumm scratched his belly. “Nah.”
“What? But you—”
“Come back tomorrow morning. Too drunk to be any good now.” Glumm belched loudly, just to show her, and slammed the door in her face.
“But tomorrow might be too late!” Claribelle said frantically on the other side of his door. “Please!”
“Come back tomorrow!” he shouted through the door.
A scream of frustration sounded outside, followed by the stomping of the gnomette’s passage down the hallway of his apartment building. Tinseltoes’ voice was offering what sounded like hasty assurances as he followed her.
Glumm allowed himself a chuckle. At least something had gone right, he decided. Yawning, he made his way towards his bedroom, deftly dodging the usual clutter in the dim light.
His bed would have given his couch a run for its money when it came to sagging and lumpy, but Glumm didn’t care. He crawled into bed and was out like a light within minutes.
Glummwriggle woke again hours later with a painfully full bladder. He stumbled into the restroom, did his business, and was in the process of walking back to bed when he once again tripped over the mystery object in the middle of his floor.
“Okay, just what the heck is this thing?” he muttered as he got up. He fumbled in a desk drawer until he found his box of matches. Then he turned on the gas lamps in his apartment, lit a match, and soon had a comfortable warm glow suffusing his apartment.
He then turned to spot the object that had twice tripped him. It was a box, he noted. A box full of file folders. Glumm frowned and pulled one out. It was a case file, he noted, for a young filly by the name of Silver Spoon. Who, according to this report, was likely to be a kind and giving pony, the silver spoon on her flank indicating her desire to feed the hungry and unfortunate of the world.
Images of the actual Silver Spoon ran through his memories. He’d followed the Cutie Mark Crusaders around for quite a while, and they’d had a few run-ins with Silver Spoon and her friend Diamond Tiara. And, if there was one thing Silver Spoon didn’t seem to care much about, it was the unfortunate of the world.
Vague recollections of drunkenly staggering around the CMAA HQ the previous night filtered back into his head. This box had been in Counselor Figgwaggle’s office, and he’d taken it. A chill ran through him as he realized that Claribelle wasn’t just making up stories. She was right. There was a conspiracy going on to hide incorrectly assigned cutie marks.
Glumm hauled himself back to his feet and glanced at the clock. It was now four thirty-seven in the morning, far too early for any sensible gnome to be up and about. He staggered his way into the kitchen and started making a pot of extra-strong coffee.
He needed to plan, and for that he needed to be awake and alert. The pounding in his head faded as a righteous anger began to grow. These ponies had had their lives toyed with and the evidence hidden. And, as his fury mounted, a wolfish grin began to spread across his face. Because, in addition to the evidence of wrongdoing, the box also held one irrevocable truth.
Figgwaggle and Tallywaddle were going down.