Princess Pile Drinking Games

by GaPJaxie

Siren Song Side Stories: Swiftwing Has a Nice Day

My eyes fly open. I’m wide awake. Why am I awake? My heart’s racing, my limbs stiff and tense, but I can’t move somehow. Why am I awake? Something woke me up, I’m sure, but I don’t see anything.

A crash roars in my ears—then two more right after it. Loud, echoing booms, the sound of metal and wood beating like a drum. “Security!” a voice snaps, muffled and distorted, seeming to rise and fall. “Open up.”

What? Have to get up! I try to shout back to them, but my throat won’t move right, and all that comes out is a strangled gurgle. Something’s wrong with my legs—I try to get up, but all that happens is I twitch feebly in bed, the darkness around me seeming to swirl and churn. My heart is thumping inside my ribcage, a hammer against the inside of my ribs, my breaths coming too fast and too shallow. Can’t breathe! Have to get up!

“Ma’am?” the stallion’s voice sounds again, his pounding on the door making the room thunder. They’ll break it down! Have to get up! I jerk my legs to the side, trying to roll out of bed. It works, but my knees buckle as soon as my hooves hit the floor, sending me tumbling down. My face hits the nightstand and the glass of water on it, pulling both down with me. I try to catch myself, but it’s too late and I go down onto the stone. Glass shatters, and I feel the wooden table legs jab me in the side. Have to get up! “Ma’am, are you okay?”

“I heard a crash,” another voice at the door, muffled and strange. “Force it.”

Oh, depths—they’re coming in! My legs feel bloated and useless, and the room is tilting this way and that. I grab the sheets in the darkness, trying to pull myself up, but they just slip off the edge of the bed, spilling down on top of me. Something cuts into my back. I fell on the glass! I’m gonna die! A brilliant flash blinds me, metal screaming as light pours into the room, white and brilliant. I squeeze my eyes shut, the light so bright its rays seem to stab down into my eyes. “I didn’t do anything!”

I hear hooves, see two shadows—dark splotches in the sea of white before me. Then they’re grabbing me, hauling me to my hooves. “I didn’t do anything! I didn’t—”

“Ma’am!” a stallion’s voice roars in my ears—a full-throated shout. “Ma’am, you are not in trouble!”

“I...” As I squint, the black blobs in front of me start to resolve themselves. I’m still breathing too fast, but the fog is starting to lift. There are little splotches of color on top of the black now, purple and green. A purple stallion and a green stallion, both in black uniforms with those little fiddling silver bits. Pins. “I’m not?”

“No, Ma’am,” the green one says. His head is still a blur, but I see it move a little and hear him chuckle. He sounds tired? Exasperated. “Now, just, sit down, Ma’am. Take a moment to recover. Everything is okay.” Strong legs guide me back to the edge of the bed, and I take a seat on the twisted undersheet. My heart is starting to slow down. I can breathe again—deep, soothing breaths. The two stallions are still just blurs of colors, but rubbing the sleep crud out of my eyes helps a bit. I think one of them is a unicorn.

“She cut her shoulder on the glass,” the purple one says, pulling me forward a bit as he twists his head around to look at me. I did? Oh, that’s right. I did. It doesn't hurt. “I don’t think it’s bad though.”

“Go fetch the medic anyway,” the green one says. He has a deeper voice, and as my vision starts to clear, I can see that he’s older. An earth pony, with a green coat, and a mane that used to be tan but now has some streaks of grey. Wait, medic?

“No, it’s fine. It doesn't hurt—”

“Just sit still, Ma’am,” the green one says, holding me down by my good shoulder as the purple one leaves the room. “This will only take a moment.”

“Th-thank you.” I shake my head, trying to toss out the last bits of fluff. Okay. I’m okay. The green security officer takes a seat next to me, watching me carefully as he holds me in place with a hoof. I’m okay. It takes a little bit, but my breathing starts to slow down as well, and I can’t feel my heart pounding anymore. The room is a mess—water and glass on the floor, end table knocked over, sheets a twisted lump, but at least I can see it now.

“Thank you, Officer,” I repeat. He has rank pins, but I don’t know how to read them. Officer is fine in general anyway, right? “Um... if I’m not under arrest, can I ask why you’re here at, um”—I glance at the clock on the wall—“midnight?”

“Sergeant Inkwell had an urgent message for you, and nopony at the station had one of your tokens,” he explains.

Oh, depths. Not again. I let my face sink into my hooves. Of course, I already know what he’s going to say. “What’s the message?”

“Your parents have been arrested,” the officer explains. “He needs you to come and post bail.”

I lift my hoof to cover my mouth as I yawn. There’s nopony around to see it, but it’s polite, and habit, I suppose. The security station is pretty dead this early in the morning. The big posts like Myrina and New Cloudsdale never shut down, but this place is really just a security doll terminal, a drunk tank, and a hooffull of desks for the officers. There’s all of two ponies here right now, and I’m one of them. The other one is the officer at the front desk, an earth pony mare with a dark brown coat, and a tan mane cut so short it’s practically a frizzy mohawk. She’s not paying me any mind though, her muzzle buried deep in a book.

I guess it’s not so bad. I’m sitting on a little chair outside Sergeant Inkwell’s office, waiting for him to be ready. He’s on a wire, the mare said, and that’s okay. He’s a nice pony, and he knows it’s really early in the morning. I’m sure he wouldn't make me wait if it wasn’t important.

The waiting room is kind of nice too. It’s a little room, chairs all around the edge, plus one outside each of the offices. There’s a door in the back to the cells as well, but I’m not supposed to go there yet. Besides, it’s probably locked. Empty station means no other ponies to share it with—or worse, criminals—and there’s a coffee machine over in the corner. One of the new ones with the little clockwork doll that brews it in front of you and pretends to make conversation. Those things are so neat. I kind of want to use it just to see it work, but it would be a waste of a bit. And a waste of coffee too. I like coffee, but I’ll need to get back to sleep tonight.

Thinking about that only kills a few minutes, and there’s still no sign of the sergeant, so I go back to looking around the room. The walls are white stone, and I can tell they’re dry, because the posters on them haven't started to peel yet. They’re all posters I’ve seen before though: “Dark Words, Dark Deeds—Report Seditious Rumors,” complete with the comically evil-looking rebel, and “Sick? Lost? Afraid? We’re here to help,” with the Angel’s Garden logo and a tasteful print of Fluttershy helping up an emaciated pony.

The third and final poster is one of those new ones they’ve been putting up all over the public spaces. The charcoal stallion in it takes center stage, dramatically posed with one leg up, his burnt red mane tousled just so. He’s in full security uniform of course, the caption under him reading, “Keeping Our City Safe.” I stare at that one for a while, but it doesn't really click. It’s not that I don’t get it—I have plenty of marefriends who tell me that the point of the poster is that he’s hot, and I can sort of see it in an intellectual way, but there’s just nothing there for me. Not that that’s a surprise at this point, but sometimes I kind of wish there was. It would make things easier.

My eyes drift back to the mare at the front of the room. I wonder if she’s gay? It wouldn't exactly be a shock with how butch her manecut is. Besides, she’s a security officer, and you hear things about them—that the mares all want Rainbow Dash and the stallions all want each other. Then again, all three of the security officers I know are straight, so that’s probably just another stupid rumor. Besides, how would I like it if somepony assumed things about me just because of how I look?

She does look pretty good though. Her coat is shiny and smooth, her tail is long and neat, and that uniform doesn't do a lot to hide her figure. I’m usually not this crass, but she’s really toned, and uh... she has good hips. Generous, even.

I blush a little when I realize what I’m doing, and I look down and away. I’m being stupid. Even if she did swing my way, she could do way better than me. That’s not self-deprecating; it’s just a fact. She’s cuter and more mature and has a better job. I’m not giving up or anything. I just need to be realistic. She’d have expectations anyway. I’m a pegasus. I’m supposed to be fun and quirky and athletic and dynamite in bed, and I’m not really...

And now I’ve made myself sad. Way to go, Swiftwing. Way to go.

My ears fold back, and I sigh quietly, stretching my useless wings. All the joints pop on the left side, but only on the left side, never the right. It’s not depressing. It’s just a fact. I can’t fly, I’m not that exciting or interesting—a mare could do better. But I’m going to do something about it. I’m going to do something about it. Today, even! So it’ll be better soon, and that’s not sad.

I glance up. Maybe I could ask her? You know, just slip it in there. Hi, you seem really nice, would you like to go out sometime? Worst case she says no. I could just say it.

“Um... hello?” I say. But she doesn't look up from her book. I don’t think she noticed.

She’s probably busy. Besides, I’m not going to be free today. Busy. Big day.

I jump when the door handle turns. My head whirls, but it’s only Sergeant Inkwell, opening the door to look around. He’s a nice old unicorn. His coat is already grey, and his mane is already white, so you can’t tell how old he is just from the color, but he must be in his sixties by now. Age shows in a lot of other ways too. He’s really cut up from the war, a lot of scars on his sides that you can sometimes see around the uniform, a notch on his horn that won’t heal, and his magic doesn’t work quite right. You’d never call him ugly though. He looks more like everypony’s nice old granddad, kind of a mid height, stern features but a friendly expression.

“Hello, Swiftwing,” he says, looking over at me when he realizes I’m in the chair by the door. He sounds like everypony’s granddad too—nice, quiet, and a little gravelly. “Sorry that took so long.”

“Um. It’s alright,” I say, rising to my hooves. “Thanks for letting me know.” He steps back into his office, and I take the cue to follow, walking in behind him. It’s a little place, just a desk with some pictures of his family on it and old war photos on the wall. The floor is a bit damp, but there’s a grate and some metal chairs, so it’s fine. He trots around behind the desk, and I take my place in front of it, reaching back into my saddlebags to grab the little purse there.

“I’m sorry. I don’t have enough money for bail,” I say, nosing the little bag his way. Two hundred bits is a lot, but normally I could afford it. Today though... well. It’s not like I have a lot of savings anymore. “But there’s a hundred and twenty bits in there, and one of my figurines. She’s solid silver, so that’ll probably make up for most of it.”

He opens the bag carefully, using his hooves and magic together. The glow from his horn is flickering and intermittent, but it helps him get the knots open. The money spills out onto his desk, mostly in ten-bit pieces, and Princess Luna spills out along with it.

I’m really proud of her. I didn’t cast the silver myself, obviously, but I did all the sketching and posing the silversmith used, and I brushed the color onto her after. I used a special metal-stain that adds these beautiful blue and purple streaks. Not enough to really paint her, but when she catches the light just right, you can see all the colors of the aurora sparkling in her mane. Or I’d like to think that. I’ve never seen the aurora, so I had to work from pictures. He’s taking his time in examining her, so I guess he think she's pretty too.

After a little while, he sighs, shaking his head and pushing her and the money back to me. “Keep it,” he says. “A mare your age should have something to be proud of. I know your parents are going to show.”

“Um,” I say, looking at the bag. I don’t want to take charity, but I did work really hard on her. It took me four hours just to sketch her upraised wings, with every little feather. “Thank you. Sir.” I put her back in the bag with the money, careful her horn doesn't get caught on anything.

“Don’t thank me, Swiftwing,” he says, a bit more firmly now. “You’re too young to be giving up the things you treasure. You should be spending that money on yourself, not using it to get your parents out of jail.”

“I know, sir,” I say, glancing down at his desk. There’s a little jar of pens. And a lighter. I didn’t think he smoked. “I’ve talked to them about it.”

“Well then talk louder,” he says, leaning over the desk. I glance up, and for a second, he’s looking me right in the eye, his muzzle turned into a frown. “I know your dad is a good doctor, Swiftwing. But no matter what I know, practicing medicine without a license is a crime.” He emphasizes every syllable, and when I look down, he taps the desk sharply to get me to look back up. “You need to make him understand that.”

“I. Um. I know, sir,” I say, nodding quickly. “I’ll make him understand.”

“You need to do this, Swiftwing, you understand?” he asks, pointing right at me with a hoof, his voice quiet but forceful. “I appreciate what your parents are trying to do. That’s why I get them in off the streets as fast as I can. As far as anypony else is concerned, I busted them for drunk and disorderly tonight,” he says, with a wave of his hoof.

“But if they keep this up,” he continues, “one day, the Pavilion is going to notice them before I do, and then they’ll get their legs broken. You understand? Your dad can go to the hospital to renew his license, or he can go to the hospital in a stretcher, but this has to stop.” He points at the desk to emphasize the words, tapping it with the edge of a hoof as he finishes.

“I understand, sir,” I say, swallowing and nodding gently. It’s nothing I haven't heard before, even if it is true. “I’ll... talk to them.”

“Alright,” he nods, his frown softening. “I’m sorry to put this on you. I’ve tried talking to them myself, but they’re a stubborn pair. I hope you’ll have more luck.”

“I’ll try, sir. And really, thank you,” I say. He smiles a little and gets up. I guess that means we’re leaving, so I get up too.

“It’s alright. Come on, let’s go get them out,” he says, opening a desk drawer to get his ring of keys and moving around towards the main room. Again, I follow him, and we walk towards the door to the back.

My parents just about have the place to themselves tonight. When we push through the door, I can see that they’re alone in the tank, other than a dirty grey mare sleeping something off. Dad looks so uncomfortable, standing stiffly in the center of the cell and looking around. Even if this isn’t his first time here, he’s the spitting image of a prim and proper high-society unicorn stuck in the drunk tank. Mom’s at ease though. She shoved the actual drunk off the cot so she could lay out on it herself, and she practically looks comfortable. She’s a lot less jumpy than Dad too—he starts when the door to the cells opens. She just languidly stretches out her legs and wings.

“Swiftwing?” Dad asks when he spots me, immediately turning his gaze on Sergeant Inkwell. “I told you to stop bothering her!” Even in a place like this, he manages to sound really proper. A good, crisp, how-dare-you-sir sort of indignation.

“And I told you I didn’t want to see you on the street again,” Sergeant Inkwell replies as he opens up the cell door. “So it looks like both of us are going home unhappy tonight.”

“Speak for yourself, jackshod,” Mom says, sliding off the cot and stepping over the drunk at her hooves. “His night’ll be fine—I think brave stallions are hot. You enjoy that empty house and picture of Rainbow Dash though.”

“Mom!” I shout, a hot blush rising to my cheeks. It’s bad enough I have to picture... her and Dad, without her antagonizing the officer who can put her right back in that cell! Sergeant Inkwell takes it as well as I could have hoped for, his frown turning into something stiffer.

“Shut up and walk,” he snaps, shoving them both along. “I forgot to take your pictures on the way in. You know the drill.”

They do know the drill by now. Each of them gets their turn in front of the camera, holding the little sign in their teeth. Dad’s reads “High Mind, 42, Drunk and Disorderly.” His dark coat and pepper mane don’t come out well on the first photograph—the exposure is too short, and he ends up as a mass of dark, forcing the sergeant to set the camera up again. Dad just takes it with his usual silence. He has a stern, square sort of face, one that fits a frown very naturally. When Inkwell does eventually get the camera to work, that frown makes Dad look like a convict glowering at the camera. Which he is, I suppose. Next, Dad stands, hangs the sign over his barrel, and they take a shot from the side. His cutie mark is a pony sleeping under three stars, but his special talent is medicine—it’s symbolic.

Mom goes a lot faster. “Sea Stead, 41, Drunk and Disorderly.” She’s pretty—a bit out of Dad’s league, really. Athletic build, aquamarine coat, a sea-green mane that’s always perfect, even though she never takes care of it. I don’t know how they ended up together. Her cutie mark is a crimson “A” inside a circle, standing out sharply against her coat. She said her special talent is thinking for herself, but she was never an artist or anything, even before she stayed home to take care of Spot Light and me.

Of course, with a distinguished noblepony dad and a beautiful athlete mom, it makes total sense that I’m a fat, scruffy orange pegasus. I swear, if there weren't photos of me as a baby with Mom, I’d think I was adopted. Though I do have her mane, I guess.

“Did you get my good side? ‘Cause we can do it again,” Mom says, after the sergeant snaps her flank picture. His frown hasn’t gotten any less stiff since she left the cell, and he just quietly puts her picture into the bin with the others.

“That attitude wasn’t funny when you were a punk foal,” Sergeant Inkwell answers her. “Now it’s just sad. It’s time to grow up, Ma’am.” I don’t like that he’s talking about her that way, but from his perspective, I guess it makes sense. Besides, I don’t want to argue with him.

“Well, hey—”

“Dear, don’t antagonize him. It’s late,” Dad says, stepping up to her side. Her lips purse and she glances between him and the sergeant, but she doesn't speak. I guess Dad takes that as her agreeing, because he looks back to the sergeant. “Can we go now?”

“Yeah, get out of here,” Sergeant Inkwell says, jerking his head towards the door.

Mom and Dad waste no time going that way. “Come along, Swiftwing,” Mom chirps as they move past, but I hold up a hoof to signal for a moment.

“I’ll be right along, just a sec,” I say, letting them leave before I turn back to the sergeant. I guess he knows what’s coming, because he’s looking at me, and his expression has already softened a bit. “I’m really sorry about Mom. She’s not as bad as she seems though, I swear. It’s all just hot air and her trying to be cool.”

“I know, Swiftwing,” he says, smirking a little as he adds, “Trust me, if anypony else copped that attitude with me, they’d get more than a glare. Your parents are good ponies, but they need to start taking this seriously or they’ll end up in real trouble. Remember what I said and go talk to them, okay?”

“Yes, Officer. Thank you,” I say, nodding my head. “Um. Morning shift, tomorrow?”

“Not morning for me.” He chuckles. “But yes, I’ll probably be there. Run along now.”

I thank him again and trot outside. We’re in a good part of town, where the shops close at a respectable hour, so the street is pretty much vacant except for a hooffull of ponies restocking shops and some pegasi from maintenance working on the lights. Mom and Dad are at the base of the steps outside the security station, talking to each other and waiting for me.

“You weren’t in there apologizing for us, were you?” Mom asks as Dad lifts his hoof to cover a wide yawn. What do I say to that? I start to stammer something out, but I don’t think she’s buying it, because she just shakes her head and walks up to me. “It’s okay, sweetie,” she says with a disappointed little sigh, leaning down to nuzzle the top of my head right between the ears. “You shouldn't do that, but thank you for coming to bail us out. Come on, let’s walk home. It’s late, and your father is tired.”

“Um, alright.” I nod, falling into step with them. They walk on either side of me, Dad on the left and Mom on the right. I don’t live at home anymore, of course, but my apartment is in Tiara Tower as well, so we’re headed in the same direction most of the way. “So, uh. Running the clinic in the old farmers’ market, again?”

“Mmmhmm,” Dad nods, speaking with his usual quick, polite intonations. “There was a dentist there today named Bright Shine—set up right there next to us. I should have thought of it first. In retrospect, it’s obvious that those poor ponies aren’t getting proper tooth care either. She must have drilled a hundred cavities before the sergeant came to take us away. The line stretched down the block.”

“Yeah, uh... do you think that might have been how security found you?” I ask, my eyes around Dad’s hooves. I can’t quite look him in the eye right now, though I do glance up that way. “I mean, maybe?”

“Yeah, probably,” Mom says, her tone meandering and indifferent. She shrugs. “But that’s also how the ponies who needed help found us.”

“Right...” I pause for a moment, letting out a little breath as I lower my head. “Right, but... Mom. Dad. Look, we can’t keep doing this.”

“Late night walks?” Mom asks, with that oh-so-innocent tone.

“Mom!” I snap. I don’t know why she does this sometimes. I’m trying to have a serious conversation here, and all she does is make fun of me.

“Alright, alright. I’m sorry, Sweetie,” Mom says, shaking her head. “But we’ve already talked about the clinic. It’s your father’s decision that he’s going to help those poor creatures no matter what the Pavilion has to say about it, and if he’s going to take that risk, I’m going to be there with him.”

“I know, Mom,” I say, turning my head to look up at her. “I know that helping ponies in need is a good thing. Everypony knows that. That’s why Sergeant Inkwell is running you into the drunk tank instead of charging you. But there are limits.”

“To helping ponies?” Dad asks. He doesn't even have the decency to snap. If he was angry, I could yell back, but he just asks it like he was honestly curious. I’m not a teenager anymore, and he doesn't need to keep acting like I am.

“Yes! Uh—” I catch myself. “I mean, no. I mean, look, Dad. Every doctor moonlights or does freebies sometimes. The Pavilion doesn't care and City Central Security definitely doesn't. The only reason it’s a problem is because you’re flouting the rules so hard there are lines of ponies stretching down the block.” I try to emphasize it as hard I can, putting a lot of weight on every word. “Do you see what I’m trying to say here?”

“So, what would you suggest then?” Dad asks, not missing a beat. He has a funny way of walking, lifting each hoof high off the stone and back down. Mom said that’s how they teach you to walk in Canterlot, because dragging your hooves is gauche, but I just think it looks funny.

“Get your medical license, open a real practice, and just... you know.” For a second, I fumble for the words. “See some ponies off the books.”

Mom and Dad don’t answer at first, and we walk in silence for a few steps. I don’t know why they’re not talking, but they always do this. They always have some cue to keep quiet, and I’m left standing there looking stupid. “I mean, Security will overlook a lot as long as you at least pretend to follow the rules. They like what you’re doing, they just don’t like that you’re flouting their authority. I mean it’s... you know.” Still, they don’t say anything, and my ears fold back as a hot blush rises to my cheeks. “You’re embarrassing them.”

We walk a few more steps without anypony saying a word. I look at the ground.

“That burning feeling in your cheeks is shame, Swiftwing, and you’re feeling it because we raised you better than that,” Dad says, his words a little more clipped than usual. He shakes his head. “I will do no such thing.”

“Dad...” I say, struggling to find the words. My throat is all choked up though, and it takes me a second. “Sergeant Inkwell is going easy on you because he likes me, but he’s not the only security officer in the city. One day, somepony else is going to catch you, or worse, some Pavilion enforcers will find you, and then you’re going to be in real trouble.”

“Rough me up, will they?” he asks, like this was somehow my fault!

“Dad, they’ll rough you up if you’re lucky!” I snap. “If you’re not lucky, they’ll break your legs and send Mom to New Cloudsdale to make sure you get the message. Do you understand that, Dad?” I ask, pleading with him to take me seriously for once! “Do you want Mom to spend the rest of her life in a lightning gang?”

“I’ve done weather work before, Sweetie,” Mom says, her tone dry. “I’m not the wilting flower you seem to think. And I’m also quite capable of making my own decisions. I said I support your father, and I meant it.”

“Why?” I ask, turning to look at her head-on. “Why, Mom? Why can’t you two just do what all the other doctors do and not make trouble?”

“Because it’s wrong, Swiftwing,” she says, shaking her head. “Those ponies are suffering. They’re going mad from addiction because they can’t get the drugs they need, they’re in constant pain, and we’re not supposed to help them because it embarrasses Rarity.” Mom comes to a stop, and Dad does as well after he notices, the three of us coming together. “She can claim that a hundred bits to have a doctor glance in your direction is a fair price, but I’m not going to pretend it’s true.”

She sighs, her wings fluttering for a moment as she looks down at me, tilting her head to one side. “Do you really think it’s okay that I could be sent to a work camp just for making the wrong pony look bad?”

“No. No, of course not,” I say, sighing and shaking my head. “But, that’s how it is. You learn to deal with it and find a way to help ponies anyway.” I don’t like it when she looks at me that way, and after a second, I glance down at the floor. “You’re not some badass rebel, Mom. You spent the war in a fortified tower with some of the richest ponies in the city. The only reason you’re free to talk about how wrong it is that the Pavilion’s goons beat anypony who messes with them is that Trixie’s goons kill anypony who messes with her.”

I trail off for a second, waving a hoof vaguely as I try to think of a way to finish. “I mean... you’re not going to overthrow the Pavilion by helping some homeless markers.”

“Swiftwing,” Mom snaps, her words coming quick and hot. “I spent the war in Tiara Tower because I wanted you and your sister to have a mother, and I do not appreciate you framing my love for you as hypocrisy.”

“I... I know, Mom,” I say, still looking at my own hooves. My throat is tight, my tail flicking back and forth. It’s like I’m a foal again. I’m nineteen, and I still let my parents scold me. “I didn’t mean it that way. I’m sorry. But... you are my mother, and...” My voice cracks a little. “And I don’t want you to go to a work camp.”

I hear her sigh, but soon, her forelegs are wrapped around me, and she pulls me close into a hug. “I know, Sweetie,” she says, nuzzling against the top of my head. “And I know you’re trying to do the right thing in your own way. But your father and I won’t go along with this.”

She puts a hoof on my shoulder, and uses the other to tilt my head up, looking me in the eye. “The Pavilion is evil, Swiftwing. They let ponies get sick so they can sell more drugs. They tell foals they’re ugly and worthless so they can charge their parents for child psychology. They invented a disease so they could sell a highly addictive drug as the ‘only cure.’”

“PCSD is real,” I say quietly. It is real! I’m a pegasus and I can’t fly. If that’s not a disease, I don’t know what is. “And there’s nothing wrong with tonics.”

She looks at Dad, and Dad just shakes his head. My cheeks are starting to burn again, so I stammer something out before they can make this even worse. “We shouldn't be having this conversation here.” I point off down the hall. “We’re not in Tiara Tower yet, and it’s probably sedition. Let’s not get arrested twice in one night?”

“Sweetie. Swiftwing,” Mom says. “That—”

“It’s late, dear,” Dad says, glancing pointedly at me. “Let’s go home, okay?”

We walk in silence for a long time. Down the hallway, past the tram station, and across some of the rail lines. We pass a few parts of the city that are still busy, even this late at night, but I know we’re getting near Tiara Tower again when it starts to get quiet and cold. We walk up to the security checkpoint, and Dad hits the buzzer. For a little while, there’s nothing to do but stand and wait for the night guards to come and open the door.

“Sweetie?” Mom asks, turning to look at me. “Why don’t you come by tomorrow? After work? We can all have dinner together like we used to.”

“I’ve got a thing after work tomorrow,” I say, shaking my head. Yeah. A thing. “With friends,” I add, like lying will somehow make it better.

“Can you cancel it?” she asks as Dad looks over at us. “I really think we should spend some time together as a family—the three of us and your sister.”

“Um... I don’t think so, Mom. It’s kind of important,” I say, flicking my tail this way and that. No, I can’t. Silver tickets are very non-refundable. Mom looks at me when I say that though. Scuffs her hoof a little. I know these... little get-togethers mean a lot to her. But I really can’t cancel! And I can’t tell her why, either. She’d never... I mean...

She’s staring at me. I can’t cancel. But... well. My appointment’s only at three o’clock. “I guess I’ll be free around seven though?”

“Oh, that’s fine, Sweetie. We’ll eat late,” Mom says. In front of us, the door mechanism starts to click.

“Yeah,” I say, weakly. “That’ll be good.”

“Hi! I’m Swiftwing. I’m a nineteen-year-old pegasus mare, looking for another mare for, uh... well, a nice evening I guess, and see where things go from there? I’m looking for a companion, maybe even a serious relationship, but you can’t force these things, so I try to take it easy.

“I know I’m a little young for a personal, but I have trouble meeting ponies. Part of it is that my hobbies tend to be pretty solitary—I write some, and carve and paint little figurines. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little awkward though, so you might have to carry the conversation a bit until I relax. I promise I’ll make it up to you.

“Personality-wise, I guess I’m a little old-fashioned. My parents are both traditionalists, so I got a lot of that Equestrian stuff growing up. No mantles, learn to love your special talent, do the right thing and it’ll all work out. My cutie mark is a comet, and it stands for always going the extra mile for your friends and family. It’s from this pegasus legend about two brothers who sacrificed themselves to save their city, and so Princess Luna reincarnated them as comets and... anyway, it’s a cool story.

“Physically, I’m pretty tall. Big all around I guess. You have my picture, so I guess it’s no secret that I like to cook. I think I’m pretty good. Not great but—”

I turn the phonograph off.

I can’t cook at all.

Lying is wrong. Everypony knows that—honesty is even one of the Elements of Harmony. My boss, no less! I know I shouldn't have said that, but it just sounded better than “I work in a restaurant that uses a lot of sugar and butter and have a thirty-five-percent employee discount.” I thought it would make somepony more likely to respond, and then I could get to know her and sort of... work my way up to it.

Kind of a moot point now, though.

I look over at the slot in the door, like a reply was going to suddenly come in the middle of the night. Nothing, of course. I shut my eyes, and set my head back, letting out a breath. I get up at five for work—I should be asleep by now. The lights are still on though.

I could turn them off, I guess.

I groan, beating my head back against the pillow. I don’t know what I was thinking. Oh sure, Mom, I can stop by tonight. Right after I’m done betraying everything you and Dad stand for. Gosh, I’m sorry, did I make dinner awkward? I’ll have to tell her eventually, but not right after! Why did this have to happen tonight of all nights? I booked my ticket five weeks ago, and now it’ll seem like I did it to spite them.

I can just picture it now: Dad’s silent, disapproving stare; Spot Light poking at her food; my staring at the table like a stupid foal. And then Mom will ask, in the sweetest, nicest way, where they went wrong raising me. Oh, that’s gonna be just great!

My throat’s getting tight again. It’s not fair! Why couldn't I have been a unicorn? Dad’s a unicorn. Then I’d be an enchanter or something, and nopony cares if a unicorn is a little plush. Being magic means you don’t have to exercise! Even being an earth pony would be better than this. At least then nopony would expect me to be all athletic and sexy and outgoing. Maybe if it ran in the family or something it would be okay, but no. I had to be the daughter of a mare so perfect, my friends swear I’m making her up!

I pick up the pillow and hurl it at the door, but of course, it just hits the metal and then falls to the floor. That’s great. That’s just great. Way to have a winning personality to go with your good looks, Swiftwing.

Way to go.

After a little while, I sigh and slide out of bed. It shouldn't wind me just to sit up, but it does, and I have to stop to take a breath after I haul myself to my hooves. Sitting on the edge of the bed helps, and I reach down to pick up the pillow. This is childish, and I know it, but I still can’t sleep.

It’s perfectly reasonable to be stressed right now. Five weeks ago, my net worth, totaling all savings and—to use my fancy new vocabulary—salvageable assets, was twenty-four thousand, five hundred and twelve bits. That represents three years of working as a waitress and one year as a manager, with minimal expenses. Being a manager pays better, but living in an apartment instead of with my parents eats a lot of that, so it works out to about the same for all four years. All in cash, that comes to nearly seventy-five pounds of gold, enough to form a pile to cover my entire desk and then some. It was a good savings. Of course, the important word there is was, since my net worth right now is closer to negative five thousand.

I got a good deal though, I think.

Pretty sure.

I glance up at my desk and all the stuff there. There’s not much to my apartment. Really not much. A small shelf for my figurines, a wall mirror, a little chest for my paints and good horseshoes, a pile of books in the corner, a folding desk, and a bed that slides up into the wall. It’s supposed to slide up to make room for a desk chair, but it’s so close to the desk I usually just use the bed as a chair anyway. My desk has some cool stuff at least. A phonograph with three records including my personal, my alarm clock, some more books, reference pictures for my model, some brochures, and my ticket, of course.

I pick up the ticket first. It’s silver, printed on that fancy, stiff paper—maybe two hoof lengths long and half a hoof across. It glitters in the light when I nudge it with a hoof, and the writing on it stands out in relief. The Pavilion’s little stamp is on the far left, that little medical snake thing, pressed deep into the paper. The rest is taken up by big, stylized letters that give the place and time of my appointment: The Pampered Princess, 3:00.

“Thirty thousand bits, it had better be a pretty ticket...” I grumble, but it doesn’t feel good. I am being childish. Self-pity doesn’t get you anywhere. I brush aside the ticket, and reach for the brochure after it. It’s really pretty too—there’s no writing or anything, just this elegant, stylized drawing of Twilight Sparkle in a bathrobe on the front. She looks so comfortable and dignified that it works without any writing, and I unfold it gently.

It’s mostly pictures: ponies getting hot stone massages, an indoor field full of grass and flowering plants, mares in robes getting hooficures and their tails styled. The little captions talk about how steam diffusion and spa treatment let poison joke be absorbed through the skin, the natural way—which is supposed to be healthier than drinking it. Finally, the back has a list of treatments and prices alongside them. I’ve circled one. “Rainbow Athletic Tonic, Full Treatment.”

That seemed like the best value—out of all the ones I wanted.

There’s nothing wrong with going to a tonic spa. My parents won’t approve, but it’s my life and my money, and it’s not like I’m hiding anything from them. It’s normal and will help me feel good about myself and it’s healthy. Well, healthier. Poison joke may not be great for you, but neither is PCSD.

Not that I could fly even if my wings did work.

I lay my head down on the desk and let out a long breath. After a second, I reach a hoof up to my side, feeling the... generous padding there. I’m not a loser. I’m not. And even if I was, there’s no point in feeling sorry for myself. I’ve got some problems, yes, but I’m doing something about them and... and that’s fine. That’s good.

I’ll just work on my models for a bit and then go back to bed.