//------------------------------// // Chapter 2: In Which The Team is Contacted. // Story: Night Watch // by Crossed Quills //------------------------------// Some days, Sticky Wings considered, as she sat on her stupid bunk, in the stupid cell, in the stupid prison, in the stupid bucking city, it did not pay to do one's civic duty. Or, for that matter, get out of bed. For entertainment, she had two things; firstly a red rubber ball, which she had by this point mastered the art of rebounding off of the small cell's various surfaces, to return unerringly to her. Briefly, she found herself wondering whether or not there might be some use for this skill. She didn't recall seeing anything like it in the Equestrian Games. Perhaps fortunately, far more consuming and entertaining was reflection on the day that she'd had, which had brought the pegasus pony to this point. She had hit Manehattan in an effort to start a new life. She'd been seeking help for her... bad habit. She'd been doing extremely well, until she had accidentally walked into that pony on the sidewalk outside of the First Bank of Manehattan. He'd been nicely dressed, and carrying any number of important looking documents in a telekinetic field, which of course had gone flying everywhere. She had apologized profusely, helped him to gather up the papers that had gone wandering in the wind, and only realized ten minutes later that she had, out of habit and not a little compulsion, walked off with the businesspony's wallet. Well, she wasn't screwed yet. After all, he might have lost it in the confusion, and he'd been off in a hurry when he walked away. A quick look inside suggested that he worked at the bank, and she could go in, explain what had happened (edited for content), return the wallet, refuse any reward,(4) and go about her merry day. Fantasy-Sticky, swelled with pride and confidence from her (almost) good deed would then go and get that dishwashing job down at the diner run by Greasy Spoon, continuing her work at being a better and brighter pony. It might be a little stretch to suggest the Princess Celestia would be proud of her, but if not personally, then she was sure that the Princess would approve of the general approach. Going into the bank, she had been referred to the office of Golden Fortune, evidently the slickly-dressed pony that she had walked into. She had shrugged, sat back and made herself comfortable, and maybe dozed a little bit. Sticky had awoken to the sound of Golden Fortune clearing his throat noisily. “Do you have... the item?” He had asked. Sticky had blinked a little at that. She was not aware of any particular need for a euphemism in wallet-related matters, but then, it was his wallet. Maybe it would have been embarrassing for him, a pony charged with looking after the fortunes of others, to admit that he had misplaced his own wallet, even in the security of his own office. “I sure do! I picked it up outsi-” but Golden Fortune had hushed her. And then thrust two large bags of bits into her hooves. “There. The amount discussed.” Sticky Wings was getting the very real sense that something strange and possibly criminal was going on. “I couldn't possibly accept any sort of payment or reward. Just doing what any good pony would do, after all.” That was safe enough ground, even if not explicitly true; many of the ponies she had known would have kept the wallet. He had nodded, with what he must have imagined to be a sly look on his face – it more closely resembled constipation – and gave her a wink. “Of course. I must have misspoken. Consider this, a... gift. Unrelated to your giving to me the item. From me to you.” Sticky Wings had never been a serious criminal; in the grand scheme of things, her crimes had been more venal than anything else, first out of a need to eat, and later out of a compulsion that she was only now getting a hold of. Probably the worst thing that she had ever done, outside of causing the odd object to go missing, had been to keep the newest Daring Do book out of the library for an extra three days – fast hooves, slow reader. This... felt different. Like something out of a crime novel, or worse. She had picked up the bags, and stood, about to put them back on the desk... When the weight of the Manehattan constabulary had broken down the office door. Of course. Golden Fortune had been trafficking in illegal magical items, and had thought that he was going to be receiving an item with the unlikely name of 'The Alicorn Amulet' from a blue mare dressed somewhat shabbily. The Manehattan constabulary, under the command of Captain Apple Peeler, had gotten the tip-off, and had broken down the door to see Sticky Wings receiving what was supposed to be payment for the arcane contraband. When it had turned out that she had just been there to return Fortune's wallet, they had... not taken it well. Fortunately, Golden Fortune had been so flummoxed by the fact that he had been about to hand over fifty thousand bits to someone intent on returning his wallet, that he had developed a case of diarrhoea of the mouth, spilling all of his plans, his long-term schemes, and the not incidental fact that the money he had been handing to Sticky had been embezzled from the bank. The first piece of bad news that Sticky heard that day had been that no, she would not be allowed to keep the bits. The second piece had come when they had checked their files on a pegasus named 'Sticky Wings'. The long file, rife with petty crimes from fillihood onward. Coupled with her unlikely presence at the scene of a major crime, they had given her a non-optional invitation to join them down at the station, 'to clear up some details'. Sticky had a good idea what that meant. The interrogation had been gentle and polite, and Sticky had decided to tell the truth from the outset. Her therapist had, once upon a time, given her the piece of rather worn and frankly cliche advice that 'the truth would set her free', and she had decided, perhaps optimistically, to give it a shot. They had nodded understandingly when she had explained her condition, about how she had gone back to return the wallet, and how she had insisted that she was planning to refuse any reward. They had even said that they believed her, but couldn't she stick around for a day or two, in case they thought up any additional questions that only she could answer? The words 'flight risk' had been bandied about when they had thought she wasn't listening. Frankly, she found that tribalist. And so she sat, on a stupid bunk, in her stupid cell, and so forth, bemoaning a world that apparently disliked pegasus ponies, or perhaps her in particular. Sticky's downward spiral of anger and depression was interrupted by the gaoler clearing her throat. “Captain Peeler wishes to speak with you, Miss Wings.” Of bloody course she did. Sticky took a moment to wonder where it all had gone wrong. * * * Icewine was pretty sure he knew where it had all gone wrong. He stood before a classroom of unimpressed looking undergraduates, trying to impress upon them the great gravity of the lesson he was giving. Whether he knew it or not, the diminutive brandy-coloured unicorn was managing a result better than the mean average, in that the majority of his students were awake, and more than half of them were actively listening to the lecture. He might have been content with that, were it not for the fat that his class – an introduction to the philosophical musics of Clover the Clever – had been scheduled immediately after an introduction to the writings of Mane Rand, and, as was the case every year, a few of the students had taken the Objectivist philosophy to heart. The two most irksome, a pale green earthpony mare named Shrugging Map, and a pink unicorn stallion by the unlikely name of Fountain Head, were interrupting his lecture with 'questions' every five minutes or so, asking how the philosophy of Harmony benefited them personally, pointing out shortcomings in other students, and generally making nuisances of themselves. There's one in every classroom, mused Icewine to himself, and just my luck, I got two of them. If I had paid a little more attention when I was in Celestia's school for gifted unicorns, I might have gotten a nice quiet job as a country librarian on the strength of that alone. Instead, I slacked off, and for my sins, needed a Master's Degree. The fact of the matter was that for all of his griping, Icewine really did love the study of philosophy. Although the Royal Pony Sisters held something resembling divine status in the eyes of the ponies under their care, they were understandably cautious when bestowing anything like holy commandments. The caution had been well-earned – in the Third Century after the banishment of Nightmare Moon, Celestia had tried her hoof at giving a holy order for ponies to be 'good', but had neglected to give a functional definition for same, leading to not a little chaos. Then, in the seventh century, pressed for holy commandments by one of the more... zealous ponies in her care, she had flippantly suggested starting each day with 'a good breakfast'. The Breakfaster Cult was still one of the dominant beliefs in Equestria, with their holy fibre-rich cereal, but it had taken some time to stamp out the cannibalistic sects that had remembered the third century commandment.(5) In the absence of divine mandate or instruction, the ponies of Equestria had been left more or less to their own devices in discovering the answers to the big questions: the meaning of beauty, the nature of truth, and What Was It Really All About, When You Got Down To It? Philosophers like Immanuel Canter, Neightze, and Hay Carts had posited their ideas, and students of magic had built upon them as ideas like Harmony had emerged as sound thaumatalogical principles. The best mages were students of metaphysics alongside physics, because the study of ideas was genuinely useful in understanding magic. Of course, not every idea was right either. And so you got ponies postulating bizarre or selfish notions, and it was only by virtue of rational discourse that such notions could be dismissed. Every year, some new undergraduate would internalize the message 'Mane Rand was right about everything', and the cycle would begin anew. Honestly, Icewine could have lived with that. But Fountain Head and Shrugging Map had cottoned to the notion that he was irritated by jokes made about his height, and had latched onto that as their primary form of subtle attack. Actually ejecting them from the class over a minor sleight that he would have difficulty proving would damage his academic career, not least since both students came from privileged backgrounds. On the other hoof, he was moments away from deciding that he didn't really need a Master's degree, and defenestrating both students. Ah, decisions, decisions. The earthpony and the unicorn were spared unsolicited and impromptu flying lessons by a knock at the door, and a summons to the Dean's office. Apparently, some piece of mail had arrived from the palace. * * * Nurse Hot Streak was fretting over the piece of mail that had come from the Palace in Canterlot. Usually delighted to get mail, the burns ward nurse hadn't been able to open it when it had arrived, and while initially she could conceive of no possible reason for them to have sent her any kind of missive, her mind had begun to fret and come up with any number of possible horrible contents for the letter. Perhaps fire magic was being made illegal. Maybe she was being audited. Could it be that they had discovered that she was the one who had sent a poorly-spelled and punctuated letter to Equestria Daily? Did they still throw you in gaol for bad spelling? She was sure that she had read somewhere that they had at one point.(6) Hot Streak had only recently secured her current position, and if she was a bit clumsy outside of work, she had been doing extremely well at it. Her employment history had haunted her a bit – in all honesty, the fireworks factory had been a poor choice, as had the 'all things tinder-dry' emporium – but she had a natural affinity for treating burns, complimented by what some might have called excessive practice. If some of the orderlies made jokes behind her back, about 'drumming up business', well, she could just ignore them. She was doing well – but more importantly to the mostly good-natured unicorn, she was doing good. Seeing ponies, wounded and hurting, convalesce under her care was exceptionally heartening, and she felt, possibly for the first time in her life, like she was making a positive difference. If she wished that she could apply her special talent and her magic more to her work, she could at least console herself, knowing that she was helping other ponies. But now, there was this envelope, with the Royal Lunar seal on the back, threatening all of that with vague, stationary-oriented malfeasance. It could have contained something positive – and, if she were being perfectly up-front about things, she had no proof that it did not. But the burden of experience weighed heavily upon the usually chipper unicorn. Unexpected envelopes almost never bore positive fruit. So lost in thought was Hot Streak that when she finally realized Head Nurse Soothing Salve was trying to get her attention, it was difficult to say how long the other pony had been trying. Embarrassed at her own woolgathering, she blinked, and tried for an apologetic smile. Soothing Salve was understanding, kind, and considerate. Surely, she had only good things to say. “Streak, you're an extremely talented nurse, and one of the best experts in burn care on our staff.” So far, so good. Positive feedback, from a respected superior. “But I'm afraid we need to talk about your future with Manehattan General.” Less promising. Steak swallowed hard. “Is this about the soup incident?” It had been one of those 'we'll look back at this and laugh someday' things that had seemed to plague Hot Streak for her entire adult life – and, for that matter, a great deal of her childhood. One of the patients had been distressed by the tepid hospital soup, and the kitchen had been two floors away. A little bit of unicorn magic could heat that soup right up, and Streak had been overjoyed at the opportunity to use her magical focus to do something nice for somepony. She had even been careful not to create any actual fire... “The third floor is STILL a sauna, Streak.” Soothing Salve shook her head. “One of our patients is an expert in persistent magical effects, and even she can't figure out how to undo it. We've had to move everyone off of the floor.” Streak winced. She had been so focused on bringing the soup to a low boil that she hadn't noticed everything else heating up as well. As to why things were staying as warm as they were, she was completely lost at sea – she had always been magically powerful, but for the trifling problem with control... “Ah... at least the soup was heated up?” She offered weakly. Soothing Salve sighed, a slow release of breath coloured by genuine regret. “Streak, you're a fine nurse, but it's out of my hooves. I can keep you on for a couple of weeks, while the paperwork goes through, but the hospital board of directors are mad as Tartarus. I'd suggest updating your resume – you're likely to need it, in the not-too-distant future. I'm sorry.” Streak's heart sank. “I... understand.” The pyromancer was downcast, and she fought back tears. She had managed to land a job that she had been genuinely good at, and then this had happened. What a rotten day this was turning out to be. First that probably awful letter, and now... Now she was getting kicked out. * * * “We have to kick him out!” It was one of the orderlies at the Happy Pastures Retirement Home that had finally put voice to the thought that had crossed more than a few minds among the staff, regarding Sharp Salute. Most ponies, upon reaching their retirement, were content to settle down a little bit – maybe pick up a hobby or two, catch up on the reading, or engage themselves in the various pass-times made available by the retirement home. Many was the pony that had discovered the joy of shuffleboard or bridge club, or who kept themselves sharp through yoga or perusing the Happy Pastures library. When Sharp Salute had first come to Happy Pastures, the facility had been honoured. A decorated military pony, in his twilight years, gracing their facility with his presence. It had been a feather in their figurative cap – not quite a celebrity guest, but certainly one well-respected and with the well-earned prestige to back it up. When it had developed that he was still every bit as active and vivacious as he had been reputed to be in the prime of his life, they had been far from dismayed – after all, Happy Pastures catered to keeping older ponies well-looked-after and entertained. And Sharp Salute had been, by all accounts, happy to be there, enjoying their facilities. If he was slightly sour about his forced retirement, he was no more cantankerous than many of the other older ponies, and Salute had always been extremely polite and courteous to all of the staff and fellow residents of the home. That had changed, however, when the retirement home had been bought out by a group of investment developers. Happy Pastures had always been fiscally in the black, but the high-quality care that they had made their reputation upon had come at a premium cost – and thus, the margin of profit was small, considering the not-inconsiderable price of admission. For Golden Fortune and his investment group however, a small return on investment was simply not good enough. The residents had been upset when pizza night had been cancelled. They had been outright irate when the free jazzercise classes had been cut. But not even the long-term employees of Happy Pastures had expected them to literally go to the barricades over the removal of half of the dessert menu. Had the staff at Happy Pastures been students of military strategy, they would have known that an entrenched militant population can indeed be difficult to winkle out. What they had rapidly learned was that there were few populations more entrenched than the septuagenarians under their care, particularly when that latter group had reached the kitchens. Now, it was an all-out warfront, with walker and cane-wielding ponies hurling foodstuffs at staff that dared to intrude upon the seized domain. Needless to say, there had been a few deserters in the face of the dessert. Mostly, the staff didn't have the heart to press the old-timers. They were, generally, not particularly pleased with the changes that had come down from Corporate, but were limited in their options – disagreeing with policy was fine, failing to implement it was grounds for dismissal. The siege of the kitchens had lasted for three days so far, with Sharp Salute leading the elderly rebels, and with regular supplies being delivered to the kitchen entrance, they were in no danger of running out any time soon. Personally, Orderly Friendly Face, a mauve pegasus with an amiable temperament and a genuine love of her job, thought that the whole exercise probably wasn't bad for the residents. They certainly seemed more engaged and energetic than they had in the past few months, as their recreational activities had been whittled away by fiscal demand. That said, she could certainly understand how... problematic the current situation was for her colleagues and friends. Attempts to negotiate in good faith were undermined by the fact that they couldn't offer much and retain their own jobs. Attempts to negotiate in bad faith had been met with weaponized pastries and pie tins filled with meringue. One of the retirees had even developed something that could only be described as a party howitzer that shot full cakes, claiming that some party pony that played the accordion had given him the idea. The real problem was that when it came to numbers, the staff were already at a disadvantage. When it came to raw volume of life experience, they were outnumbered twenty to one. The outspoken orderly from before reiterated his point. “We have to kick him out, and soon, or we're all going to end up unemployed!” Friendly Face raised an eyebrow. “We can't even expel them from the kitchen. How precisely do you imagine we're going to remove him from the nursing home?” The dissenting pony had paused, considering this for a moment. Friendly Face continued. “Besides, technically they haven't broken any of the rules of the nursing home.” It was true. Seniors occasionally being cantankerous, the nursing home had always been a place where dissenting opinions could be safely voiced by the residents, with a certain amount of 'like it or lump it' toward the staff, who were expected to continue to serve with a smile. Granted, 'armed rebellion' exceeded this general advisory by a broad margin, but similarly, hadn't been anticipated by the owners, and thus no specific exception was printed. This technically fell under the broad umbrella of 'the residents being difficult', which according to the brief that had come with the cut in services, 'was to be expected, within reason'. The day, it turned out, was saved by the mailpony, who arrived at that very moment, bringing with her two important pieces of news. Firstly: the investment group owned by Golden Fortune had turned out to be a front for an illegal artefact trafficking ring. The assets – including the nursing home – were being seized by the state. For now at least this meant to the various orderlies that, barring specific instructions from the new owners, the austerity measures could end. They could negotiate once more, and perhaps bring the Siege of the Kitchens to an end. Secondly, a letter addressed to Sharp Salute from the Palace, re-activating the elderly pony's commission and assigning him to a new special task-force being put together by Princess Luna. There had been some debate about opening the mail of one of the residents, but given the address upon the envelope and the royal seal on the back, the thought of some respite from the former Master Sergeant had convinced even the sticklers among the staff to 'accidentally' allow the letter to 'fall open' so that its contents could be inspected. That solved the other problem... and while Salute was gone, some bylaws in the nursing home could hopefully be drafted, strongly discouraging his return. It would leave the grumpy senior relatively happy, an old warhorse called again to the front, and the staff equally so, leaving any future rebellion of old ponies without leadership quite so capable. “This,” said Friendly Face, “is perfect.” * * * “This,” said Zorada, “is perfect.” She looked over the letter again and smiled. There was no amusing anecdote specific to the zebra's decision to leave her high-paying job which afforded her a great deal of influence and respect. She made her arrangements, paid her last month's rent, collected her few possessions, and headed toward the palace with all reasonable haste. Perhaps she was just a patriot. Wasn't that convenient? 4: Her reasoning was thus: while finding something and then returning it for a reward still counted as a good deed, stealing an item and then returning it for a reward ranged from 'extortion' to 'kidnapping', depending on what was 'found'. 5: The ponies of Equestria, it should be said, were basically good, but frighteningly literal. 6: This was actually true. A short-lived coup d'etat led by the librarians of Equestria had rendered illegal poor spelling and grammar, the re-shelving of books by patrons, and speaking loudly. Celestia, returning from vacation, had ended the takeover with grace and aplomb, noting that it had been 'a necessary chapter' in Equestrian history.