Most ponies in Nickerlite seemed bent on the idea that the Pie family was anti-social. The truth was, with all the work to be done on the farm there was precious little time to walk all the way to town to chit chat. As such, Pinkie’s entire world had revolved around her family for as long as she could remember. Though her optimism and boisterous attitude went over well with the townsponies, she had few opportunities to spread the cheer on a wide scale. Needless to say, it was more than a little overwhelming to be thrust into an entire city full to bursting with the meanest ponies Pinkie had ever met.
Since her arrival yesterday morning, only two ponies had smiled at her. Two in all of Manehattan! It was downright unnerving. One on one, she was certain she could make anypony smile, but not in huge masses like this. Her eyes darted across the bustling scene in front of her. Hundreds of ponies darting to work, and nopony bothering to spare even so much as a quick hello. Just pushing, shoving, yelling, and grumpy mumbling.
“Out of the way!” A burly earth pony nearly knocked her to the pavement. Pinkie cringed, adjusting her saddlebags. In them was every possession she could afford to take with her, which admittedly was not much. Her family was far from wealthy, and so it would be up to her to make her way.
Arriving at the base of Scribe Incorporated’s headquarters, she had a sinking sensation this was not going to be as easy as she originally thought. As it was the beginning of the work day, ponies filtered in and out of the swinging glass doors like the swarm of ants that gathered at the edge of the family barn. Stepping inside just made the situation worse. The cavernous entry room was full to bursting with chattering ponies, causing a nearly deafening racket.
As soon as she could, she veered down a side hallway to the stairs. Blessed silence greeted her as she walked inside the dimly lit stairwell. Thank Celestia. Slowly, methodically, she made her way up the stairs and up and up. Finally her hooves met the landing of the seventeenth floor. Seventeen floors! A few days ago, she never would have imagined that was possible, but here she was. Today Pinkamena Diane Pie was starting her career as a secretary for the largest company in Manehattan.
The long hall felt like the mouth of a great cave, ready to swallow her in one great gulp. It took a few seconds of staring at the massive oak doors before she garnered the courage to push them open and step inside. She was greeted by the furious clicking of a typewriter. Pinkie grinned broadly at the mare behind the desk. “Hiya, Keynote!”
Keynote looked up at her, mouth hung open like a fish. “Miss Pie? What in Equestria are you doing back here?”
“Uh . . .” Seriously? “Don’t you know?”
“Know what?”
“Well,” Pinkie jerked her head to the door on the opposite end of the room, “I’m starting work as a secretary today. So I guess that makes us secretary buddies!”
Rather than the expected smile, Keynote frowned deeply, looking down at the typewriter. “There must be some mistake, Miss Pie. Mr. Scribe needs only one secretary, and at least for the next few weeks, that means me.”
Really? Pinkie gesticulated around the pristine office, “But, Mr. Scribe said I had to come in today and not to be late.”
Keynote rolled her amber eyes, “We’ll just see about that.” Getting shakily to her hooves, she strode over to her as if they were about to have a duel. “Come on, Miss Pie, we’ll clear up this little misunderstanding.”
She led her to the door, and without even knocking, swung it open. “Mr. Scribe, we must have a word.”
Mr. Scribe looked every bit as grouchy as he had three days ago. His ears laid flat against his head as they approached. “And just what in Equestria is that,” he pointed to Pinkie as if she were some kind of wayward Diamond Dog, “doing in my office?”
“That’s what I want to know, Mr. Scribe.” Keynote eyed her with a look bordering on resentment. “She claims you’ve hired her as a secretary, but that’s simply ridiculous. Of course you wouldn’t hire some child from the country as your secretary.”
Mr. Scribe smirked, leaning back in the chair. “Miss Pie is not mistaken, Keynote. I have hired her as your replacement, you are to train her.”
Pinkie couldn’t help but wince as Keynote started to shake like a little filly. “You can’t be serious, Mr. Scribe!”
He raised an eyebrow, “Do I look like I’m joking, Keynote?”
“No, Mr. Scribe.”
“Good, now that that’s settled,” he motioned Pinkie to come closer, “I’d like you to explain why in Equestria you showed up to work at my office in such a state, Miss Pie.”
“What state?” Pinkie spun around in circles, looking herself over. Her coat was practically dust free, and she had even run a comb through her mane. Heck, her hooves were almost pink after the scrub she had given them.
Mr. Scribe clapped a hoof to his face. “Really, Miss Pie. I have an image to uphold. What image do you think you are projecting at the moment?”
“One of utmost optimism,” she proclaimed without hesitation.
“Yes, optimism and poverty. By Celestia, take a look in the mirror. Get yourself,” he gestured at all of her, “presentable before noon. I want a clean, professional outfit, a tight bun, the whole nine yards. I won’t have our image sullied by your . . . rustic preferences.”
“Okey dokey then!” Pinkie made to hop away, but froze in place. Oops, almost forgot. “Uh, Mr. Scribe?”
He rubbed his temple with a hoof, “What now?”
“I uh . . . I kinda don’t have any bits to buy clothes with.” She chuckled sheepishly. “Could I maybe borrow some?”
For an instant it looked like he might chuck his paperweight at her, but he just nodded curtly. “Very well. However, you will repay them with interest, Miss Pie.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a small pouch of bits. Just as she was about to take them, he placed his hoof atop them. His eyes met hers in a look of sudden realization, “Do you have lodgings, Miss Pie?”
“Lodge-what now?”
“A place to stay,” Keynote supplied curtly, continuing to avoid eye contact with her.
“Oh, nope! I slept in that super big park last night.” Pinkie grinned, remembering all the lovely ponies with cardboard forts she had hung out with. “They’ve got everything there! Like trashcans with fire, all kinds of games, and really interesting food.”
Mr. Scribe stared at her as if she were two rocks shy of a rock tumbler. “Uh-huh.” Sighing, he took a slip of paper from the desk, scrawling something on it with his pen. Folding it, he stuffed it into the bag and handed the bits to her. “There. Talk to her tonight, and she should be able to set you up.” With an imperious wave, he dismissed them.
Pinkie slipped the pouch into her saddlebags, hopping out of the office ahead of Keynote. As soon as they had closed the door behind them, Pinkie breathed a long sigh of relief. “Wow, that was crazy, wasn’t it, Keynote?”
“Sure,” there was a bitter tone in the mare’s voice that set Pinkie’s hairs on end.
“What’s wrong?”
Keynote looked down at her dusk blue hooves, frowning, “I just . . . I was hoping that Mr. Scribe would reconsider letting me go.”
“Letting you go?” Pinkie’s heart lurched at the words. They were not new to her, in fact she had heard them countless times before. Igneous would hire some wayward drifter, and just as sure as the water cascaded over the falls, they would fall short of expectations. Then it was that inevitable talk, as flat and rehearsed as any script. ‘Sorry, but we’re going to have to let you go.’ Just like that, they’d be gone.
Her eyes looked sadly into Pinkie’s before focusing on her desk. “Mr. Scribe told me the order came from the higher ups. I’ve only got a few weeks left, and my husband’s out of work,” she murmured, avoiding eye contact.
Without hesitation and before Keynote could protest, Pinkie wrapped her in a tight hug. “It’s okay, Keynote, it’ll all work out, you’ll see.” It was the same kind of speech she gave her family, and admittedly, it did not solve a lot. However, sometimes the best medicine was just knowing that somepony out there cared. “You’ve got your husband and you’ll have your foal soon, and I’m sure they’ll always love you.”
“Yes, but, what if I can’t provide for them? What then, Miss Pie?”
Pinkie took a step back, voice rising. “Let me tell you something, Keynote, something Daddy taught me over and over. Life’s not set in stone, there’s bound to be a hiccup here and there. But,” she placed a hoof on Keynote’s back, “you’d be surprised where those setbacks can take you if you’re open to the possibilities. Who knows, losing this job could lead you to an even better one.”
Keynote’s laugh tinkled around the office like a set of windchimes. “Guess you really are an optimism pony, Miss Pie.” She cleared her throat, looking at the mountain of paperwork stacked on the desk. “Why don’t we start your training? Then, we’ll take an early lunch and get you some decent clothes.”
“Awesome!” Pinkie sat down on the spare chair, watching Keynote gather the necessary supplies. Though, this time there was a clear, happy swing to her step. Yup, still got it, Pinkie, still got it.
Would you look at that. Rory stared wide eyed at page two-hundred and thirty-seven of the annual report as if it were a particularly gripping passage in a thriller novel. Though it was sent to him four months ago, its contents were far from obsolete. In fact, at that moment, the report was nothing short of timely. The article in yesterday’s paper may have been “dull as dirt” to the average Manehattan reader, but it had sent shivers up his spine.
Six months. He had been tracking that scumbag for six months, and he finally had him pinned down. Embezzling funds from the company one minute and professing his charitable donations the next. It would be easy, far too easy to work his “diplomacy”on the scrawny rat of a stallion. Once that was accomplished, he would have more than a little political currency to spend at his leisure.
A sickening familiar green aura surrounded his door, and Rory just managed to close the report and scramble to his hooves before Storm Scribe strode into his office. The tall, ebony stallion glided over to the desk in that imperious manner he always used. “Well, it seems you have been keeping busy, Rory.”
“Yes, President. Though I always keep busy,” Rory made certain to lace the words with as much contempt as he dared.
Storm sniffed disapprovingly, but said nothing more on that subject. Rather, he levitated the chair over and sat facing him as it it was his office Rory was barging into. “What happened to the Troxel research fund?” Though he said the words with a neutral, almost bored tone, Rory knew better. The stallion was furious, and if he did not respond appropriately, there would be trouble.
“The fund was . . . mishandled by the project manager.” Despite the disturbing intensity flashing in Storm’s eyes, Rory knew better than to look away. “I have fired him of course and the funds have been reinvested.”
Storm raised an eyebrow, “Reinvested? By whom?”
“I’ve assigned Farthing to the job.” Rory could not help but admire the cheerful stallion and his uncanny ability to repair the damage to just about any financial disaster. “He’s a good pony, he’ll make it right.”
“A good pony?” Storm’s voice rose ever so slightly, and Rory felt his stomach drop. “Do you think I hire ponies because they are ‘good,’ Rory?”
“No, sir.”
A loud thud echoed around the office as Storm slammed his hoof against the hardwood. “No indeed! I don’t give a damn about their moral tendencies as long as they don’t interfere with my company,” he emphasized the word as if Rory needed a reminder. “Is he good with finances?”
“Yes,” Rory choked, trying to steady his now quivering legs, “the best of the best, sir. He’s saved over six projects from tanking last year alone.”
“Good, good,” Storm practically purred, leaning back in the chair. For a moment, he stared out the window, making his eyes glisten like the emeralds they so resembled. Then, slowly, he turned back to him, “How many hours?”
“Sir?” What’s he playing at now?
Storm tapped a hoof impatiently against the desk. “How many hours have you been giving to the company a week, Rory?”
“Eighty-five,” he murmured, pawing at the carpet.
“Why only that?”
Rory’s stomach churned. It was obvious where Storm was headed, and he might have well been trying to stop a train for all the good his protests would do. “I . . . I take Sundays off, sir.”
“That’s right,” his voice was full of that blood chilling venom he reserved just for their conversations, “and do you see me taking Sundays off?”
“No sir.”
“Precisely.” Storm leaned closer, an all too familiar smirk of satisfaction creasing the corners of his mouth. “So, tell me, Rory, why does my son get to take a day off while his father, the President of the company works every day?”
Rory gritted his teeth, glancing unconsciously down at his warped leg, “I need the rest, sir.”
“Rest?” The smirk turned into a scowl, “Are you trying to imply that a healthy young earth pony needs more rest than a middle aged unicorn? How pathetic are you?”
“I—”
“There is to be no discussion, Rory. You will either work on Sundays, or make up the fourteen hours you are so carelessly throwing away each week.” Storm got to his hooves, “I don’t think that is an unreasonable request.”
“No, sir.” Rory waited for the stallion to leave, but he just continued to stare fixedly at him. What now? “Yes?”
“I have found you a new secretary. She’s a unicorn from a tolerably wealthy family.” Storm started towards the door, “I’ve had enough humoring your preferences for pegasi and earth ponies. She’ll start on—”
“I already have a new secretary,” the words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop himself. However, now that he was committed, he might as well make it count. “She’s from a good family herself.” A good rock farming family. “I’m quite satisfied with her.” Really, who could be satisfied with a country bumpkin like her? “So, I won’t be able to take you up on that, President.”
Storm actually gaped at him. It would have been comical if Rory had not known the stallion better. “You found a secretary? I told you I would handle the matter.”
Rory smirked a little himself, “What, are you telling me that the overly busy president of our company needs to take the time to find his son a secretary? How pathetic do you want them to think you are?” Oh, he was in trouble, but he could have cared less. The look of utter contempt on his father’s face made it all worthwhile.
“You . . .” he hissed, looking practically murderous. However, to Rory’s amazement, he merely spun around towards the door. “Very well. I must say I will enjoy the show. I’m certain she’s just perfect for the position.” Without another word he exited the office, slamming the door so hard the walls shook.
Rory breathed an involuntary sigh of relief, then, before he knew why began to laugh. “Celestia above, the look on his face . . .” Gaining composure, he limped around the desk to retrieve his chair. The implications of their conversation began to sink in as he settled down to the report once more. Fourteen more hours a week, how was he going to manage that? He sighed, turning his attention to the task at hand. Numbers, it was always numbers . . .
“Look at that!” Pinkie darted over to yet another storefront display, eyes glistening like a foal in a candy store. She might just have been in one with the ridiculously extravagant window displays along the street. They had nothing like the pieces of artwork that made up Manehattan’s primary form of advertising. “Do you see that, Keynote? They’ve got little paper birds everywhere!”
“Miss Pie, do try to contain some of your excitement,” Keynote mumbled, eyeing the now gawking ponies around them with an expression bordering on apprehension.
Pinkie felt her face heat up. Oopsies, got a little excited. With one final look at the Spring display, she trotted over to Keynote’s side once more. “So, where are we going first?”
“Sheer’s.” Keynote set off at a surprisingly brisk pace for a mare with a baby on the way. “We’d best make good time, Miss Pie. It’s a fifteen minute walk, and we can’t be late getting back to Mr. Scribe’s office.”
“Right! But,” Pinkie’s eyes caught sight of the ocean of clothing stores around them. “Why don’t we shop at these stores? They’re closer.”
Keynote snorted, rolling her eyes. “Because politics, Miss Pie.”
“Politics?” The only time she heard that word was when her father would grumble about how unfair the rock prices were. ‘Politics, always with the politics. Everypony for himself, I swear . . .’ She never bothered to ask him what “politics” meant, but assumed it had to do something to do with greed. “What do you mean?”
There was a long pause while they waited for the signal to cross the street, then Keynote spoke in as soft a voice as possible without being drowned out by the constant hum of conversation, “Politics is the engine of Manehattan, Miss Pie. One cannot simply act of one’s own volition.”
“Voli-what now?”
“Volition.” Keynote sighed, “Listen, I’ll tell you the basics, and you’d best pay attention or you’ll end up in deep water.”
Pinkie’s hooves shook a little at the dark expression on Keynote’s face. Whatever she was going to explain, it seemed as though it would be far from pleasant. “Okey dokey then.”
“Very good. You see that,” her hoof gestured to an intimidating brick department store across the street, “That is Prescot’s. The store is owned by Prescot Incorporated, also known as Scribe Incorporated’s top business rival. They’ve been arguing over the rights to the Main street storefronts for years now.”
“Really? Why can’t they just share?”
Keynote shot her a particularly exasperated look, “Miss Pie, do you honestly think ponies like Mr. Scribe partake in ‘sharing’ willingly?”
Pinkie thought about that for a moment. “Well . . . yeah, I mean, everypony wins if you share. That’s what Momma always says.”
“Well, in the real world, Miss Pie, it’s everypony for himself. If you can’t outdo your competitors, you yourself are outdone.” Keynote’s soft amber eyes focused on a boarded up store, “There’s no sympathy in Manehattan, it’s cut and dry, eat or be eaten, win or lose, there’s no middle ground and there never will be.”
The speech was starting to make her feel queasy. There was no way so many ponies thought like that, was there? It sounded like something that would be in a drama, not in an an inescapable reality as Keynote claimed. However, looking around at the stores, the cold stares of the ponies, and the strange, almost forced distance between them, she had to wonder if the pegasus didn’t have a point.
“Now then, Miss Pie, because of the competition, a single pony can’t make it on their own. Therefore, they align themselves with whatever company, gang, or union they can.” Keynote glanced around them, as though double checking that nopony was listening, “I’m going to tell you the important ones, it will be your job to keep them straight in the future.”
“Okay.” Pinkie listened to the long winded explanation, mentally filing away the information. It was a lot to take in, but she knew she could handle it. The street gradually grew less crowded as they neared Sheer’s.
Once they arrived at the massive open doors, Keynote pulled her aside. “So, who owns Sheer’s?”
“Scribe Incorporated.”
She jerked a nod, “Correct. Now why don’t we shop at or associate with Trottingham’s?”
“It’s owned by the South-Town Gang leader Phineas, and he’s been on the President’s bad side for five years now since he failed to pay a debt.”
Keynote gave her a soft smile. “Correct. I think you shall do well, Miss Pie. Now come along, we’ve got to get you presentable before our break is over.”
“Okay!” Pinkie trotted into the store behind Keynote, mulling over their conversation. With all these connections and dealings, it sounded like Manehattan was one big spider web. And she had landed smack dab in the center of it.
Rory popped yet another pill, getting shakily to his hooves. Not even his regular abuse of painkillers was enough to slow the constant radiating pain in his warped limb. He limped over to the door, trying to decide if it felt good to stretch or horrible to bend his leg. Stepping out into the office, he collided with Keynote. His stomach churned when she staggered, and he reacted instinctively to catch her. Unfortunately, it was his bad leg that caught her.
Gritting his teeth from the pain, he gently pushed her upright again. “Sorry, Keynote. I didn’t see you.” His eyes darted to her midriff, “Are you all right?”
Keynote looked genuinely taken aback. “Yes, Mr. Scribe, just fine.” Her eyes fell to his now quivering leg, hung limp in the air, “Is your leg hurt?” Before he could stop her, she reached out and stroked it in a motherly fashion.
Rory winced, gritting his teeth to stop the string of curse words threatening to come out. “It . . . it hurts a little, but it’s not your fault,” he managed to force out.
Another voice started him back a step. Pinkie hopped over to them, and he could not help but gape.The mare’s disheveled mane and tail was now brushed to a sheen and her hooves scrubbed spotless. It seemed Keynote managed to find just the right outfit, complimenting her azure eyes with a light tan blouse. “Hello, Miss Pie.”
“Hiya, Mr. Scribe!” She puffed out her chest, allowing the light to create a halo over her mane. “Am I ready for duty now?”
“You . . .” For some stupid reason, Rory found it hard to look into her eyes, “Much better, Miss Pie.”
Keynote sniggered into his hoof, “Yes, I thought we should show you our results.”
“Yay, results!” Pinkie trotted around the room like some little filly on parade.
Rory rolled his eyes. Honestly, would it hurt her to act like an adult? He limped over to the door, “I’ve a meeting, Keynote. See to it that Miss Pie learns the ropes.”
“Yes, Mr. Scribe.”
Without another word, Rory left the mares to whatever trouble they were bound to get into next. Maybe he should have taken Father’s secretary after all. Then again . . . He smiled to himself. She does clean up nice.
Walking through Manehattan at night was about as close as Pinkie had ever come to walking on another planet. Once the natural light had faded from the sky, it was replaced by a cheap, artificial glow. Neon lights, street lamps, lights in the windows, and even lights on the taxis. It seemed that nopony wanted to see the moon, or they were afraid of the dark. Whatever the reason, it made finding the address scrawled on the paper all the easier.
After walking for what felt like hours but was likely closer to half an hour, she came to the right street at last. The dimly lit alley made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, but she took a deep breath, striding towards the flickering orange neon light ahead. A few rats scurried around her hooves as she stepped over the broken glass and stinking trash coating the old cobblestones. Pinkie was not one going to be deterred and continued until she stood under the sign. “Madame Jazelle’s Respite? Wonder what that’s about . . .”
With only a second’s hesitation, she opened the faded door and crept inside. The moment she entered, she was assaulted with a perfume laced smoke. Its potency nearly sent her to her knees. They definitely didn’t have stores like this in Nickerlite. After some adjustment, she looked around at the hallway she was standing in. The lush carpet under hooves was far from worn, and even the obviously dated walls had a fresh layer of wallpaper. The hallway led to a door with “Private” written in golden letters. To the side was a dim, flickering light beckoning her closer.
Then she heard it. A light, ethereal voice drifting in from the room. Pinkie had heard ponies that could sing, but never had she heard something like this. The female voice was soft as a summer breeze, and yet it carried, wrapping itself around her ears. At that moment, all she wanted was to stand there, and soak it in, letting it seep into her bones like the healing medicine it was. As it did, Pinkie found herself no longer worrying about the day’s events or even the message of the song. All she knew, all she cared to know was that everything would work out.
And then it stopped. The sound of clapping hooves followed the silence, and Pinkie was compelled to take a look. Inside the room were hundreds of candles encircling a moderately large room with a bar to the side and a low stage in the center. The carpeted floor was filled to bursting with stuffed couches and chairs around variously sized tables. Each and every one of the ponies seated was staring transfixed at the creature standing on the stage.
Pinkie had never seen anything like her in her life. At first, all she could do was stare transfixed at the horns, both of them. Nearly as long as her legs, curved ever so slightly back, and such a deep, pure shade of black that it would put any of their finest ebony to shame. Then her focus traveled down to her face past her kind, equally deep black eyes, and muzzle so dainty that it would put the finest featured mare to shame.
It was out of that dainty muzzle that came yet another melody, just as beautiful as before. This time, Pinkie moved closer, watching the way the singer sway gracefully in time to the beat despite having a rather stocky, muscular body. Before she realized it, she was standing close to the stage, gaping at her. If there were angels, she was certain this . . . whatever she was . . . would be one of them.
The song was over disappointingly fast, resulting in another round of applause that Pinkie was all too eager to join in on. Then the singer raised her bangled hoof, silencing them instantly. “Thank you my little ponies, thank you.” Despite her exotic appearance, her accent was decidedly Manehattan. “As always, it is a pleasure to entertain you. However, as it is Tuesday night, I am afraid we must close early.” She winked playfully, “I need my beauty sleep you know.”
After a few whistles and cat calls from the stallions, the ponies began to shuffle slowly out of the room. Pinkie sat patiently on the floor, watching them clear out. It was a little awkward to barge into somepony’s bar and demand “lodging” as Mr. Scribe called it, but she was out of options for the moment.
The singer slowly made her way down the steps, humming to herself. Looking at Pinkie, she stopped, staring wide eyed at her, “Hello. I don’t believe we’ve met. This your first time here, honey?”
“Uh . . . yeah, yeah it is.” Pinkie held out a hoof and the stranger took it. “You must be Jazelle.”
She laughed, just as light and airy as her songs had been. “Indeed I am. And you are?”
“Name’s Pinkamena Diane Pie, but you can call me Pinkie.”
“It’s a pleasure.” Jazelle glanced around at the now empty room. “What brings you to my home, Pinkie?”
Home? She lives in a bar? “Well, my boss, Mr. Scribe sent me.” She drew out the piece of paper Mr. Scribe had scribbled a note on. Despite the temptation, she had not read that bit, only the address and name.
“Hmmm.” Jazelle read the note, nodding as she went. “Pulling on favors like always, Rory. Typical.”
“Rory? Who’s that?”
Jazelle stared blankly at her, “Mr. Scribe. It’s his first name.”
“Rory?” Pinkie giggled at the name. It sounded more than a little old fashioned. “Gee, that makes him sound old!”
“But you must admit, it does fit him. Geeze, he needs to learn to relax.” Pinkie was a bit surprised to see a sad look flicker across Jazelle’s face before vanishing again. “So, you’re friends with Mr. Scribe?”
“Friends might be going a touch far. Rory does not have time for friends.” She huffed, starting towards the bar, “He thinks they tie him down.”
“That’s silly, everypony needs friends.”
Jazelle laughed, pouring herself a shot from one of the bottles lining the back of the bar. “Right you are, Pinkie. I tell him that everytime he comes in here to play for me. He never listens, but I keep him around.”
Play? Pinkie’s ears perked up at the familiar word. It seemed odd to connect it to someone as grouchy as Mr. Scribe. “Like card games or something?”
“No, he’s a musician. And a damn good one at that.” Jazelle sighed, taking the shot in one quick gulp. “He’ll come and play his accordion sometimes, though he’s just as good with the piano,” her head jerked towards the grand piano resting on the stage, “Wish he’d quit that awful job and work for me, but nope, he’s always got something to prove, always has.”
Something to prove? Pinkie was starting to feel like Jazelle was venting her frustrations to her. Normally she would not complain, but she was tired and really hoping for a nice bed to sleep in. “So . . . do you know where I can find a place to stay? Is that why Mr. Scribe sent me to you?”
Jazelle barked a laugh, “Sure do! You can stay with me, Pinkie. I’ve got a spare room I rent for cheap, and Rory knows it. That’s the only reason he’d send you to little old me. Say, why don't you blow out those candles and we’ll head up there to chat?”
Pinkie hastened to do just that, and in a matter of minutes, they were left under the few dim electric lights hanging over the bar. With a quick wink, Jazelle led the way towards the hallway. As she walked, Pinkie could not help but stare at her strangely shaped body. It was like a cross between a deer and some kind of animal she had read about in a travel book. “Say, Jazelle?”
“Yes?”
Her face felt incredibly hot as she stammered the words, “Can I . . . can I ask you what you are?”
Jazelle laughed loudly again. “Don’t be shy, I get that question a lot. I’m an oryx. Sort of like a deer from the same land the zebras come from.”
“Oh, so, what are you doing in Manehattan?”
“I was born and raised here!” Jazelle’s hooves did a lively dance step the until they came to the door by the stairs. “You aren’t defined by what you are, or even by where you come from, Pinkie.” She turned to face her, winking in a knowing sort of way, “What defines you is your character, don’t ever forget that!”
“He, he. Yeah, your character,” Pinkie muttered, following her up the stairs. What was her character? Was she a good pony? In her hometown and on the farm, she had always been seen as one. But, Manehattan was something else entirely. These next few months and possibly years would test her. Test her in ways she never even imagined possible. She could only hope it would be a refiner’s fire.