//------------------------------// // The Other Talent // Story: Slow Fade // by Bluegrass Brooke //------------------------------// Chapter 4 - The Other Talent Ponies continually sought friendship knowing full well that their existence remained as fragile and fleeting as a spring frost over Central Park. Such idealistic notions of companionship and trust shattered like a cheap liquor bottle against the unavoidable wall of reality. As his father demonstrated time and time again, fear and coercion had a cataclysmic effect on such “unbreakable” bonds of loyalty. Rory long accepted that no colt or filly in the school would ever approach him as a friend. In their minds, angering him very well might translate into poking the dragon of Scribe Incorporated with a stick. Even the dimwitted masses were not so naïve to Storm Scribe’s unquestionable authority in Manehattan. Horror stories pulsed through the papers on a weekly basis. Families torn apart and scattered to the wind, blacklisting for jobs, and the list went on. It sounded all too overblown, but Rory wholeheartedly believed them and so did the others. As a reflection of their fear, not a single one of the fillies or colts even considered the possibility of bullying him. After all, one wrong move and their family could lose everything. Sometimes Rory longed to understand their world, to be included in whatever interactions that made the cogs of their daily lives turn. But such musings proved as futile and fleeting as grasping the wind. For the present, his place was on the side, living vicariously through the lives of his classmates. “Rory.” Rory twitched, recognizing their teacher’s airy voice. He looked up from his favorite spot under the oak tree to be greeted by Miss Twinkle’s over-large glasses. The elderly mare had a habit of popping up and irritating the hell out of him whenever he searched for peace and quiet. “What?” “You ate your lunch already?” Rory rolled his eyes. Would it kill her to change her spiel? “Yes, Miss Twinkle.” His hoof patted the empty paper sack beside him. The bag had not seen a crumb of food in two months, though she didn’t need that little detail. “I snuck some during class,” he added in his best apologetic tone. The routine never ceased to make the poor sap fold. “I see.” Her lavender eyes drifted to the large polo shirt covering his sides, “Are you sure you’re getting enough to eat?” “I’m sure.” Sure I’m not. Rory watched a nearby filly trotting towards her friend, carrying a giant apple in her mouth. Why must she parade it around like that? Sighing, he patted the texbook resting between his hooves. “I’ll be fine, Miss Twinkle. I need to study this bit,” he prodded the passage on Time Square’s history. “It’s rather important.” “Good to hear you’re keeping up your studies, Rory.” A broad smile stretched across her plump faced, causing her to resemble a rather delighted golden chipmunk. “I just wanted to check up.” Rory nodded, a holding a smile of his own, as gaudy and false as the gilding on his father’s department stores. The moment she turned away, it broke into its usual frown as his attention fell to the afternoon display. Whoever invented lunchtime was either an idiot, or a mastermind preparing the next generation of thieves and backhanded business ponies that made up Manehattan’s life blood. More corruption could be documented at the lunch circle than at any other point in the school day. Be it for good or ill, the schoolyard ran on an ever-shifting power structure Rory documented daily. Today’s development turned out to be Base Clef’s basket of homemade cookies which he promptly distributed to the members of the band table. Pathetic, there’s no point in wasting your assets on those imbeciles. The trick to power, at least in the schoolyard was kowtowing to the right ponies when you had the currency. Those connections and favors proved valuable assets when the need arose. Food was certainly the primary means of currency, but grades played a significant role as well. Whenever the obligatory pre-test panic washed over his classmates, Rory would suddenly come into existence again. He quickly capitalized on the opportunity, and, unlike his classmates, he kept records of everything. The favors proved useful when he needed food after Mother forgot to feed him or during his “fasts” resulting from one blunder or the other. There were no tests in the near future and though his stomach ached from hunger, he refused to waste any of his currency. He had eaten yesterday evening, he could wait, he always did. Wait and watch the wheels of politics turn. As long as he played his cards right, they would continue to turn for him. ‘Ponies are the same wherever you go, Pinkamena.’ The parting warning from her mother had proven itself more than a little difficult to believe. Selfish when they should be selfless, angry when they should be reasonable, secret when they should be open, and rude when they should be polite, Manhattanites represented everything wrong with the world. And, Mr. Scribe stood as a monument to just that. The cold-eyed stallion left no quarter for “emotions,” preferring instead to drive progress with subtle slights, barked orders, and the occasional threat. It took the heart right out of her, and Pinkie knew it did the same to Keynote. Was it really so much to ask for a kind word now and again? Apparently so. As the days passed, Pinkie began to take note of the stallion’s distance. Not a single casual exchange, not so much as a hello for two weeks. His isolation meant little to her at present, but it stung whenever she imagined the next few years working alone without so much as a professional nod. Of course there was always paperwork. Hours, and hours, and hours of paperwork. That and errands, lots and lots of errands. Today's happened to be fetching two boxes of typewriter paper. Keynote turned to her in the elevator, “Pinkie? What’s wrong?” “Nothing much, just wondering.” “About?” Pinkie bit her lip, watching the little dial point to the floor numbers as she did whenever she took the boring ride up to the seventeenth floor. “Mr. Scribe. Why hasn’t he talked to me? Did I make him mad or something?” Though, as far as she could tell, he resided in a perpetual state of anger. Keynote giggled, adjusting her bun. “I highly doubt that. I’m still here to take the blame, remember?” Pinkie winced at the statement. It might be true, but that didn’t make it fair to Keynote. The mare deserved a lot more credit than she had received so far. “It’s my fault. I mess up a lot,” she mumbled. “I know, I know. And, deep down, Mr. Scribe knows. It’s just,” she sighed, pawing at the box lying on the carpet, “he doesn’t understand how to treat ponies. It’s almost like he doesn’t know how to talk about anything but work.” “Really?” “Really? I’ve never heard him mention anything about his personal life. And if you want to know the truth,” she lowered her voice to a near whisper, “I don’t think he has one.” She snorted, rolling her eyes. “Everypony has one.” “Not Mr. Scribe. You’ve seen his schedule, you know what it’s like. I’ll bet you anything he doesn’t leave the office until at least ten o’clock, and you know he’s always there before us.” “Wah? Really?” A small pit formed in her stomach at the thought of working so long in a place like this. Her Dad worked a lot, but he loved his job, anypony could see that. Mr. Scribe? Well, Pinkie was beginning to wonder if he loved anything at all, especially his job. When the elevator stopped, they scooped up their respective boxes and shuffled over to the office. Keynote started when she looked up at the clock. Pinkie followed her gaze and gasped. “Wow! Is it almost eleven thirty already?” “Yes,” Keynote began to prance nervously, “I’m supposed to meet Erlenmeyer for lunch.” “Then you’d better go,” Pinkie started to push her to the door, “married ponies should go on lunch dates every now and then. I’m sure you’ll have a ton of stuff to talk about.” “Okay, but can you handle things by yourself?” Her eyes darted to the mountain of papers yet to be filed. Pinkie gave her a sharp salute, “No problem, boss!” She watched until her friend reached the door. Just as she opened it, Keynote stopped cold, taking a step back. Mr. Scribe walked in, eyeing them with his usual suspicious glare. “What’s the rush?” “Oh, she’s just meeting Erlenmeyer for lunch!” Pinkie trotted over to stand beside Keynote. If the past few days at the office had taught her anything it was that Keynote really appreciated backup when it came to confronting Mr. Scribe. “I’m going to work on paperwork while she’s gone,” Pinkie added as an afterthought. For a second, it seemed as though he might protest, but he merely nodded. “Very well, Keynote, I’ll expect you back within the hour.” “Of course, Mr. Scribe.” With that, she practically flew out of the office, leaving them alone. Pinkie stared hard into Mr. Scribe’s eyes. Did She dare ask him? Well, it wouldn’t hurt. “Did I—” “—Can you remain silent?” Pinkie’s stomach dropped, watching the stallion stare blankly back at her. Wow, he really must be annoyed with me. “Sorry,” she squeaked. He cocked his head, “For what?” “For talking so much . . .” “That’s not what I meant.” His eyes fell to the pile of paperwork on the desk, “Can you remain quiet for a meeting? I need somepony to takes notes . . .” Pinkie gave an involuntary jump of delight which nearly set the stallion on his haunches. “Yes! Wooo! Does that mean I get to work with you for the rest of the day?” “I suppose i-if that’s what you want,” he stammered, avoiding her gaze. “Do I ever! Give me a sec.” She rushed over to the desk, shoving some paper onto the clipboard, sticking a pen in her bun, and returning in a matter of seconds. Apparently satisfied, Mr. Scribe nodded, turning around and walking out the door. Pinkie followed him eagerly out to the hallway. Keen not to blow her one chance at getting to know him, she kept silent. He seemed to like that, at least he seemed marginally less irritable when she kept her thoughts to herself. Though, it was incredibly frustrating, especially considering how slow they were walking. As they went down the hallway, her eyes fell on his leg. Keynote’s assumption proved true after all. Even the tiny concussion from their hooves against the plush carpet resulted in Mr. Scribe wincing and jerking his leg up. The end result was a jerky, over-exaggerated knee action that looked just about as painful as she imagined it felt. They got into the elevator in silence as he pressed the appropriate button. Unable to control herself any longer, she blurted out, “What’s wrong with your leg?” The words immediately sent Mr. Scribe into an irritated scoul. “None of your damn business,” he snapped. “Oh . . . okay,” she murmured, avoiding the ever-present glare. What’s the point in trying? The only language Mr. Scribe ever acknowledged was that of silence, curt replies, and cold stares. Manehattan had long-since adapted it as a kind of standard. Ponies aren’t the same everywhere, they can’t be. Rory so detested meetings. Not that they fell under the category of “unnecessary,” just that they consistently wasted his time. What they discussed revealed but a minute glimpse of what festered under the surface. When it came down to it, agendas for the business translated directly into individual agendas. If he read between the lines, combining those hints with the facts he gathered, a pattern would emerge. Today however, that pattern remained as clear as mud. After two solid hours of back to back meetings, Rory began to doubt even his focus. Last week’s slip up cost him more than he imagined. Instead of a much needed respite, he was left scrambling to complete the same amount of work while simultaneously juggling the additional conferences. Thankfully, they had about a half hour before the next one and had taken the opportunity to rest in the lounge. A quick glance at his secretary revealed what he already knew. “Are you leaving me, Miss Pie?” “Huh?” She looked up from the chair across from his. “Naw, I’m just,” letting out a huge yawn, she pointed to the clipboard, “organizing stuff.” Rory sighed, rubbing his temple. “Stuff?” “Yup a doodles, all kinds of businessy stuff.” Businessy stuff? I’m too tired for this. Rest, he should be resting. “Cut to the chase, Miss Pie.” Once again, she shot him a perfectly blank expression. Must I explain everything? “Show me the notes, Miss Pie.” “They’re not ready yet.” She clutched the clipboard like a firstborn child. “Please, they can’t be that bad.” “Er . . . okay then.” The clipboard soared his direction. Out of instinct, Rory reached out and caught it smoothly. He almost laughed at her dumbfounded expression, but that would hardly constitute professional conduct. His eyes met the paper and widened, “Miss Pie, what pray tell, is this?” “What?” Rory raised the board, prodding the childish doodles with a hoof. “It’s nonsense! How do you expect me to make use of this? What about the data? How am I supposed to use the numbers if you neglect to write them down?” The mare rolled her eyes clean over. “I have the numbers!” “I don’t believe you,” he deadpanned. “If you know them, then tell me how much the Ulan research cost the company last month.” “One thousand, two-hundred and twenty-three bits,” she chimed, smug look plastered on her face. What? Rory blinked, “What about court fees for last month?” Pinkie rolled her eyes, “Three-hundred, eleven bits.” “What was Roth’s proposition?” “To cut the pay of the research managers and apply it to the new research project.” Rory couldn’t believe his ears. “So, you memorized it all? Everything?” “Yup a doodles!” “Is that some kind of special talent?” She giggled, waving the thought away with a hoof. “Not really, just, I’ve always been good at memorizing stuff. Seems silly to write it all down, you know?” “I suppose . . .” That memory of hers would undoubtedly come in handy, all that remained was to harness it. His voice took on a commanding tone, “Miss Pie, from now on, you will record everything and I mean everything you remember from these meetings.” She moaned, running a hoof across her bun, “Why?” “You might be able to memorize everything, but I sure as hell can’t.” “Urgh, okay then.” Without a moment’s hesitation, she snatched up the clipboard and began to write furiously on the paper. Good, now I can get some rest. Rory closed his eyes, willing the pain to dissipate and knowing full well it would remain. At least there was some comfort in the fact that he would not have to focus entirely on the meetings. This new secretary might prove herself useful yet. Work on the rock farm ran from sunup to sundown six days a week. Despite that, their parents always emphasized the importance of a solid night’s rest and good food. Pinkie always imagined that was the practice everywhere, but Manehattan quickly proved her wrong yet again. She flinched as the clock above Mr. Scribe’s door chimed nine. The day’s notes had turned into a mountain rather than the unassuming stack it started its life as. By the time they returned to the office around six, Keynote had left for the day. Mr. Scribe demanded she remain to finish up the notes. Normally, Pinkie would have protested, but, if they were not compiled tonight, she might mix the names and words around. Five meetings were enough to confuse even her near perfect memory. With a satisfying clink, the pen fell to the table. “There! Finished.” Eager to actually get home, she scooped up the papers and trotted over to Mr. Scribe’s office. A dim light danced off the walls of his spartan office, making it even more depressing than usual. She made it nearly to his desk before Mr. Scribe seemed to notice her. He dropped his pen quickly, sitting up straight, “Finished?” “Yup!” Pinkie scooted the papers onto the desk, trying not to topple over her hard work. “Can I go home now?” Knowing Mr. Scribe, Pinkie had expected a curt reply, instead, the stallion stared blankly at his desk. “Mr. Scribe, can I go?” “Sorry, Miss. Pie. Thank you. I-you can go home now.” “Sure.” A sudden, unfamiliar urge washed over her as she stared at her employer. Throughout the day, Mr. Scribe’s leg appeared to be the only thing bothering him. Now, that didn’t appear to be the case. Pinkie knew about physical overwork, it happened all the time to her father, but she never considered the possibility of mental overwork. “Maybe you should go home too.” He looked up from his papers. “Huh?” She pointed to his quivering hooves. “You’re in pain, you’re tired, and you’ve been around work for too long.” “I know,” he mumbled, pushing aside the financial reports. “But what am I to do about it, Miss Pie? I’ve been ordered to increase my hours, Father expects me to perform all my Treasurer duties on top of these blasted meetings, and I’ve my own people to manage.” An unfamiliar, almost pleading tone took over. “I need rest, but I can’t afford it, Miss Pie. There’s nothing you or I can do about it. So please, leave me be.” Pinkie opened her mouth to argue, but stopped herself. What would yelling at the stallion accomplish? Reality didn’t break down because of a few motivational words. From Mr. Scribe’s description, the situation appeared nearly impossible to change, at least at present. “Did you eat something?” His ears perked up, “What did you say?” “Did you eat something? It’ll help you focus more if you do.” “Why would you ask that?” “Just, I haven’t seen you eat anything all day. You’ve got to be hungry, right?” “I uh,” Mr. Scribe tapped the desk, softly with a hoof, “I haven’t felt like it.” Pinkie leaned in close, setting him back in the chair. “That’s when you need to eat the most. If you don’t you’ll get really sick. Dad passed out once because he didn’t eat anything all day.” “I’m used to it.” She rolled her eyes, “Really? Wait here, okay?” Before he could protest further, Pinkie darted out of the office, grabbed her saddlebags, and cantered back over. “Here we go!” He raised an eyebrow, “Come to show me a motivational rock?”  “Nope.” She nuzzled open the bag depositing a bag on the table and a small jug. “There we go! I made some muffins with Jazelle this morning. I didn’t finish them, so they’re all yours. Try one, they’re good!” Rather than looking surprised, or offended as usual, Mr. Scribe looked genuinely embarrassed. “I . . . I’m all right.” “Nope, not getting out of this one. Try it!” He opened the bag, pulling out a chocolate muffin. His eyes fell to hers in an unamused expression. “Healthy, Miss Pie.” Pinkie snorted, “They’re not supposed to be healthy, silly. Go on and eat it, it’s a treat!” “I . . . I don’t like eating in front of ponies,”  he murmured. Huh? “Why not?” “I have-have to bring my face to it or pick it up with my hooves  . . .” “So? You’re an earth pony, that’s normal.” Mr. Scribe’s ears lay flat, as his face grew even redder. “Not-not for my family. They don’t appreciate my eating like that.” Pinkie never fathomed that any pony would starve themselves simply because they didn’t like the way they ate. How silly is this guy? “That’s stupid! Here, I’ll eat with you.” She picked up the muffin, splitting it into two even pieces. Leaning forward, she took a big bite out of her own. “There, nothing to it!” The hesitation in Mr. Scribe’s eyes almost scared her, as if he expected to be struck down where he stood for committing such sacrilege as eating like a normal pony. “Mr. Scribe, I won’t tell anypony you know.” He nodded slowly, and ate the muffin as she had. After he swallowed, he glowered at her. “Happy?” “Yup!” Pinkie hopped over to the door, humming as she went. “Don’t forget to finish them, Mr. Scribe.” “Sure, whatever.” Pinkie’s pace slowed as she left the office towards the elevator. Something about their conversation sent an icy chill down her spine. Why did he resist eating so much? It was obvious he was hungry. Geez, did he think I was going to laugh at him or something? What am I, five? Rory stood outside the door to their apartment, legs quivering. School had let out late, and that would undoubtedly lead to a barrage of accusations. There was no use fighting the inevitable, so he opened the door and crept inside. He walked down the hallway, head hung low. His stomach ached at the smell of casserole. Glancing inside the kitchen, he noted his mother setting it on the table. Her eyes met his, daring him to ask. “You’re late.” “Yes, mother. We had a meeting after school to plan the carnival.” “Carnival? What a waste of time.” Storm’s cold voice made Rory jump. The stallion pushed him to the side with a hoof and strode over to Starlight. “Go to your room and finish your homework, Rory.” “Yes, sir.” Of course he finished his homework at school, but arguing with him would be the worst possible move to make, especially if he wanted to get fed tonight. “I’ll do that.” As soon as he entered his room, he jumped on the bed, pulling out his treasure from underneath the pillow. Most colts in school found the mouldering adventure book written some hundred years prior to be a snorefest, but Rory knew better. It served as a gateway to another time and place, away from the monotony of school and life at home. Two hours passed before the doorknob shone in Starlight’s amber magic. The mare sniffed in that haughty manner she reserved especially for Rory and her business rivals. “Come.” Rory leapt off the bed, trotting to keep up with the tall mare’s slender legs. Her coat glistened like spun gold in the dim light of the living room, a sure sign that another modeling shoot was happening tomorrow. “So, you going to shoot tomorrow, Mother?” “Indeed.” They moved to the kitchen and Rory stood in his spot on the tile, fighting the urge to see what she was getting. Mother hated to be watched, a fact he learned the hard way. There was a soft chink as his dish was levitated to the tile. Rory frowned, noting that there was even less than this morning. Still, he would not complain. He stuck his muzzle into the plain oatmeal like the dog the metal dish was designed for. In a few seconds, he finished, licking the bowl clean. He looked back at the mare and she took the dish in her magic, tossing it to the sink. “Disgusting, eats like a cow,” she murmured under her breath. Rory flinched, but said nothing. His eyes fell to the magically locked fridge where the rest of the casserole probably was. “What are you looking at, ingrate?” “Nothing, Mother.” She sighed theatrically, “Honestly, you’re such a glutton, Rory. Though I suppose it comes with the territory . . .” The words stung, but Rory kept silent. There was no point in fighting it. As long as he could remember, his parents refused to allow him to eat with them. They used to allow him to eat at the table by himself. Father suggested the dish a few months ago, and Rory hadn’t been allowed to sit at the table since. “Thank you mother.” Of course, he was anything but grateful for the amount he received tonight, but if he neglected the courtesy, she would “forget” the following evening. He turned around, walking back to his room, planning on reading the section about the fruit trees one more time before bed.