//------------------------------// // The Game // Story: Slow Fade // by Bluegrass Brooke //------------------------------// Manehattan never slept, but the night invariably brought out the worst in ponies. What stayed hidden in the shadows during the day became perfectly acceptable during the night. Rory never found it disturbing, merely fascinating. A collision of moral obligations with the carnal desires of the flesh. So he watched them as he did every night on the way home. The nameless faces did not acknowledge his presence, due to either fear of his position or a silent acceptance as one of their own. More than once he had been tempted to stop, if only for a bit of conversation. But, what conversation could one have with an addict but their addiction? He needed no more temptation to join them. Rory envied them in a way. He knew they felt no pain, held no cares but for the next shot, the next bottle, the next high. All blissfully unaware or unconcerned with the mechanisms that ran this hell hole they called home. How he longed for such ignorance, craved the freedom they possessed in spades. The freedom to do what they willed and the freedom not to care about the consequences. He paused outside his red brick apartment complex, once again reminded of how dreadfully gloomy its chipped stone and peeling paint made it appear. The inside stunk of booze and trash, and, judging from the crescendoing voices in 2-A, they would be treated to yet another visit from the police. Groaning, he limped up the flight of rickety stairs to his own flat. The dim electric lighting of his home illuminated the nearly empty room. Spotless as ever, but without so much as a single personal item. Just the way it needed to be. No possessions, no leads, no leads, no handles. His eyes fell to the kitchen, but he shook his head. He ate enough thanks to Miss Pie’s obsession with feeding ponies. Though, the muffins had been a most welcome treat. Rory could not remember how many months it had been since he ate something as frivolous as baked breakfast pastries. He glanced at the utilitarian wall clock above his bedroom door. One o’clock. He had to be up in four hours. That thought alone set his stomach churning. However, there remained more work to be done. Reluctantly, he carried his briefcase over to the small bookshelf stacked with financial textbooks. Pulling the correct volume, the lock released, and he stepped into his real work space. The walls of the converted walk-in had been plastered with papers, photos, news clippings, reports, and whatever other information he needed. Hundreds of strings wove an intricate tapestry that in essence highlighted every political connection that mattered in Manehattan. And today Miss Pie had granted him the opportunity to add a few more. The game was afoot, and Rory very much doubted he would get any rest tonight. “You're leaving next Friday?” Pinkie exclaimed, nearly dropping the stack of notebooks in her hoof. Keynote nodded, “Yes, well, the baby’s due in three weeks and my term of employment ends next week.” Her heart skipped a beat. “But that means I’ll be in charge of,” she gesticulated wildly around the office, “all this. What if I mess up?” “Then Mr. Scribe will correct you as he did to me.” Correct me? Pinkie grimaced at the thought of being on the receiving end of yet another of Mr. Scribe’s lectures. “He’s been super cranky lately, Keynote. What if he just explodes at me or something.” Keynote raised an eyebrow, “Mr. Scribe does not ‘explode’ at anypony, Miss Pie, he threatens. Which—if you want to know my opinion—is far worse.” Pinkie set the notebooks on the desk. “Was he always this grouchy?” Pinkie’s mind flashed back to the past three days following Mr. Scribe around to various meetings. The stallion had not spoken a single non-work related word to her, and even those were few and far between. She closed her eyes as if lost in thought. “Well . . . no. He’s generally much more forgiving.” “Forgiving?” “Well, he’d be irritated, but he didn’t go lecturing me as he’s been doing to you lately. I think his new responsibilities are getting to him.” Or his hours . . . Pinkie had never seen a pony function so well on so little sleep. “Guess I’ll just have to turn his frown upside down, won’t I?” Keynote gave a weak giggle, “Perhaps.” The door to the office opened and Mr. Scribe walked weakly inside. He seemed a touch surprised to see them. “Keynote? Miss Pie? What are you doing here? It’s nearly six-thirty.” “Finishing up some paperwork, sir. But, it’s done now,” Keynote added as if Mr. Scribe had demanded why it took so long. Mr. Scribe nodded, waving his bad hoof to dismiss them. “Then leave, I’m not permitted to pay you overtime.” Keynote grabbed her saddlebags and trotted out of the room leaving Pinkie alone with Mr. Scribe. Just as she started out the door herself, he held out a hoof. “Just a moment, Miss Pie.” “Yes?” Please no more paperwork! For once she wanted to start her weekend at a reasonable hour. “That third acquaintance I had you deliver the letter to, do you remember him, yes or no?” Third acquaintance? Her heart skipped a beat. Dufaux! “Ye-yes.” “He has invited you to attend the races this Sunday with me.” This Sunday? “But I’m—” “At this point in our relationship, it would be considered quite rude to refuse.” Mr. Scribe leaned in closer eyes deadly serious. “I should not like to offend a pony like him.” Pinkie gulped nodding. “Okay, guess I can go . . .” “Excellent.” He stood straight, walking towards her office. “Eleven o’clock sharp, Twelfth Street Downs. Don’t be late.” “I won’t.” Pinkie watched him leave, pit forming in her stomach. What business did a mob boss have with her anyway? Then, a new, strange thought crossed her mind. Going out to the races with Mr. Scribe on a Sunday. Did that count as a date? Her hair bristled at the thought. Mr. Scribe had to be the last pony in Equestria she wanted to go on a date with. Twelfth Street Downs turned out to be quite the interesting set-up. Nestled between a bed of skyscrapers, bordered by two incredibly busy streets, and somehow maintaining the feel of a better, bygone era. Pinkie’s heart leapt at the only patches of grass she had seen in Manehattan outside of Central Park flanking a massive stone entryway with multi-colored flags. Maybe her optimism had gotten the best of her, but she looked forward to exploring the place in closer detail. Though, true to her word, she’d meet with Mr. Scribe. I wonder if he dresses the same when he’s not at work . . . Her question was answered almost immediately upon spotting Mr. Scribe standing sullenly next to the entrance. Well, I guess it’s not exactly the same. The stallion had omitted his usual suit jacket, wearing a sleek dress shirt the exact same shade as his eyes and a boring brown tie. Not exactly ballpark getup, but at least he made some attempt. She trotted over to him, putting on her best grin which he returned with his characteristic scowl. “Good morning, Mr. Scribe!” “Is it?” he said in a mocking tone before starting off without a word. His eyes flickered to her mane for an instant before looking straight ahead. “You left it down.” Not a compliment, but not a complaint either. Pinkie almost giggled when she realized what he was trying to do. “That’s not how you have small talk, Mr. Scribe. It’s more like this,” she marked pace with his uneven gait. “Sooo, you’re wearing a green shirt, that’s pretty cool. You know, I think it really suits you. Why don’t you wear them more often?” Mr. Scribe just stared wide eyed at her as if she had lost all sanity. But, he stammered, “I-I don’t want to look like Father.” “Oh! So he wears green a lot?” “All the time,” he snarled, looking around at the gathering crowd they were now walking through. After a few minutes of walking—or in Mr. Scribe’s case—limping through the covered entryway and betting booths, they came to a sunlit passage and strode into daylight once more. Pinkie gasped before she could stop herself. The grassy track had been lined with a beautiful white fence that wrapped its way around a grassy field in the center. Bleachers on either side of the passageway though old, sparkled in the midday sun like diamonds. Of course there were a lot of ponies clad in business suits and a few shabby looking ones lining the fence, but that did not stop her from admiring the view. “Are you coming, Miss Pie, or do you intend on gawking all day?” Mr. Scribe had already started up the stairs on the left bleachers. Pinkie trotted after him, catching up in no time at all. As they climbed the stairs, she noted for the first time how wickedly warped Mr. Scribe’s leg was. It did not only bow out to the front, but bumped and jutted at odd angles all the way down, looking like some foal’s jigsaw puzzle gone wrong. Mr. Scribe followed her gaze, then turned away as if embarrassed by it. “Sorry. I-I should have probably worn the jacket. Just, it was hot and—” Pinkie giggled, dismissing the thought with a wave of her hoof. “You don’t have to be sorry, Silly. I’m sorry for staring. It’s just . . . I guess I can understand why you walk like that better now.” Mr. Scribe nodded, still avoiding eye contact. “I wish I didn’t,” he breathed. They continued up and up the bleachers for a few minutes at Mr. Scribe’s painfully slow pace. But, eventually they came to a large box where the two sides of the bleachers intersected. Here they stopped, and Mr. Scribe knocked on the door. It swung open to reveal the same slick maned stallion that had greeted her and Quill at the opium den. He nodded, stepping aside. Reluctantly, Pinkie followed suit, hoping rather than believing it would be an enjoyable time. Rory hated the very idea of working alongside Phillippe Dufaux. However, at this stage in the game, he needed the kind of leverage that only a mob boss wielded; somepony to go outside the law when the situation called for such measures as often it did. To this end, he had set out to align himself with the one boss who had the guts to defy his father on a regular basis. Unfortunately, Dufaux enjoyed a particularly frustrating game of his own. One based on false civilities and ‘events’ meant solely to size up whoever peaked his interest that undoubtedly had been his motivation behind dragging him to this glorified casino. What worried him more was that he insisted on his bringing Miss Pie. Oh, he knew exactly why he did it; to test if this new secretary was a ‘handle’ of his. The same test had been done on Quill, and he had no doubts he would pass with Miss Pie. Rory did not hold on to anypony, especially not some secretary. For the first half hour or so, Dufaux paraded him around to his various contacts. False introductions were given with false smiles and he moved on. The crowded room stunk slightly of Dufaux’s specialty product, though the amount had no real effect other than causing a headache. It did not take an expert to see Dufaux’s purpose with it, and Rory took satisfaction in not jumping at the bait. His leg hurt, but he’d saw it off himself before he took to opium. Dufaux had finally permitted him to rest on one of the lounges, and Rory took the opportunity to analyze Dufaux’s words. The stallion wanted him on his side, wanted him like a stray dog longed for a bone. Having a powerful inside connection with Scribe Incorporated had been a dream of his for years. But, Rory knew he didn’t trust him, not yet. A probationary period to judge his sincerity, that’s what this amounted to. The obese stallion went on and on about his athletes, bragging on his ability to fix the race however he wanted. All steam, trying to see how easily impressed I am. Pathetic. You’ll have to do better than some cheap races to get my attention. Rory inwardly groaned as Dufaux began yet another speech on his ‘operations’ in the east side. I don’t give a damn about your opium dens . . . A high pitched squeak jerked his attention to Miss Pie. The mare’s ears were lying flat against her head as three of Dufaux’s ‘companions’ harassed her. He had to sit on his tail to prevent it twitching irritably. The poor girl likely didn’t know how to deal with idiots like them. They were giving her a hard time too, harder than they had for Quill. Though he tried to drown out their jeers and her protests, it proved nearly impossible. Focus, Rory, focus. She can take care of herself. She’s a rock farmer after all. One good kick would silence them. But he knew better than that. Knew that she feared him more than she hated them and would not dare lift a hoof against the ponies he had been trying to get an in with. For some stupid reason, that reality tore at his heart worse than it ever had with his other secretaries. The girl’s optimism had proved incredibly annoying, but he hated to see it quelled by a few low lifes. Let her dream for now, the truth would come to her in time. For the next hour and a half, he endured mob politics, gambling, opium smoke, and the constant harassment of his secretary. All the stress had started to make him nauseous. He should be resting in bed as he did every Sunday, not listening to all this. Deciding to put his hoof down, he turned to Dufaux, “Forgive me, but I must leave. I have a personal meeting to attend to, and I imagine my secretary would like to go home.” Though he looked severely put out, Dufaux waved a flabby hoof, “Very well, my boy. I look forward to hearing from you soon.” Rory jerked a nod striding as confidently as his leg would allow outside the door, Miss Pie hot on his hocks. After they had gone a few steps, Miss Pie turned to him. Though her ears were pinned and she practically quivered with anger, a large quantity of tears had flooded her eyes. “Why didn’t you do anything? You saw them, why?” Don’t look at me like that. Rory cringed, looking down at the ground. “It’s all part of the game, Miss Pie.” “Well it isn’t funny!” Before he could caution against showing any sign of weakness, the mare took off at a dead gallop. Rory didn’t even humor the possibility of going after her. He had not even trotted in four years, let alone run. His ear swiveled behind him as Dufaux made his way towards him. “My, my, my. Miss Pie seemed quite upset. Whatever did you do to her?” Rory wheeled around so fast that Dufaux actually took a step back. Realizing his reaction, Rory quickly turned back, restoring the façade. “I wonder,” he growled. “You know, I found myself quite fond of that secretary of yours, quite fond of her indeed. My friends especially . . .” Though his voice remained as light as always, Rory could practically feel the venom in them. “I do so hope she is okay. A pretty mare wandering around the streets by herself, who knows what might happen.” Rory grimaced, feeling his limbs shake as Dufaux’s hoofsteps faded until he returned to the box. His heart pounded so fast he might be sick. Nopony had yet dared to touch his secretaries, knowing they would get no reaction out of him. For Dufaux to come out and announce it like that . . . He saw her as a handle, he had to. Why? She was just another secretary; a useful one, but still an employee, nothing more. Rory limped down the bleachers, dying to get home and forget all about this mess for a few blessed hours. No matter how much his mind tried to focus on Dufaux’s connections, it always fell back to the mare cringing in the corner. Stallions ought to protect mares, but he had just stood there and allowed her to be harassed, as good as abandoning her. What kind of stallion am I anyway? Light from the setting sun shot through the alleyway, transforming its filth coated surface into a fiery stream. The natural gilding did not impress Rory in the slightest. He, like the rest of Manehattan knew better than to see a shady back alley for anything more than what it was. Pretty much sums me up. The longer he stared, the more his resolve wavered. His stomach churned in an unwelcome display of nerves. What’s wrong with me? Why had he come here in the first place? He should be at home resting his dangerously swollen leg. Instead, he had come all the way out here to apologize. Apologize for something he could not stop, and could never change. Still, he felt inexplicably obligated to do so. With a deep, collected breath, he opened the door and stepped inside. Rory nearly gagged as the incense laden air obstructed his senses. Leave it to Jazelle to quite drown her clients before they even got to the bar. Rory limped along the hall, veering off into the empty seating area. Candles of varying sizes rested on shelves and littered the tables, though they had yet to be lit. Jazelle stood in the far corner by her low-lying stage, adjusting the knobs on an outdated sound system. True to her nature, Jazelle had herself so absorbed in her work that she did not even register his approach. Rory paused a few feet away, clearing his throat. The oryx did a pirouette right into her stage. Then, scrambling to her hooves, she turned to face him. “What’s the big—” Her challenging glare melted into stunned disbelief. “Rory?” Rory could not help but grin at his friend’s idiotic expression. “Really? Who else would I be?” Without so much as a warning, Jazelle bounded over until her muzzle was inches from his. She gave a scream of delight, prancing in place like some over-excited filly. “It’s so good to see you! Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for my musician.” His stomach lurched. Music . . . In it he could escape from reality and forget who he was and to whom he belonged. Jazelle understood that well enough and always encouraged him to come out. And yet, with work the way it had been, even a few minutes were too many to spare. “I-I’ve been busy.” Jazelle snorted, “You’re always busy, Rory. What’s new?” “I-I . . .” Those understanding eyes of hers drifted to his swollen limb as they tended to. “What did you do to yourself?” Jazelle breathed in that soft, almost pleading way she used whenever discussing his leg. “Father. He’s . . . he’s having me add fourteen more hours on. That on top of meetings and running my department. I’ve hardly had time to sleep, let alone lie down.” Jazelle stared piercingly back at him, “Rory, you need to quit. You should have quit years ago! I keep telling you to come play for me. You know I wouldn’t let you starve.” The mention of food made him tense. “I’m not some damn stray, Jazelle!” “Rory, please, I’m not saying that. I just want you to be happy. You’re miserable and you’re working yourself to death!” “I’m not-not miserable,” the words came out as fragile as butterfly wings. “I can’t . . . I . . . I have never known happiness, not in the way you have. If I started now and lost it . . . it would hurt more.” Jazelle pinned her ears, “You’re a damn fool, Rory Scribe. Maybe you are a stray, sticking around some drunk hobo that beats you. And for what? You don’t gain anything from it!” Rory gritted his teeth, turning to leave. “I’m tired of you pretending to understand me.” “Well, somepony has to try!” He started back the way he came. Just a foolish idea. What had he to gain from coming here? Jazelle’s hooves clattered as she closed the distance, blocking his path. “What now?” he growled. “Why’d you come here if you didn’t want a lecture? You know I give you one every time you drag your sorry ass here.” No avoiding it, huh? “I came to apologize,” he flatlined, watching the surprise ripple across her dainty features. “To Miss Pie.” Jazelle mouthed something before managing, “What did you do to her?” Rory rolled his eyes. What? Am I a serial tormentor of mares now? “How would you imagine me capable of doing anything like that to her? She’s a rock farmer! Celestia, the only reason I pinned her down in the office was surprise.” Oops. “You what?” Rory flattened his ears, feeling his face heat up. “Well . . . I-I wanted her to know her place—” Jazelle’s voice rose to an earsplitting level. “No. You wanted to intimidate the girl! How could you act like him? After what you’ve been through . . .” “It’s all I’ve ever learned! How do you expect me to repay kindness when all I’ve ever been shown is hate?” Rory felt his heart racing out of control. What did she know? What did any of them know? “Cruelty is the only way ponies will listen to me, Jazelle.” Her ears drooped even lower than normal as she turned away. “No, it is the only way you are willing to try.” She sighed heavily, “Leave, Rory.” He did not hesitate for an instant, walking as quickly as his bad leg would allow. This whole idea had been a waste of time and energy. There was nothing to apologize for. I am the way I am. She’ll need to learn that herself. Starlight draped herself across her expensive chaise lounge, paging through her magazine with a frown. The new girls were decent, but they did not have the ‘flair’ she needed to one-up that upstart bitch at Prescott’s that had yet to learn her place. Given time, she would learn the hard way as her predecessors had before her. Her eyes fell to the golden clock above her mantelpiece. Midnight. He should be back soon. She glanced around at her bedroom, admiring the various fineries her money and influence had brought her. Even her four poster bed had elegant gold and silver leafing winding its way up the carved surface. My soul for a kingdom, she mused to herself. How dreadfully poetic. The sound of a door opening some distance away announced her estimate had been spot on. She watched the figure glide down the hallway, onyx coat nearly hidden amongst the shadows. “I would have a word,” she demanded, rather more imperiously than usual. A stallion formed from the darkness as he stepped two strides into her room. Two strides and never a hoof more. His attempt at mimicking respect failed miserably. No, he granted her the space as one grants a tiger its cage. “What?” he growled, cold eyes darting around the room, them back at her. “You don’t stay up this late.” “Well, I don’t usually have to speak with you, now do I?” Starlight laced the words with her own brand of honey, the kind that she knew irritated him to no end. How she savored it! “You’re—” she paused, deciding against the first term, “the treasurer has cut my modeling budget. I thought you were keeping a better eye on him.” Storm stamped his hoof so hard the floor shook. “I keep him well under my hoof, mare. It was by my orders he did so.” “Whatever for? Prescott’s had hired earth pony models, swaying my customers with his so called ‘equality scheme.’ How am I to top it if you won’t let me hire earth ponies as well?” “That scum Prescott can do as he pleases. I shall not sully Scribe Incorporated’s public face for the sake of your ‘fancies.’” He wheeled around, stopping when his body had almost been devoured by the shadows. “Your funding will return when you restore your profits.” With that, he left, as silently as he came. Starlight shut the door, careful not to slam it. That would have been quite the foolish mistake on her part. Sighing, she strode over to her bed, sliding under her silk sheets. As expected, Storm would not make a move. However, he was not the only pony who could bend their ‘treasurer’s’ hoof. Starlight giggled to herself. Quite literally.