“Pinkie, what are you doing?”
Pinkie glanced at her mentor, still seated at their desk, then back at Mr. Scribe’s door. “Do-do I have to, Keynote?”
She rolled her eyes, adjusting the pen perpetually stuck behind her ear. “It’s just asking for a signature, Pinkie, not a date.”
Date? A shudder ran down her spine as her mind flashed back to yesterday’s fiasco. Mr. Scribe had just stood there and watched as those creeps jerked her around. So much for chivalry. I definitely don’t want to date him.
“Pinkie?” Keynote stood, walking carefully over to her. “What’s the matter?” She made to raise her chin, but Pinkie pulled away. After a long pause, Pinkie felt the mare’s hooves wrapped around her in a big hug. “Mr. Scribe took you to see Dufaux, didn’t he?”
She could only nod, fighting back the tears. Those stallions that stunk like opium and booze brushing against her coat, Mr. Scribe’s cold stare . . . How could anypony be that cruel?
“It’s alright, Pinkie, it’s alright,” Keynote soothed, rocking her like a foal. “The same thing happened to me.”
“It did?”
“Mmmhmm. But, you know, those ponies never harassed me again.”
Pinkie pulled away, searching Keynote’s soft eyes for sincerity. “Why?”
“Mr. Scribe calls it a ‘test.’” Her ears lowered. “Though it’s a no good, lousy trick if you ask me,” she snarled.
The question that had been swimming around in her mind for days bubbled to the surface. “What if they kept going, Keynote? You know, really . . . really tried to hurt me,” she breathed. “Would Mr. Scribe have stopped them?”
Keynote looked genuinely taken aback. “I-I don’t know . . . He-he’s not a . . . not a—”
“Nice pony?” Pinkie supplied dryly. “Yeah, I kinda got that much.”
“You shouldn’t say that, Pinkie. He’s,” she bit her lip, glancing at the office door, “he’s never learned how to be good. After working for him for a few years, I’ve started to wonder if . . .”
“If what?”
“It’s nothing much . . . I doubt you’d understand.”
The blood rushed to her ears. Why did everypony around here assume she was dumb or oblivious just because she chose to think of the positives? She pulled away, glowering at Keynote. “Don’t coddle me.”
“Fine.” Keynote motioned her closer, voice lowering until Pinkie could barely make it out. “After you scared him like that the other day, I started to put the pieces together, and . . . I’m wondering if he had some trouble in the past . . .”
Her blood ran cold. Trouble? “Wha-what kind of trouble, Keynote?” She gasped. “He wasn’t in the mob or something, was he?”
“No, I doubt that. Though,” Keynote sighed, lowering her ears, “all the time I’ve known Mr. Scribe, he’s always been . . . ‘off.’ A normal pony would never be able to dream up half his schemes. You’ve seen how he manipulated the situation with your family’s farm just to make you miserable.”
The weight of his body on hers, his hot breath against her cheek . . . Pinkie felt unwelcome memory choking her once more. “Not a normal pony, huh? Yeah . . . I kinda agree.” No normal pony took pleasure in hurting someone they never met before. “He’s messed up.”
Keynote’s reply came out almost bitter, “If he is, it’s by no fault of his own.”
“What do you mean? Everypony’s responsible for their own actions!”
“Yes, but . . .” She glanced at Mr. Scribe’s door, then turned back to her. “Have you met the President?”
“No.” What’s he got to do with anything?
“Pray you never do.” Keynote visibly shuddered. “Storm Scribe is the worst pony ever to darken the earth with his shadow. He has no concept of compassion, no moral inclinations. The only business he concerns himself with is furthering his own agenda."
“What—”
“Listen, Pinkie. I am not denying that Mr. Scribe is responsible for what he does. However, I know more about him than you and . . . he’s not a bad pony.” The mare’s voice softened to a nearly motherly tone. “He has a good heart, and, under any other circumstances, I believe he would have turned out just like you or me. But, how can we expect him to treat any of us with kindness, respect and compassion if he’s never been shown it himself?”
Pinkie lowered her ears, “I’ve shown it to him plenty of times, Keynote! And I’m sure you have for ages now. If he really was a good pony, he’d learn a thing or two.”
Silence, then Keynote shook her head. “Pinkie, you grew up with a good family and so did I. We can’t understand how difficult it is to break years of conditioning.”
“If he really wanted to change, he could. He’s just making excuses to be mean.”
“Let me put it this way, Pinkie.” Keynote leaned against the filing cabinet. “Have you ever been to a greyhound race?”
“Er . . . no.”
“Well, those dogs are born athletes with the potential to do a great number of things. They are often kept in small kennels, and let out only for the races.”
Pinkie’s heart sunk. “And those ponies get away with that?”
Keynote shrugged, “Yes, but that’s not the point. All those dogs have an amazing amount of potential and not just for racing. However, they’ve lived their entire lives in crates. So, when they are given a little bit of freedom, they tear up the courses and make money for those very ponies who keep them trapped inside that kennel.”
“That’s awful,” she squeaked.
“Yes, but they don’t see it that way. You could give them the option to run from the track, but not many would take it. They consider the track ‘freedom’ and cannot even begin to comprehend a life without it or their crates.”
“So . . . you’re saying Mr. Scribe’s like those dogs?”
Keynote smiled sadly. “Yes. I imagine his father treated him much like those dogs as a colt. His whole world has always revolved around the President and the President’s goals. Working in his own department is the closest thing to freedom that stallion’s ever known.”
She took a long, slow, breath before continuing, “It doesn’t matter how much kindness we show him or how much we introduce him to the world outside. If he doesn’t believe he has the freedom to act of his own accord, he never will.”
It made sense, but the pill was a bitter one to swallow. “So there’s nothing we can do?”
“No . . . not really.”
The door swung open and they both jumped. Mr. Scribe’s unamused expression greeted them. “What are you two doing? I’m not paying you to loiter about!”
Keynote nodded, flying back over to the desk. That left her rooted to the spot, staring into the eyes of the last pony she wanted to talk to. Still, she had a job to do. “Could you sign this paper?” she squeaked, holding out the small letter.
Mr Scribe grumbled something along the lines of, “wasting my time,” but signed the paper regardless. “There, happy?”
“Yup.” No. Her eyes fell to his briefcase resting on the floor. “I thought there weren’t any more meetings today.” It was nearing five o’clock, after all.
He sighed, looking out the window at the evening commute. “Not a meeting, Miss Pie. I have an appointment with Father to discuss . . . something.” With that, he scooped up the briefcase and strode to the door. Pinkie could have sworn she heard him mumble, “Whatever the hell that is . . .” before he left.
Pinkie looked at Keynote, receiving a shrug in return. Great, now she could add ‘forgetting’ appointments alongside ignoring potential rape to Mr. Scribe’s long list of transgressions. And to think after this Friday, she’d be dealing with Mr. Moody all by herself.
The President’s office of Scribe Incorporated lived up to its owner’s reputation to say the least. An ostentatious display of superiority had collided with the stallion’s unyielding ruthlessness to great effect. The black marble walls of the expansive office shone in the late afternoon sun, yet another reminder of the last pony he wanted to talk with.
Walking—he dare not limp—to the desk, he regarded the secretary. As cold and unfeeling as Storm, the elderly unicorn never ceased to make his blood run cold. She regarded him out of the corner of her eye and Rory understood it as all the acknowledgement he would receive from her.
Without another word, he went to the sturdy mahogany door and knocked. A green light surrounded the door as it swung open. Rory dared not hesitate, though his entire body felt numb as he entered.
He stood on the plush emerald carpet, focusing his attention on the unicorn juggling five sheets of reports. Don’t interrupt. If one rule had been drilled in his head from foalhood it was that. So Rory waited, standing as still as his quivering limb and exhaustion would allow.
Time passed as his father’s “test” wore on. After almost fifteen minutes, Storm Scribe lowered the papers to his desk. Then, with that superior smirk he reserved for earth ponies, he drawled, “Good of you to show up, Rory. You’re at least fifteen minutes late.”
Rory twitched. I was here on time and you damn well know it. But, this office belonged to his father, and, as such ran by his rules. “Yes, President.”
Storm Scribe leaned forward, levitating something from his drawer. With a jerk of the head, he motioned Rory closer. Reluctantly he joined his father, glancing at the newspaper article resting atop the desk. His blood ran cold. I though he wasn’t bringing that up again . . .
“What is this?” Storm’s voice kept its artificially patient air.
“A news article about . . . about my slip up the other week. I didn’t think they’d write one so long after it happened though.” Look him in the eye, Rory, look him in the eye. The longer he stared at the unfeeling emeralds, the more his confidence shattered.
“I have addressed this issue in the past, Rory. Do you recall the condition I had for hiring you?”
“I-I . . . yes, sir.”
“Well?”
“I’m never to go to the hospital or doctor regarding my leg and,” he gulped, forcing himself to focus on Storm, “I’m not to show my disability to anypony, particularly the media.”
“Exactly,” Storm purred. “Tell me now, how did this,” he pounded his hoof against the desk, sending an echo throughout the office, “happen?”
“I was . . . sick, sir.”
Storm shot to his hooves so suddenly, Rory jumped instinctively backwards. All trace of collection had vanished, replaced by a familiar, manic glint. “Sick? Are you that pathetic? I don’t do around collapsing when I’m sick!”
Your leg’s not smashed to hell . . .
“Let’s try this again. Why did you collapse, Rory?”
“I had to stand for the whole hearing, sir. Between that and the new hours I—”
“So it’s my fault, is it?” Storm’s voice continued to crescendo. “Is it my fault you lack the ability to deal with a little pain and perform the essential functions of your job?”
A little pain? A little pain? What did that bastard know about the agony he endured day after day? The words left before he could stop them, “I wouldn’t have any pain to deal with if you hadn’t done this to me in the first place!”
Oh hell . . . It took all the courage he had left not to cower as Storm walked around the desk. He lowered his head, allowing the wickedly sharpened point to glisten in the sunlight. “What was that, boy?” he snarled.
“Sorry, sir, I—”
There was no time to react. With a flash of magic, Storm knocked him to the ground, pressing all his weight on the leg. Under any other circumstances, he might have been able to internalize the pain, but the shock and force of it all made that quite impossible. He let out a unmasked scream of agony, writhing under the unrelenting pressure.
“You were born a cripple, just as you were born an earth pony. You’re as good as a carthorse’s bastard to me, boy! Despite that, I have so graciously given you a position of power in my company. Then you have the gall to suggest that it is my fault you cannot tolerate a little pain? You don’t know what pain is,” he snarled pressing against his leg still harder until Rory felt it might snap. “This is pain! Know the damned difference.”
With that, the pressure released. Rory lay on the ground, sobbing like an idiot. Storm’s cold voice rung in his ears, “You will not repeat your mistake again. Do I make myself clear?”
“Ye-yes, sir,” he gasped. For a moment that felt like an eternity, he lay there, struggling to rise. By some miracle, he managed to stand and limped towards the door.
“Rory?”
Rory turned slowly around, glowering at his father. “What? You’ve proven your damned point.”
Storm’s horn lit up as a small vial arched into the air and froze a few inches from his muzzle. Rory took it, reading the label. Morphine? “Sir?”
“This is all you will be receiving from me. I will not hear of another incident again, understood?” Rory jerked a nod, starting to move when Storm cleared his throat. “One more thing. You will fire Farthing tomorrow.”
“What?” He can’t be serious! Farthing had to be the best financial consultant out there. If it had not been for him, several of their multi-million dollar projects would have tanked by now. “He’s far too valuable to dismiss, sir.”
Storm Scribe smirked. “You should have thought of that before you gave us your little ‘display,’ Rory. Tomorrow, and you shall do it yourself, is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.” As fast as he could given the circumstances, Rory limped out of the office and down the hallway. Once he had made it well and clear of his father’s office, he sunk down, leaning against the wall.
Carefully, he lifted his sleeve and examined the damage. No bruise, but the top of his leg felt swollen. No broken bones. Celestia knew how he would have managed a broken bone on top of everything else. Bone did not heal overnight, and, with the constant strain on his legs, it would be months before it even had the chance to.
Groaning, he pulled out the vial. Morphine, huh? It had been the first serious painkiller he ever received and for that he was grateful. However, its effects would be too strong to be of use during the day. At least he would be able to sleep now . . .
Pinkie balanced the pencil on her muzzle, glancing around the spotless office. Thanks to her motivation and Keynote’s efficiency, they had completed their duties for the day. However, Mr. Scribe never allowed them to leave early unless he dismissed them personally.
Due to the wait, Pinkie happily chatted away with Keynote until the heavily pregnant mare had become too tired to keep the conversation going. So they sat in their respective chairs, watching the minutes tick by on the clock.
Then, with a crack like thunder, the door swung open. What the? Mr. Scribe never opened the door like that. Sure enough a pony that was most definitely not Mr. Scribe strode inside the room. Pinkie could only gape at the newcomer.
The palomino unicorn’s coat and mane had been brushed and oiled until it quite literally shone. The frizzless hairs, detailed makeup, and the long, summer dress she wore fell nothing short of perfect. However, the cold, condescending glare put Pinkie immediately on edge.
“Where is he? I would speak to him at once,” she commanded with all the air of a Queen addressing the serfs.
Keynote slunk forward, ears lowered submissively. “He’s out, Mrs. Scribe. Had a meeting with the president . . .”
Mrs. Scribe? She’s his mother? Pinkie found it quite hard to see any family resemblance other than the attitude.
“A meeting with Storm?” The mare gave an icy laugh. “My he does flatter himself. As if Storm has time to meet with him and chat. I’m tired of you sugarcoating the truth, Keynote.”
“But he—”
“He’s gone to get a lecture which he no doubt deserves.” Mrs. Scribe huffed, striding across the room to the window and showing off her long legs and absolutely perfect figure. “I can wait until he returns.”
From the incredulous look Keynote shot her, Pinkie guessed this was far from ordinary. Pinkie almost swore the tension could be cut with a knife. Maybe her optimism would come in handy after all. She bounced over to the newcomer. “Soooo, you must be Mr. Scribe’s mom. I’m Pinkie Pie, his new secretary.”
Rather than taking the hoof she extended her, Mrs. Scribe wrinkled her muzzle in obvious disgust. “I do not shake hooves with whores.”
What? Did she just call me a whore? Pinkie bristled but forced herself to remain calm. “I think you must be mistaken. I’m a secretary, not a lady of the night.”
Keynote clapped a hoof to her face, moaning. “Pinkie, leave her alone . . .”
Mrs. Scribe however, leaned in, sneering, “Please, as if Rory would hire a pretty young earth pony for anything but that.”
“I’m a secretary!”
“Ooooh, secretary by day, whore by night. You do get around, don’t you?”
Pinkie never imagined a creature as beautiful as her could be so vindictive. Apart from that initial “incident,” Mr. Scribe had shown absolutely no interest in her as a mare. And yet here this complete stranger walks in and acts as if she’s been fooling around with him the whole time.
The mare gave a high pitched laugh that sounded closer to a cackle. “He must pay you quite well. I can’t imagine a cripple's very good in bed.”
“I’m not sleeping with him!”
“Then you’re telling me he hired you for your skill as a secretary? Please, look at that ludicrous cutie mark.” She gestured to the balloons as if they were some kind of lewd sign. “Please, you think you’re qualified to be a secretary? He just hired you for your loose morals.”
A familiar, snide voice drifted over from the doorway, “You’re one to talk about loose morals, Mother. What was the name of that prized model of yours that got knocked up by her hairdresser?”
The mare practically growled, striding imperiously over to Mr. Scribe. “You’ll not mention that . . . bitch in my presence.”
To Pinkie’s amazement, Mr. Scribe backed his mother into a corner, ears pinned flat. “And you’ll not speak to Pinkie in such a manner. Miss Pie is the best secretary I’ve had, and I’ll be damned if I hear one more accusation against her honor in my office!”
The mare looked practically murderous, but, simply nodded. “Very well.” Her eyes narrowed to slits, “That leaves the other issue at hoof. You’ve cut my modeling fund.”
“On direct orders from Father. I had no say in the matter.”
Mrs. Scribe opened her mouth, but her son cut in, “I won’t be ‘intimidated’ by the likes of you, Mother.”
Every one of them jumped when he raised a hind hoof and kicked the wall so hard it left a gaping hole. “I may not be as ‘convincing’ as Father, but I don’t think you want to be behind one of my kicks.”
Without another word, she glided out of the room, casting one last venomous look at Mr. Scribe before leaving. The stallion strode over to them, looking fundamentally spent. “Well, that was quite the show, eh?”
Keynote jerked a nervous nod, eyes still focused on the wall. “Yes, sir.”
Pinkie flinched when he walked over to her. “Are you alright, Miss Pie?”
“Uh-huh. Why-why was she like that anyway?”
Mr. Scribe sighed, glancing back towards the door. “Mother is always like that, Miss Pie. You’ve done nothing wrong, I can assure you.” He made to walk back to his office, but paused, turning to face her again.
The soft, almost caring smile he wore made her heart lurch. “Ah . . . I-I wanted to . . . to apologize about yesterday, Pinkie. It was wrong of me to,” he gulped, “leave you to those ponies.”
Pinkie? He never called her by her name. That coupled with the shock of his apology left her speechless. All she could manage was a small nod.
Mr. Scribe bit his lip, as if contemplating a rather difficult problem. “Please be . . . please be careful on your way home from now on,” he breathed.
“Why—”
“There are a lot of cruel ponies in this world, Pinkie. I shouldn’t wish for you to become acquainted with them as I have.” With those parting words, he returned to his office, leaving them alone once more.
Keynote walked over to her, looking as if she had just chatted with a ghost. “Did-did you see that, Pinkie? He apologized and called you by your name.”
Pinkie smirked playfully. “Maybe he’s finally starting to see outside the track.”
“Maybe, maybe . . .”