//------------------------------// // The Acquaintance // Story: Slow Fade // by Bluegrass Brooke //------------------------------// Pinkie could not help but grin all over as she sat behind the desk. The office had been entrusted to her for the whole morning due to Keynote’s doctor’s appointment. Though a little nervous, it felt wonderful to be handed so much responsibility. Using the typewriter used to intimidate her, but, as promised by Keynote, it became second nature. She hummed a tune to the mechanical clicking as she worked. Push the left button to scroll through the letters and the right to confirm. Rinse and repeat. The work had left her so engrossed, that she failed to notice Mr. Scribe standing in front of the desk until he coughed loudly. Pinkie squeaked, sitting bolt upright in her chair. “Yes, Mr. Scribe?” “I need you to cancel my last appointment for the day.” “Your last appointment, sir?” The request, though unusual, would not have concerned her if Mr. Scribe had not looked so tense. “Si-sir? What’s wrong? Is it another meeting with the President?” She refused to call them “lectures” like Mrs. Scribe had. “No, I-I have some . . . unfortunate business to attend to,” he murmured, glancing out the window to focus on the distant buildings still glistening in the early morning sun. Shaking his head, he turned back to Pinkie. “That aside, there is one more task I need completed.” Task? His latest “task” had involved shuffling around boxes of paperwork for over an hour. Lovely . . . just lovely. Still, she gave him what she hoped passed for a polite smile. “Of course, Mr. Scribe. What can I do for you?” Mr. Scribe gave a theatrical groan so uncharacteristic that it sent her into fits of hysterical giggles. “What-what’s so horrible?” she managed, wiping the tears from her eyes. He gaped at her for a moment, before bursting out laughing himself. High pitched, pleasant, and a far cry from any other noise he had made before. The gesture filled her with the kind of warmth that seeped into every fiber of her being. It had not been the laugh itself, but what it represented. That he had the capability to be a happy, normal pony if only she could bring it out. “It’s far from horrible, I can assure you. Quite the opposite, really.” Mr. Scribe glanced at the clock. “When Keynote returns, I need you to drop this document," he withdrew a manilla envelope from his briefcase, depositing it on the desk, “to Milo Coltfax. The address is on the envelope.” “The Milo Coltfax?” Pinkie couldn’t control the squee of delight. “He’s like this super cool legendary prosecuting attorney, isn’t he?” She bounced up and down, scooping up the envelope. “Ooooh! I’m super duper excited to meet him!” Mr. Scribe rolled his eyes, “‘Cool’ is going a touch far, Miss Pie. He’s . . . chipper,” he said the word as if it might give him hives, “but he’s an enemy of Scribe Incorporated, do you understand?” Pinkie snorted a laugh, which made Mr. Scribe look like a dejected puppy dog. “Sorry, but, enemy? Come on, don’t you think that’s a bit much, sir?” “I do not.” He puffed out his chest, though Pinkie could see the doubt flickering in his eyes. “He’ll try to get all ‘chummy’ with you, but you shall remain professional at all times, do I make myself clear?” She saluted, “Yes, sir!” “Good, now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got ten appointments to get to before noon . . .” Pinkie watched him limp out of the office, then turned back to the manilla envelope. Milo Coltfax, eh? Eeeeeh! I finally get to talk to him. The one pony in Manehattan that dared stand up to the President of Scribe Incorporated. I’ve got to learn his secret. “Huh?” Pinkie stood outside the run-down brick building, scarcely believing her eyes. “This is Milo Coltfax’s office?” All visions of marble walls and glass doors had vanished upon arrival at the trash-strewn entry way complete with peeling gold letters at the top of a battered wooden door. ‘Milo Coltfax: Prosecuting Attorney.’ “Just my luck,” Pinkie grumbled, walking dejectedly up the stairs and opening the door. Inside she was greeted by what looked to be the interior of a slothful paper pusher’s filing cabinet. Hundreds upon hundreds of papers, files, wayward folders, and the occasional newspaper were jammed in pillars all around the tiny office to the point where free movement bordered on impossible. There, nestled between two massive stacks sat an ageing earth pony mare, navy hoof tapping a quick tempo as she read. Pinkie shuffled over to her, glad to see another earth pony secretary in the city. “Hiya!” She jumped a little, but held a kind smile as she looked up from the paperwork. “Can I help you, Miss?” “Sure can!” She rummaged in her saddlebags, withdrawing the envelope. “I’m Pinkie Pie, Mr. Scribe’s new secretary. I was sent over to deliver this to Mr. Coltfax.” The mare giggled, holding out a hoof. “Good to meet you, Pinkie. My name’s Quill.” With a grace to rival a professional ballerina, the pony wove her way through the maze of paperwork to stand beside her. “Come along, and mind your step, I wouldn’t want you to trip!” As Pinkie followed Quill she could not help but stare. Here stood a mare with genuine beauty, not the fleeting kind ponies like Mrs. Scribe clung to. Her long, slender legs and graceful neck reminded her strongly of the deer that visited their farm once. Though her silver mane had lost its youthful sheen and lines marred her delicate features, she held a vibrancy that even she had to be jealous of. Quill glanced behind her, “So, you’re working for Mr. Scribe? How do you like it?” “Er . . .” How did she like it? A far cry from rock farming, a different world in terms of ponies, and yet, she could not say she hated it in Manehattan, merely that she could not accept its citizens’ views on life. “It’s . . . all right. Mr. Scribe’s a bit grouchy, but my roommate’s super nice.” “Yes . . . Mr. Scribe has always been on the ‘grouchy’ side.” She sighed, turning back around. “I’ve never seen him smile.” “Oh he can smile! He did today.” Her words had an immediate effect on the mare as she froze in place. The incredulous look plastered on her face was beyond comedic. “He smiled?” “Yup!” Pinkie could not help but feel a touch of pride at that. “Making ponies smile is my special talent after all.” And, given how precious little she used it lately, she would soak it up as much as possible. “How in Equestria did you get him to do that?” “Well, he told me about sending this letter to Milo and he groaned super dramatically. So I laughed, then he laughed.” A small smile creased the corners of her mouth. “So he laughed at Milo’s expense . . .” “Is that bad?” “No, no, Milo will be happy.” Quill started walking down a narrow hallway, humming a cheery tune now. “He’s always wanted to see Mr. Scribe loosen up. Been telling me lately he’s about to call it quits.” “Really?” Pinkie waited as Quill paused by the far door, rapping loudly on its grimy surface. “What?” The gruff, irritated voice took her back a step. “I told you no more cases! And I’m not doing any for ‘charity’ either.” Quill rolled her eyes. “Milo, Mr. Scribe’s secretary is here to drop off some paperwork. Do have the common decency to see her.” His voice changed instantly to one of concern. “Secretary?” The sound of hoofbeats preceded the door opening with a golden aura. “What’s that imbecile thinking sending Keynote all the way—” The middle age unicorn stopped mid-sentence, staring at her as if seeing some kind of apparition. He bit his tongue, then pointed an accusatory hoof at Quill. “Who the hell is this?” “I told you, Mr. Scribe’s secretary.” “Is she the temp?” Deciding to break up their little scrap, Pinkie stepped forward. “Uh, Mr. Coltfax, sir, I’m the new secretary. Keynote’s . . . Keynote’s not coming back to work for Mr. Scribe. I’m Pinkie Pie, her replacement.” Milo raised an eyebrow, “What? She told me two months ago she would be back at work shortly after the baby was born.” “Er . . . yeah, about that . . .” How did she explain the situation? Just as Keynote warned her, everything in Manehattan came down to politics. Surely a pony as intelligent as Milo Coltfax would understand, right? “Politics kinda got in the way.” Both Quill and Milo started to laugh. Milo clapped her on the back with a hoof. “I think we’re going to get along well, kid.” He stood aside, motioning her to sit down at a small couch in the center of the surprisingly clean office. “Come on in, you too Quill. Let’s sort out the ‘politics,’ shall we?” Pinkie giggled a little herself, taking a seat. For once, sitting in a meeting didn’t seem so terrible after all . . . Rory both relished and loathed work. Though he finally had the opportunity to hold a position of authority, every aspect of his life still fell under his father’s control. Freedom? Well, that belonged to those ponies who either did not notice or did not believe themselves under the hoof of another. “Freedom” belonged to those residing at the bottom of the power structure who, in their desperation to blot out reality, turned to labels for comfort. They fancied themselves happy there. Rory did not believe he could ever find “happiness” in such an illusion. The naïve clung to illusions and he clung to facts. Though it pained him to admit it, Rory lived vicariously through those who managed to survive under those illusions. For, if happiness really did exist, it did not stem from the truth. The truth always left one with a bitter taste. Today had been no exception. Despite his desire—or was it longing—to protect Farthing’s happy illusion, he had been personally sent to shatter it to pieces with a sledgehammer. The look on the pony’s face sent chills down his spine as he busied himself with yet more paperwork. ‘There-there must be some mistake! What did I do wrong?’ Nothing. ‘Then why—’ I cannot extrapolate further, Farthing. It was . . . an order from the higher ups. ‘I have a wife and kids! What do I tell them when I get home?’ The truth I suppose, or, another or your illusions. They will like that. ‘Illusions, are they? Just because I see the world for what it could be?’ Rory shook the memory loose, trying to focus on the papers. Judging by the brilliant splashes of red and orange light, it was nearing sunset. Despite that and Keynote leaving for the day, Miss Pie had yet to return. Dufaux’s smug face drifting to the forefront of his mind. Whatever convoluted reasoning he possessed had led the stallion to view Miss Pie as a “handle.” Idiotic notion. As if I’d let anypony, let alone my secretary become a handle. Hell, he didn’t even allow so much as a single personal item in his apartment for fear of future repercussions. In fact, the only personal item he possessed had been stored at Jazelle’s so long it might as well be hers. Rory sighed, surprised at how damn depressed that fact made him. Twenty-four years of living, and only one non-work related item in his possession. Even the vagrants in central park had more than that. As he stared down at the paper, he found himself tempted to draw something to cheer himself up. He stopped halfway to the pen upon the realization that he could not even conjure up a “happy” picture. Farthing’s devastated face remained the only picture he honed in on. I ruined his life. Yes, it had been upon Father’s orders, but in the end, the blame fell on him. Once again, he had destroyed a pony’s happiness with a few simple words. His stomach lurched. Just like Pinkie, I suppose . . . Strange how her name came so natural to him. It had been six months before he bothered addressing Keynote by her name and that had only been because she requested it. So what made this new secretary any different? Rory spun the pen like a top, pondering that question. A rock farmer’s daughter, incapable of basic restraint, but irrevocably kind at heart. No matter how much he scolded her, she always returned the next day with a smile on her face. And, he chuckled, she stood up to Mother. Even Keynote cowered when she walked in, but Pinkie hadn’t backed down. Perhaps it was that fire that drew him in. A quick glance at the wall clock reminded him just how slow he had moved today. Back to work, Rory.  Just as he made to shuffle around yet more funds, his door swung open and Pinkie strode in. “Heya, Mr. Scribe!” Rory raised an eyebrow, “Do you have any idea what time it is, Miss Pie?” “Er . . . seven,” she supplied unhelpfully. “Indeed. And, what could you possibly have been doing for four hours?” “Chatting with Milo and Quill. They’re super duper nice. I learned a lot about . . . legalisms . . .” she trailed off, pawing at the carpet. It took a moment to realize he had been unconsciously glaring at the mare. Shaking his head, he attempted a smile which probably more closely resembled a snarl. “It’s quite alright. I know how . . . charismatic those two can be. Did you get those papers signed for me?” “Sure did!” She trotted over, depositing a small envelope on his desk. “Milo said it was a lousy deal, but that he went ahead and took it for his client anyway.” “How terribly gracious of him,” Rory drawled, picturing the stallion’s ridiculous smile even now. Undoubtedly, that’s how he had reacted. Every time he encountered the prosecutor, it was the same. What possessed him to remain so damn courteous to everypony around him remained a mystery. “Yup. He’s super nice. I’m surprised you didn’t tell me about Quill. She’s the nicest secretary ever!” “Indeed. Well, why don’t you go home and relax? You can get back to work tomorrow.” “Really? Thanks, Mr. Scribe!” As he watched her walk out, he could not help but long for a little more conversation. His interactions with her had been the only positive note of his entire week. Though, she likely thought the opposite of her time talking to him. Rory felt nauseous just looking at the paperwork. In his current state, he could not fathom how he’d finish it all. What he wanted, what he needed was interaction, however fleeting or shallow as it may be. To talk to another pony about stupid, non-work related matters, to make jokes and laugh. “Mr. Scribe?” Pinkie’s tentative voice from the doorway made him jump. “Are you feeling okay? You look really sad. Did something happen?” His heart stopped. She noticed? “Ye-yes. I-Father had me fire one of my best employees today.” “Really? Why?” Rory gritted his teeth. “Punishment. For . . . for my slip up the other week.” Why did I say that? Stupid! To his mixed surprise and trepidation, the mare strode back over to the desk, frowning. “Slip up? What are you talking about?” “I fell down during that hearing. It had been a few hours, I-my leg gave out,” he murmured, cringing. “So he punished you for that?” She stamped her hoof so hard the floor shook. Instinctively, he leaned away from her. “Ye-yes. I . . . I deserved it, I suppose.” “You didn’t deserve it, Mr. Scribe,” she snarled, pinning her ears. “It’s not your fault your leg’s hurt! He should be apologizing for making you stand for so long.” Rory felt his blood running cold. What was wrong with her? “You mustn’t speak of him like that . . .” He shuddered, imagining the damage Storm would do to her if he had heard her. “I’ll call him out as much as I want to!” Oh she had fire all right, but all the wrong kind. He stood, limping over to her. “Pinkie, you can’t talk about him like that,” he pleaded. “He’s . . . he’s dangerous. If he caught you talking like that, he’d take it out on your family.” “What’s my family got to do with my opinions anyway?” “Nothing, but I can guarantee you he’ll make them suffer regardless.” Rory sighed, glancing out the window. “I’ve seen firsthoof what he’s capable of. It’s not . . . it’s not pretty.” Pinkie relaxed, though the fire in her eyes remained. “Fine. But, that doesn’t make him right!” “Is there such a thing as ‘right’ anymore?” His words hung in the air, Pinkie regarding him as if he had lost his mind. “Go on home, Miss Pie, and let me deal with Father.” She slunk slowly to the door, but as she did, a random, stupid urge overcame him. Before he could stop himself, he blurted, “Could I join you?” “Huh?” Rory felt his face heat up. What’s wrong with me? “Sorry. It’s just, I haven’t had a lot of company lately,” ever, “and it’d be nice to hear somepony talk. I could walk you to Jazelle's . . .” For a moment, he honestly thought she would mock him or walk away. Instead, she smiled and nodded. “Sure! That sounds super fun. It gets sooo boring walking back by myself.” “Excellent. I’ll-I’ll just pack up then.” Rory found himself thanking whatever force possessed him to make such a random request. It had been months since he had the simple opportunity to “hang out” with a fellow pony. And, given the fact that this was Pinkie, he might just leave feeling a little better about today’s mess. Pinkie had dealt with a lot of weird happenings since her arrival in Manehattan, but nothing topped walking home with Mr. Scribe. So much as seeing him out of the office before dark had been enough to leave her speechless, but she had to walk the whole way to Jazelle’s at his almost annoyingly slow pace. Of course, he could not help it and she found herself wincing with each jarring step he took. That has to be painful. To break up the monotony, she had punctuated their trip with accounts of her life in Nickerlite, her adventures in Manehattan, and her chat with Milo. Mr. Scribe seemed to like the description of her adventures in the “shantytown,” actually laughing a few times when she went into detail about their cardboard forts. When she got to Nickerlite, he grew rather quiet. From his dumbfounded reaction, he could not believe that she lived a three hour's walk to town. Though, when she spoke about her parents and sisters, he hardened. That left them in a rather awkward stalemate for the rest of the walk. Finally, as they turned into Jazelle’s alley, he spoke almost in a whisper. “How do you do it?” She turned to him, trying to read his almost stoic expression. “Do what?” “Remain so damn happy.” He sighed, looking around the alley. “Manehattan is the worst place in Equestria for a pony like you to be. And yet, here you are acting like nothing is the matter. How can you bear it?” “I . . . I guess it’s my talent.” Seeing his irritated expression, she continued, “Anypony can do it, Mr. Scribe. I’m really nothing special. It’s just . . . just a mindset. You’ve got to start seeing the positives in life and allowing the negatives to roll off you.” They walked along for a little while, then he murmured very softly, “What if there are no positives?” “There're always positives, Mr. Scribe.” He shook his head slowly, “If there are, I cannot think of them . . .” “Oh . . .” She had dealt with a lot of sad ponies before, but Mr. Scribe felt different somehow. A part of her knew her usual pep talk would have little effect on him. “Then you make some positives.” “Easy enough for you to say,” he snarled. Pinkie found herself growing irritated. “Quit talking like that! You’ll never get anywhere with an attitude like that.” “Fine.” Though he glowered at her, he said nothing else the rest of the way. They walked down the incense choked hallway until they arrived at the still empty seating area. Jazelle leaned against the bar, wiping off a glass with a cloth. Upon seeing her, she quite literally bounded over to her. “Welcome back! How was—” She stopped, eyes meeting Mr. Scribe’s. Her voice turned uncharacteristically harsh. “Come to lecture me again, Rory?” He twitched, glancing down at the floor. “No, I . . . I needed some company. Miss Pie agreed to let me walk home with her.” Jazelle regarded him for a tense moment before jerking a nod. “Alright then. But, you’re not sticking around for free. Your accordion's in the back.” She winked playfully, “I expect you to dazzle as usual.” With a soft grumble, the stallion limped away, leaving them alone. Pinkie could not stop the excitement from leaking out. “He’s going to play?” “I believe so.” “Eeeeh! You said he’s super awesome, right?” Jazelle giggled, “That he is, but he does better with some accompaniment. Would you like to sing with us?” “But-but I’m not that good. I’m reeeeeally rusty and—” “You’re not getting out of it that easily, Pinkie. Besides,” her eyes fell to the stage, “I think you might be just what Rory needs right now.” “What he needs?” Jazelle clicked disapprovingly. “You know, for a pony specializing in cheering other ponies up, you’re a little slow on the uptake.”   “But Mr. Scribe hates me . . .” The oryx’s bell-like laugh danced around the room. “Rory isn’t the type of pony who willingly spends time with ponies he hates. The fact that he left work early just to walk you home should be proof enough that he finds you worth his time.” She shrugged. “Who knows, maybe you can join me on his very short list of ‘acquaintances.’” Pinkie giggled, “Acquaintances?” “I told you Rory doesn’t have friends, didn’t I? Acquaintance is all we can hope for.” “Guess you’re right. Acquaintance is better than enemy any day.” Given that she lived in a city of politics, having a powerful “acquaintance” might just come in handy. Pinkie shook the thought away. Great, now I’m getting into politics. Tonight was about making a friend, nothing more, and if anypony in Manehattan needed a friend right now, it was Mr. Scribe.