//------------------------------// // The Right Thing // Story: Slow Fade // by Bluegrass Brooke //------------------------------// Pinkie had heard a lot of awful sounds in her life, but nothing compared to Mr. Scribe’s shrieks of pain as he lay on the street. The noise set off primal warning bells to run or she’d be next. Still, she had to at least check him over.   Heart still racing from adrenaline, she knelt beside him. The pony’s shrieks had become a sickening groan. Why had he even come this way in the first place? Unless . . . unless he knew she would be attacked. No, that didn’t make any sense, did it? “What are you doing here?” He looked up at her, eyes unfocused. “Saving you . . .” So he had known these goons would come after her. Pinkie felt an uncharacteristic rush of anger towards the stallion. Just like him not to mention a little detail like her being the target of an attack. An attack likely instigated by his actions. The longer she stared at him, the less she wanted to help. Why not let him have a taste of his own medicine? He certainly hadn’t earned her help. Her eyes fell to his obviously broken limb . . . his good leg. The fracture had to be pretty bad judging from how noticeably the bone jutted out. Right above his knee too. It had to be painful. She reached out a hoof, stroking it gently. Mr. Scribe let out a loud squeal, pulling away. Fine, see if I care! She shot to her hooves. “You need to go to the hospital.” I’ll go find somepony to take you there, then I’m gone. “No,” he moaned. “I can’t . . . Father will . . .” “Will what? Find out you’ve been a bad boy and have another ‘meeting’ with you?” She knew in an instant she had gone too far. Rather than a response, Mr. Scribe began to shake so badly she thought he might have a fit. He looked up at her, eyes filled with an unnatural, gut churning fear. Then, the conversation from Jazelle’s resurfaced once more and it all made sense. Her blood ran cold, legs growing weak. “Your . . . your dad a-abused you, didn’t he?” Mr. Scribe cringed, looking away. Then, slowly, he nodded. Pinkie’s heart stopped. What kind of stallion abused their own colt? If Pa had hurt her like that . . . well, she wouldn’t have stayed around the farm, that’s for sure. Though, the amount of fear and pain in his eyes told her that now was not the time to be digging up old bones. “Why . . . why can’t you go to the hospital?” “He’d . . . he’d hurt the doctors or their families . . . force them to keep quiet, you know?” He groaned, resting his head on the filth strewn street. “I’m not worth that . . .” Sounds like he’s as bad as Dufaux . . . She sighed, looking down the now deserted alleyway. Nopony around to take over, and she very much doubted anypony in Manehattan would want to help Mr. Scribe in the first place. “Do . . . do you have somepony I can get to help you?” Of course, she knew the answer before he shook his head slowly. His breaths grew more shallow and she could tell from her own body, the adrenaline must be wearing off. Regardless of his going to the hospital or not, the leg would swell fast with that kind of fracture. Slowly, she got to her knees, and began to undo his suit. He glowered at her, but was either too weak or disoriented to protest. “Sorry, Mr. Scribe, but I need to get this off before it swells too much.” It took a little maneuvering, but she managed to slip both the suit and his shirt off. What she saw underneath made her sick. His bad leg had not just been broken in one spot, but the entire limb more closely resembled a gnarled tree stump of old injuries. Moving upwards, she noted thin, eerily similar scars running across his chest as if somepony had taken a blade and slashed him again and again. His continued shaking made her cringe. If she was not careful, he’d go into shock. “Come on, Mr. Scribe, we’ll get you to Jazelle’s.” He lifted his head, looking at his side before slamming it down again. “Can’t . . .” “Sure you can. Come on, I’ll help you up,” her voice faltered as his breaths came even slower. Could pain kill a pony? She hoped not. “Mr. Scribe, please get up . . .” No answer. “Rory, get up,” she demanded. This time it worked as he rolled upright, placing his front hooves in front of him. His attempts to push himself off the street resulted in another squeal of pain. Pinkie got to her hooves, motioning for him to try again. On his second try, she helped him stand, though he nearly fell over when his hooves took the weight. Doing her best to support his left side, she turned to him. “Come on, we’ll just get you to Jazelle’s, then it’ll all be okay.” He shook his head, “No . . . my-my place is closer.” “Uh . . . okay.” The thought of Mr. Scribe living in this part of town might have been funny under different circumstances. As carefully as possible, she started off down the street with her employer. A part of her dreaded his usual cold observations, but they never came. Instead, he silently pressed his lathered side to her own and limped along without so much as a snide comment. That was a blessing considering their painfully slow progress. Generally bad fractures didn’t send Pinkie into a panic, but the fact that Mr. Scribe had a fracture on his weight bearing limb came close. Despite taking over half an hour to walk to the dingy apartment complex, he had managed not to fall even once. Her eyes fell to the building in front of them, frowning. “You live here?” It looks like Dufaux’s den . . . “Yeah,” he breathed through clenched teeth. Shrugging, she helped him up the rickety staircase, avoiding the sundry piles of trash and rats scurrying around the place. They stopped in front of his apartment door and realization struck her. “Er, Mr. Scribe do you have your key?” In response, he pointed to the symbol painted on its surface in what looked to be blood. An S scrawled over an eye. “Father’s love note,” he murmured. “Huh?” He turned the knob, opening the door into what looked to be a bottomless pit until he flicked on a light switch. Despite being a decent-sized room, Mr. Scribe had almost nothing in it. The only objects she noted were a dusty bookshelf in the corner, a wooden stool, and a grungy old lamp casting a meager halo of light in the otherwise pitch blackness. How was the place so dark anyway? Her eyes scanned the room, falling to an off-color portion of the far wall. What in Equestria? The windows had been completely coated in what looked to be tar and blackened still further with heavy darkout curtains. Sheesh, and I thought Maud was a night owl . . . Before she could register the room further, he dragged her inside, slamming the door shut. She opened her mouth to protest further, but stopped upon seeing the nervous expression plastered on his face. “This isn’t the place to be loitering in the hallway, Pinkie.” “Er . . . okay.” For a moment, she stood there in silence as he continued to lean against her. “You sure you don’t want me to take you to the hospital?” He hung his head, limbs shaking. “No-no . . . but, could you set the leg?” She grimaced, looking down at the now terribly swollen limb. “Sure, but we should clean it first so I can bandage it after.” Without any protest, he walked with her down the narrow hallway and into the shower room. In the almost normal light, she could make out just how filthy they were. Her own hooves were coated with the ever-present Manehattan filth as well as a small quantity of blood. Thankfully, the shower’s tile had been covered in a non-slip rubber mat. Mr. Scribe didn’t even complain when she started to hose them both off or when she scrubbed off the filth coating both their legs with the soap. After a good ten minutes of scouring, Pinkie declared that they were tolerably clean. Though he winced when she rubbed the hairs on his leg dry, he remained silent. Judging from the determination plastered on his ashen face, it was his way of dealing with the pain. He leaned against her again as they walked out. Mr. Scribe’s bedroom easily won the award for world’s most boring room in her book. A run-of-the-mill bed with grey blankets, a forlorn lamp, more darkout curtains, and an endtable with a few bottles of medicine were the only objects inside it. She helped him onto the bed, watching him lay on his side. His breaths had only grown more shallow, occasionally looking as though he might stop breathing altogether. Reaching out, she began to feel his limb, noting where the break had occurred and examining how best to set it. Setting bones was nothing new, but it always made her nervous. Best to get it over with quickly. Without warning him, she placed her hooves at the appropriate points and set the bone back in place. The expected squeal of pain sounded, though much softer than it had come earlier. He glanced back at her before resting his head on the blanket. “Thanks,” he murmured just loud enough for her to hear. “Sure.” Pinkie rested her hoof on his withers, feeling his entire body shaking like mad. It did not take a doctor to know the stallion needed medicine. “Hey, Mr. Scribe, do you have something for the pain?” His eyes fell to the endtable. Trotting over, Pinkie took a long look at the various bottles of over-the-counter pain medications. Her stomach dropped at the sheer number of pills, some spilled out onto the wood, others filling the bottles. Behind them however, one bottle stood out to her, a small prescription vial. Picking it up, she read the label. Morphine. Well, if anypony needed morphine right now, it was Mr. Scribe. Grabbing it and the syringe beside it, she came back to him. A quick glance at the label indicated the dosage was by weight. How much did he weigh? Considering how his ribs stuck out, she very much doubted he weighed more than her. Guess I’ll go with my weight. Before he could complain, she drew the appropriate amount out and injected it. He twitched, head wheeling around. “What did you give me?” “Morphine,” she sang innocently enough. “I can’t . . . I have work tomorrow . . .” Seriously? “I think this counts as a valid excuse not to come in, Mr. Scribe. Besides, you can’t walk on that leg, not for a few days at least.” Instead of another lecture, he rested his head once more. Pinkie sighed, stroking his still quivering sides. Give the medicine time to work. In the meantime, she would get him some water and supplies to splint the leg. As she started to the door, Mr. Scribe’s voice stopped her in her tracks. “Pinkie?” “Yeah?” “I . . .” He flushed, looking down at the leg. “Thank you . . . I-you didn’t have to do this.” Pinkie giggled. “Of course I didn’t have to, silly. But, I wanted to because . . . because it’s the right thing to do, I guess.” His hollow laugh echoed around the room. “‘The right thing?’ You can’t believe in that.” Pinkie bit her lip, walking out the room. The right thing . . . Did such an idea even exist in Manehattan? Even helping Mr. Scribe seemed more of a grey area. Of course she had helped somepony in pain, but, wouldn’t it have been more helpful to take him to a hospital for real treatment? Who defined the ‘right’ course of action in those kinds of situations? She sighed, walking slowly to the kitchen. Forget about it, Pinkie. Just do what you’ve always done and it’ll work out, it has to . . .