[Soooo, as you may know, I actually cancelled Slow Fade. However, I was sitting in my room tonight being sick and thought to myself, "Heck, why not?" So . . . since I had the inspiration, I wrote up this chapter for you all. It was written late at night, so I apologize in advance for grammar issues. There's probably a lot. Lol.]
Rory did not know what was worse; lying on his cot pleading for the hunger pains to subside all the while knowing no food would come or staring at a completely edible loaf of bread without so much as they jaw strength to chew it. He glanced around the repurposed office, illuminated solely by the late-afternoon sun sneaking through the grimy window. It reminded him distinctly of Milo Coltfax’s deplorable breeding pit for mice he called an office. To think that his secretary did not even bother with common maintenance. Pinkie wouldn’t dare let the office get like that . . .
Shaking the thought loose, Rory turned back to the small loaf of bread and pitcher of water before him. He had drained the pitcher, twice. Thankfully, the guards had allowed him as much as he could stomach which, given his heavy dose of medicine, was a blessing. Generally, Rory protested such liberal use of medication as it merely expedited his fast-growing resistance to any such substances, but not anymore. He would not have cared if they funneled arsenic down his gullet. That at least would deprive Father of the punishment he held so dear.
Rory proceeded to soak the bread in the pitcher, hoping that it would soften it enough for even his teeth to handle. As he waited, he watched a small sparrow perch on the windowsill. A conversation with Keynote almost a year ago came to the forefront of his mind.
“Ah, Mr. Scribe! Have you ever seen anything so precious?”
Rory turned to regard the pair of sparrows staring intently through the glass of the office. “‘Precious’ is not the word I would use given the situation . . .”
“I wonder if they’re looking to settle down. Do you think they’ll nest outside the office?”
“Good Celestia I hope not. I can’t stand birds.”
“Why ever not?”
“They’ve been given all the blasted freedom in the world and yet they choose to squander it living in the most deplorable filth imaginable.”
“Well, did you ever consider that they stay around for our benefit?”
“What ‘benefit’ do we derive from them, Keynote? Refuse on our windowsills?”
She giggled in that disconcertingly carrying way of hers. “Mr. Scribe, honestly. They bring us a bit of cheer, don’t they? I think that’s more than enough benefit.”
“And I think you’ve low standards, Keynote.”
The sound of the door opening brought his attention back to reality. One of the guards stepped in. Good Celestia, what does he want at this hour? “Yes?”
“There’s a pony to see you.” He looked as if he wanted to drag Rory out by the scruff of his neck, but seemed to rethink that upon examination of his legs. “I’ll bring him in then.” With that, he left the room.
“Right . . .” Rory waited as the sounds of whispered conversation drifted in through the open doorway. Finally, a single pony strode inside.
Rory did not know who he had expected. Pinkie? His lawyer? But he most certainly did not consider the possibility of Milo Coltfax visiting him. The unicorn gave a quick survey of the room before stepping slowly over. Rory did not know the stallion on a personal level, but he thought Coltfax looked unnaturally nervous. He rolled his eyes. “I don’t bite, you know.”
Coltfax chuckled nervously. “I suppose not. Sorry. I—I hope I’m not intruding.”
Intruding? I’m a prisoner, not a doddery old mare taking her tea . . . Rory shook his head, pushing himself up to a slightly more dignified position on the cot. “What business do you have with me, Milo?”
He took a long, slow breath before stopping just in front of him. “I’ve been watching the trial.”
“Figures you would . . .”
A distinct note of hurt found its way into Milo’s eyes. “I . . . I . . .”
“What? You telling me that I should think Manehattan's ace prosecuting attorney wouldn’t be following the case of the century?”
“No, no. It’s just . . .”
“Just what?” Rory snapped.
Milo pinned his ears in the most aggressive gesture Rory had ever seen him use. “Cut the crap! Do you want my help or don’t you?”
Help? The word stung worse than his legs. As if Milo Coltfax wanted to help the likes of him. “A dirty rotten joke to play on a cripple, don’t you think, Milo?”
“A joke?” Yet again, the note of hurt resurfaced. “Boy, I don’t want to play a joke on you! I honestly want to help.”
Rory felt his temper rising, likely due to the agony, though he’d be the last to admit it. “Why? You’ve never ‘helped’ me before!”
“Because I . . . I . . .” Milo froze for a long moment, breathing heavily as if the question had been a serious accusation. “I don’t like to see an innocent pony put up for that filth’s crimes, okay?”
“In-innocent?” Of all the ponies in Manehattan, he believed him? Rory felt an uncharacteristic surge of emotion. First anger that he had sunk so low to need Milo’s help, then frustration at the hopelessness, then hope so powerful he nearly cried. Crying in front of Pinkie was one thing, but him? That was not acceptable. He bit his lip, staring at his misshapen limbs. “Okay,” he breathed.
Milo cocked an ear. “Come again?”
“I said . . . okay. I’ll . . . I’ll take your help. But what can we even do? Father’s . . . he’s always one step ahead of me.” Too tired to maintain a semblance of dignity, Rory rested his head against the pillow.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I’ve gotten ahead of him a time or two.” The encouraging words were lost to Milo’s uncertain tone. “We’ll find evidence . . . somewhere.”
“Evidence?” Why was that word so resounding? Then it hit him. He lifted his head quickly, immediately regretting it. Wincing, he managed to choke out. “I have evidence. Lots of it.”
Milo’s eyes glinted with a predatory hunger Rory could admire. “Really now? Where? Is it safe?”
“Oh, it’s safe . . . But I won’t tell you where. Ponies could be listening.” He looked around the room, spotting Milo’s briefcase by the door. “You’ve paper?”
Jerking a nod, Milo trotted over to retrieve a pad and pen from the case. He placed it gingerly in front of Rory—taking note not to brush against his legs by accident. Rory appreciated the gesture, almost smiling. Almost. He took the pen, scribbling down a hasty note before folding it.
When he had finished, Milo leaned in close. “Well?”
Rory motioned him to lean in. “Take this to Miss Pie. Er . . . Madame Jazelle’s Respite on Sixth Street? You know it?”
“Yeah. I’ve had some leads by there.”
Taking care to lower his voice until it was barely audible, he continued, “Go there. Ask for Miss Pie. Give her this note and she’ll help you gather the evidence.”
Milo nodded solemnly, levitating the note into his interior jacket pocket. “I won’t let you down.”
The words seemed strange coming from anypony, but from Milo they were simply bizarre. Rory found himself gaping at the unicorn for a moment before shaking his shock loose. “Right. Well . . . I suppose you’ll be wanting some kind of payment for all this. Spill.”
That hurt again. What was he so guilty about? Lawyers were always asking for money and surely a pony like Milo needed it!
Milo stood for a moment, packing his briefcase methodically. Finally, he turned to face Rory again. A stony—no, sorrowful—expression flickered across his lined features. “Boy, I don’t want any money from you. However . . . I should like . . . I should very much appreciate you listening to me once this is all over.”
Listening to you? I’m doing that now, aren’t I? Still, the tone of the pony’s voice made it clear that he was deathly serious. “Alright. I’ll listen to whatever it is you think is so damned important. Happy?”
Milo actually smiled before striding towards the door. “Very. Also . . . would you promise me you’ll go to the hospital once this is all over?”
Rory’s heart skipped a beat as he thought about the doctors who would suffer from that. He shook his head. “No, I can’t promise you that. I have my reasons, Milo. I’ll ask you to leave it at that.”
“Very well. But,” he winked almost playfully, “don’t think I’ll drop it.”
Rory watched him until the door closed softly behind him. Then his attention turned to the now sodden bread. He munched carefully, avoiding jarring his teeth as best he could. Milo Coltfax would be taking up the defense for him? This event might very well lead to his freedom or to his imminent bondage. At the very least, it was better than the alternative. With that thought in mind, he settled down to enjoy his “meal” in relative peace . . .
Milo did not know what to expect upon arrival at the bar. A sign? Some proof that all his efforts over the years were about to pay off with the motherload of evidence? Anything. Something. And yet, when he stepped inside, all he received was a noxious dose of incense.
After gagging for what felt like a minute, he shuffled over to the main room. “Jazelle” proved to be easy enough to spot. The oryx stood by her bar, chatting animatedly to a few older stallions. She looked up upon his arrival, surprise tinkling in her eyes.
Before he could reach her, she had glided across the room to meet him. “I don’t believe it! Eeeeh!”
“Believe what?” Milo felt decidedly uncomfortable at the exuberant attention. Particularly when he had no idea who could be watching his actions.
The oryx pranced in place for a bit—a credible impersonation of Pinkie. “Are you the Milo Colfax?”
“Yes.” Am I really that famous, lady?
She held out her hoof. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I’m Jazelle. I’ve been a fan of your style for years now.”
“My style?”
“Well, not just anypony takes on Storm Scribe the way you do.” After a small giggle, she gestured to a corner table and made him sit. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“How did you—”
“Please, somepony like you doesn’t frequent establishments like mine without a very good reason.”
“Well, if you must know, I,” he lowered his voice, “I’m looking for Pinkie Pie. I’ve got a . . . situation that requires her special touch.”
“A situation?” Curiosity shown in Jazelle’s brown eyes, but she reined it in. “Sure. Let me get her for you. Just a moment.”
In no more than five minutes, she had returned with the familiar secretary. However, her usual exuberance had vanished, replaced by a solemnity born of stress. Even her wavy mane had gone flat, tied into a loose ponytail. Her eyes widened upon seeing him. Still, she took a seat and waited until Jazelle returned to her duties. When they were as alone as they could be in a crowded bar, she leaned in closer. “Jazelle said you needed me for a super-special job. What’s up?”
Milo almost chuckled. Super-special job was it? He levitated Rory’s note from his pocket, placing it carefully in front of her. However, when she reached for it, he placed a hoof to block her. “Before you read that, know this.” The next words came in a whispered rush, “I’m going to be working as Rory’s defense attorney from now on. However, we’ve got no chance in Tartarus if we don’t get evidence. Rory tells me he has evidence, however he won’t tell me where. Instead, he gave me this note and told you to read it.” His hoof lifted off of the paper.
She nodded slowly, scooping up the paper. As she read, her frown deepened. “What the?”
Curiosity overtaking him, Milo leaned in close. “What does it say?”
She spread it out in front of him.
‘I had no recollection
of a life beyond this veil
Here where there is no time
And memories rend like toothless buzzards
I recall the moment spent together
Your touch, your warmth
The kind words spoken
Words I will n’er hear again.
I ask of you.
Will you remember the pain I have caused?
The happiness you brought?
Helpless I fell into your kindness
And here I shall remain.
Will we remember the memories shared?
The stories we have read together?
I keep them upon the shelf.
A reminder of this world beyond.
Do not forget.
The moment when time stood still
And the darkness fell like a cloak.’
He read it again and again. The words were surprisingly eloquent coming from a pony who had suffered as much as Rory. They dug at him, and yet he could not find any meaning in them. No song he knew of. No poem. What then? “Pinkie? Does this have any significance?”
“I think it’s a riddle. Gimme a sec, kay?”
Milo sat staring at her, watching the mare’s face wrinkle in concentration. After over ten minutes, she gasped loudly, quickly pulling the note to her muzzle. A few more seconds passed before she slammed it onto the table. “Got it!”
“You know where the evidence is?”
“Yup-a-doodles. And, if we’re going to help The Boss tomorrow, we’d better get a-truckin’.” With that, she quite nearly flew out the bar, still managing to bounce the whole way.
Well, this is going to be an . . . interesting evening.
Pinkie stood outside the door to Mr. Scribe’s apartment, half excited to explore this so-called “evidence” and half disgusted that she had ended up here again. Dungeon would have been a generous term for the nearly empty apartment. Reluctantly, she opened the door and stepped inside the pitch darkness.
Despite the bright Manehattan skyline and moonlight, the apartment was as black as a tomb. She squeaked, trying to figure out to how to turn on the light and failing. When the door shut behind them, she really lost it. Thankfully, an instant later, the room was bathed in a golden glow. The unicorn winked good-naturedly, gesturing to the sole source of non-magical illumination in the room—a small lamp.
She trotted over, turning it on and adding the soft electric glow to Milo’s horn. Milo gaped, walking around as if he were a tourist. “Would you look at that? There’s hardly anything here!”
“That’s The Boss for you.” Pinkie frowned, turning around the open space. Nothing. Absolutely no clues, hints, or otherwise. She went into Mr. Scribe’s room. Apart from the same lonely bed, a few shaggy looking suits, and a copious amount of hopefully legally acquired pain pills, nothing was remotely intriguing. Milo apparently had reached the same conclusion.
He stood in the “living room”—if one could actually call it that—pawing at the floorboards. “Well? Any clues from the poem?”
“Weeell . . .” She racked her brain, searching for something, anything that could help. Then it came to her. “Stories! He said something about keeping them on the shelf. But we never read story books. We just talked. That means—”
“—it’s the shelf!” Milo trotted over to the bookshelf. He began to levitate the books one at a time.
Then Pinkie saw it. “There.”
“Where?”
Rolling her eyes, Pinkie pushed Milo aside gently. Then, with only a moment’s hesitation, pressed the area behind the books that was slightly lighter in color. There was a spring release as the panel swung open to reveal a hoof-slider similar to one that would be installed on a closet. Milo’s magic enveloped the shelf and it slid aside.
They both held their breaths. Behind the case was a small walk-in closet absolutely bursting with newspaper clippings, folders, pictures connected by string, names, numbers, and writing on every square inch of wall space.
Milo sunk to his knees. “It’s all here. All of it.”
Pinkie was surprised to see the tears dripping from his cheeks. “You okay, Milo?”
“Yes, sorry . . . it’s just . . . I’ve been looking for a break like this for years, Pinkie. I’ve spent my life trying to put Storm Scribe behind bars.”
“Seriously?” Pinkie had to admire that level of dedication, even if she could not quite understand it. “Wh—”
“Let’s get started, shall we? There’s a lot to log . . . ”
In her short time as a secretary, Pinkie had grown to appreciate data. Not in the sense that she loved it, but rather in that she could see the importance of it. That being said, spending hours lying on a hardwood floor reading page after page of Mr. Scribe’s rather sloppy notes—by his standards at least—was hard even on her. The hours ticked by. Or was it minutes? Mr. Scribe’s poem had been a surprisingly accurate summary of what it felt like to stay in the apartment for long.
As she tired, Milo’s fervor only increased. Finally, Pinkie surrendered to exhaustion, making her way to Mr. Scribe’s bed. It had been an exhausting day. She needed sleep.
Curling up on the stallion’s bed might have been incredibly awkward for her at another time, but now it felt wonderful. The sheets held a distinct, earthy smell that was not at all unpleasant. In fact, it was quite . . . nice really. Soothing. It reminded her of her own family, she supposed.
Just as she was about to drift off, Milo strode in looking worried. “Pinkie? Are you okay?”
“Mmmhmm. Just sleepy.”
“Well, we have been at it for a while now.” He sat gingerly on the corner of the bed.
“Why?”
“Why what, Pinkie?”
“Why are you doing this for him? I mean . . . you’re supposed to be the best prosecuting attorney, aren’t you? Why risk everything for The Boss?”
Milo gave a long, heavy sigh. “I guess you can say that for me it’s personal.”
“Personal? Did Storm Scribe hurt your family too?”
He gritted his teeth. “Yes, however . . . I think I hurt it every bit as bad.”
Now she was just confused.
Apparently, Milo noticed because he continued in a soft, almost fatherly tone. “I have quite the history with the Scribes and plenty of reason to help Rory out. It’s far more important to me than my career, Pinkie. It always should have been. But I was too selfish to see.”
After a short pause, he looked searchingly into her eyes. “I could tell you the story. That is, if you promise to listen and . . . not to judge.”
Pinkie’s ears perked up. Tired as she was, she could not pass up a story, particularly one of this magnitude. Would she finally get some answers regarding this whole mess? She hoped so. Either way, this long night was about to get much, much longer.