The Splash Effect . . .
[Note: I have now added the gore tag to the story. This chapter contains actual gore (not my usual soft core stuff), reader discretion is advised.]
Pinkie did not know what she expected after the talk at Jazelle’s, but being ignored by her employer hardly made her list. Two weeks after the incident and Mr. Scribe had scarcely spoken more than a few words to her in a day, always concerning work, though that was no surprise. At the very least, she thought he might find it in himself to send Keynote off on a good note. But no, even that proved too much to ask.
When she encouraged him to give Keynote a card or letter or even a parting thank you, he grumbled something about “professionalism” before walking away. Then Friday came and went without either of them so much as seeing Mr. Scribe all day. Keynote did not act surprised or troubled, but Pinkie could see she had been disappointed.
Last week consisted of nothing more than paperwork, notetaking, and errand running for the Treasury Department. Hours a day with nopony to talk to, or stuck in business meetings where she was expected to be “seen not heard.” Every time she tried to speak to him causally, Mr. Scribe would flinch and look away.
The distance, work, and isolation took the spirit right out of her in remarkably short time. Today’s social forecast appeared to be as bleak as yesterday’s Monday slump. She sat at her desk, finishing the latest in an onslaught of memos. The illegible chicken scratch made her writing look like calligraphy. Pounding out the last few letters, she whipped it off the typewriter and trotted over to Mr. Scribe’s door.
She knocked before striding in. “Mr. Scribe, I have a—” Her heart stopped when she noted Mr. Scribe lying on the floor. Though, once she realized that he had simply moved his office work to the carpet, she relaxed. “What are you doing down there?”
He jumped, head wheeling around to face her. Then, he looked away. “I do not have to explain myself to you, Miss Pie.”
“Miss Pie” again. Would it hurt him to say her name? “Well, I know you don’t have to explain yourself, Mr. Scribe. Buuut, you kinda gotta admit it’s a little weird to see the head of the Treasury Department rolling around on the floor.”
His tail swished irritably as he glowered at her. “I am not ‘rolling around,’ Miss Pie. I am working,” he emphasized the word as if she had questioned his honor as a buisnesspony.
“Oh the floor?”
He jerked his head towards his warped leg.
“What?”
With an exasperated sigh, he continued in a rush, “My leg is badly swollen because of standing on it too much. I can do nothing to solve that, however, it does lessen the pain and swelling if I lie down instead of sit. Does that answer suffice?”
Pinkie felt her face grow warm. “Sorry . . .” Her stomach churned as she stared at his warped legs. ‘To know that some kids don’t have to suffer through years of starvation and abuse . . .’ As she had so often these past two weeks, she wondered just how Mr. Scribe hurt his leg.
“Quit looking at me like that!” he snapped the words so suddenly she dropped the paper on the floor. “I’m sick and tired of my secretary gawking at me like some stray dog to be pitied.”
“Sorry,” she squeaked. “I’m just . . .” her eyes fell to his leg. The words tumbled out before she could stop herself, “How did you hurt your leg?”
All trace of patience vanished from his features. “It’s been like this since I was born,” he growled, shooting daggers at her.
“Like hell it was.” She stamped her hoof. “It has something to do with what you and Jazelle were talking about, doesn’t it?”
“It’s none of your business, Pinkie! And if you so much as breathe a word about that conversation again, I’ll see to it your farm’s on the auction block the very next day.”
His words echoed around the office, ringing in her ears. All hope of his changing melted around her. “Still resorting to threats I see,” she snapped before storming out of the office.
She walked into the hallway to stand panting in the lounge area. How could one pony be so cruel one minute and so sad the next? Try as she may to lead by example, Mr. Scribe remained as harsh and unforgiving as granite. Was there even any point in trying anymore?
Sighing, she turned back to the office but paused at the small mirror hanging on the wall. Not again . . . Ever since she arrived in Manehattan, her mane had gradually lost its volume and curls. Originally she blamed the water, but now it seemed just as likely that Manehattan was trying to assimilate her into the hive mind. Well, at least it’ll be easier to put up now . . .
Rory tapped his hoof against the papers, attempting to steady his breaths. Stupid mare . . . should have hired a stallion. At least he’d leave me be. For a second he contemplated doing just that, but no, he had brought her here. A whim perhaps, but he felt a stupid obligation to keep her around. Besides, her talent made his life far easier. Let her worry about the data and he would analyze it.
At this point, any relief from his workload helped. Without Farthing’s brilliant mind on the job, he had been left to sort out situations that never should have been an issue in the first place. Last Friday he had been forced to wander around the north research facility to examine the financial merit of their latest drug. Needless to say the opportunity cost outweighed the benefits.
Again and again “mandatory” meetings had been set up to discuss paltry matters any college graduate could have handled. Rory wondered about his father’s purpose. Had he caught on to his plans? Not likely, though it made him nervous all the same. If the pieces came into play too soon, the entire plan would be compromised. I’ve worked too hard to let it fall apart now.
He turned his attention to the immediate problem, a rather substantial discrepancy in the finance report. If not dealt with now, all the blame would invariably fall on him. Rory snorted, looking down at his well-worn suit. As if I’m the type to embezzle funds . . .
Paging through the report continued to bring nothing more than a migraine. As he scanned through yet another wall of numbers, his eyes fell on a small symbol crammed in the corner; a red E encircled in a triangle. Rory’s blood ran cold. “Dufaux,” he growled to himself.
So Dufaux’s lost his patience after all.
Resorting to threats might have fit the mold for a mob boss, but Rory refused to allow anypony to threaten him. Far better to be the instigator than the target. The real victim however, would not be him, oh no. That would be far too straightforward. Dufaux fancied Pinkie a handle, a naïve and foolhardy assumption.
Rory had no “interest” in mares or stallions for that matter. Though he could admire them, the connection stopped there. He needed nopony in his life, let alone some silly rock farmer with all the tact of a razor blade. However, true to his impulsive nature, Dufaux assumed Rory fond of her and had set his sights on tormenting her.
He cared little for her specifically, but held himself to a standard where his employees were concerned. Rory had vowed to do his damndest to prevent his mistakes whiplashing back on his employees. Not that it always worked—Farthing was proof of that—but the sentiment made him feel marginally at peace with himself.
This latest statement from Dufaux made his skin crawl. Though he wanted to inform Pinkie of the danger, he could not bring himself to do it. What good would scaring the girl do anyway? He would confront Dufaux in the morning and that would be that.
His ears perked up at the sound of low male voices in the office. Far too polite to be anyone from the company. Reluctantly, he struggled to his hooves, walking gingerly to the door. There standing in front of Pinkie’s desk were two uniformed police officers. Rory recognized the oldest immediately. “Sergeant McCloud, what brings you to my office?”
The steel grey pegasus wheeled around, talking through his handlebar mustache, “Ah, Mr. Scribe. We have a small matter of business that requires your urgent attention.”
Rory raised an eyebrow, walking over to join the officers. “A matter of business?”
“Jumper,” remarked the young amber unicorn in a matter-of-fact, almost bored tone.
“Ah, I see.” Not again . . . Suicides were hardly uncommon within Scribe Incorporated’s staff, though jumpers always left a bitter taste in his mouth. “The Treasury building I suppose?” What other reason would they have for darkening his doorstep at five o’clock in the afternoon?
“Yes, unfortunately,” McCloud murmured. “It’s a rather tall building as you know and . . . well, we’ve got something of a mess on our hooves. We had some office workers identify, but they were too distraught to have a reliable account, so we were hoping—”
“Of course, I’ll go with you then.” Rory turned to Pinkie who continued to stare at them with a quizzical expression. His heart lurched uncomfortably. Leaving her alone at present might not be the best strategy. “Come along, Miss Pie. I will need you to take notes for the detectives.”
Pinkie looked as if she’d rather swallow nails, but slunk over to him, clipboard in hoof. McCloud’s eyes widened. “Miss? Are you sure you’re up to going? This isn’t exactly the most—”
“She’ll be fine, Sergeant. The mare’s a rock farmer, she’s likely seen far worse than this.” I hope . . .
Slowly they trailed out of the office and towards the elevator. Rory found himself running through potential conversations with Dufaux. The matter had to be handled carefully, or else he would lose one of his lynchpins.
Some might consider him heartless for not pondering the calamity of a suicide off his building, but they could screw themselves. The poor bastard was dead. Contemplating the loss could no more bring him back then saying “please” would gain his father’s affections. As cruel as it sounded, that was the unalterable truth.
Pinkie found herself fighting two urges so strongly that the end result had been a tense grimace that made her look nearly as grouchy as Mr. Scribe. Part of her wanted to enjoy the bit of liberty and sunshine, but another part dreaded to see where they were headed.
Judging from the hushed silence that had fallen over the police officers, they were into some serious business. She tried to discern exactly what a “jumper” might be. The unspoken law of Manehattan dictated that whatever this almost playful codename represented, it would not be pleasant. Their mention of the building had filled in the blanks, but the end result made no sense.
Jumper . . . a pony who jumped off a building. Surely non-pegasi didn’t jump off buildings! And yet her gut told her that could be the only plausible answer. That raised another question. Had life in Manehattan become so miserable that they felt it easier to end it all rather than struggle through it? Would she eventually succumb to the same end?
She shook her head, trying to focus on the crowded street they were pushing their way through. Once they hit the police tape, her worst fears were confirmed. A few detectives stood inside the makeshift barrier, taking notes and regarding a lumpy black tarp while the crowd parted almost undisturbed around them.
Pinkie shuddered as Mr. Scribe walked under the tape to join the ponies by the tarp. Reluctantly, she followed, doing her best to avoid the red and white jelly scattered over the pavement. An army of flies had gotten to them first, forming writhing black tumors over the food. Where had it all come from anyway?
She stood beside Mr. Scribe staring into his cold eyes. Judging from his tight jawed expression he took no more pleasure in this than she did. After a curt nod to the detective, the tarp was pulled back and Pinkie gasped.
What remained of the pony lay on the pavement. It looked as if a giant hoof had repeatedly pounded him against the concrete until he stuck to it like gum. His milky eyes stared upwards into the sky, flickering in the sunlight. The worst bit however was the post, generally used for tying up taxi cabs driven right through his chest.
Pinkie had encountered more than her fair share of awful smells, but this one set a whole new standard. The viscera lay torn and splayed open, spilling over the ribs like some macabre fan and sending waves of a stench so awful she nearly fell to her knees. The post, coated in blood, fat, and Celestia knew what else, churned with a literal blanket of flies.
She ripped her eyes away from the scene only to stare in horror at the other spots. Not jelly, but various bits of the pony scattered around him like after effects of a spray paint can. Oh, Celestia!
Every part of her wanted to run, but she remained frozen in place. Her eyes fell to Mr. Scribe, hoping by some miracle he would understand how much she wanted to leave and take her. But his attention was fixed entirely on the corpse.
“Some splash effect, huh?” The detective remarked as if this pony were nothing more than an interesting piece of artwork. “Reckon he didn’t intend to impale himself though . . .”
Mr. Scribe stepped onto the blood, hooves making an awful squelching noise against the as he moved to examine the body. He made not comment or expression as he swept away the blood from the pony’s cutie mark. His eyes narrowed, “No, I don’t believe he did, inspector . . .”
Sighing, Mr Scribe removed his hoof from the body, looking the detective in the eye, “It’s Farthing . . . he was one of my own until two weeks ago.”
The police officers grumbled something amongst themselves, sounding almost disappointed. Their young escort snorted, “Lose their job and jump off the deep end . . .” He shook his head, “What a waste.”
McCloud spat, cuffing his hoof against the pavement. “Going to take all night to scrape him off the sidewalk.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Scribe mumbled, more to himself than any of them. With a final, cold glance at the corpse, he started off. Pinkie followed him in silence, past the tape and further down the street. As the distance from the horror decreased, her anger ratcheted upwards. Finally, as they passed the walkway by Central Park, she stopped, stamping her hoof against the concrete so loud, Mr. Scribe did an about-face.
“What?”
“What? Is that all you have to say, you . . . you . . . bastard!” The venom in her words surprised even herself. “You just saw a pony fillayed on the sidewalk and you just stood there like you were watching paint dry. That was a living, breathing, being a few minutes ago, your co-worker. And you felt nothing? What the hell is wrong with you?!”
Mr. Scribe’s ears lay flat, “I’m an unfeeling bastard, all right? I’m not ashamed to admit it either! I’ve never given a damn about anypony else, so why should I start now?”
“So Farthing meant nothing to you?”
He visibly tensed, looking away. “I do not hold onto feelings, they only get in the way. I appreciated his abilities, nothing more.”
Pinkie felt as if her heart might burst from its rapid pounding. “Is that what you’ll tell his wife and kids, huh? That the only thing you valued about their loved one was his skills? How heartless can one pony be?”
“And how hopelessly sentimental can one pathetic little mare be?” he snapped. “Feelings will not change the facts! He’s dead, end of story! Pick yourself up and move on.”
The words struck a chord inside her. This pony could not be reasoned with, he could not and would not change. Keynote was right, all he has ever known is his own little world, but he would not leave the track. “Fine. Stay in that cage you’ve made for yourself! I suppose it gives you some comfort.” She snorted, turning away. “I’m going home.”
“You’ve still work to do.”
“I think this counts as a valid excuse!” With that, she took off at a dead gallop knowing full well he wouldn’t come after her. Manehattan might try to make her conform, but she’d join that pony on the sidewalk before that happened. I won’t become like him, I won’t!
Rory must have stood there for over five minutes, simply staring at the direction his secretary had run. Of all the conceivable outcomes, this was the least likely. The mare had more fire than he ever gave her credit for. Though, the raw, animalistic fury behind her gaze sent shivers of fear up his spine. Pinkie did not know, could not know the repercussions . . . If she spoke to Father like that, it would all be over for her and her family.
Her words, magnified a hundredfold reverberated in his head and he could not help but be ashamed of them. ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ The better question would have been to ask what was right. As far as he knew, he had never been, and would likely never be a “good” pony.
By her standards, his actions were all wrong and, in the grand scheme of things, that was likely true. But, being “right” took some level of conditioning, didn’t it? To say to oneself, “This is wrong,” one first had to understand what was right.
Rory shook his head, walking slowly down the street. No, such thinking served only as an excuse for bad behavior. He knew the “right” action, the action Pinkie likely demanded but, for whatever reason, he had chosen to ignore it. The end result had been one of his own making. Perhaps tomorrow he’d consider explaining himself to her in a little more—
He froze in place, heart catching in his throat. Dufaux’s warning. How could he have forgotten? Rory lurched into a rather reluctant canter towards Jazelle’s. Though a little off-balanced and incredibly painful, he managed to keep the pace a good while before breaking into a trot. His legs screamed, but he pushed through the distraction.
If he did not find her before Dufaux’s goons . . . Rory shivered. That girl might be hell to deal with, but she didn’t deserve that. After nearly fifteen minutes of searching, he found her in a side alley. Unfortunately, she had company.
Two stallions stood in front of her, and, judging from her confident stance, she was ready for a fight.For an instant, he imagined she could handle herself, after all the mare spent most of her life rock farming. Undoubtedly, she played clean. Dufaux however, would not hesitate to pull a fast one.
Sure enough, Rory noted a third, smaller stallion in the shadows behind her. Dammit! Without really considering the odds or consequences, Rory charged the third stallion just as Pinkie made for the first two.
The resulting scrap moved so fast, he had next to no time to register the situation beyond dodging the dinner plate sized hooves. Thankfully, his study of pressure points enabled him to target the stallion at just the right spot. With a perfectly aimed kick, his attacker fell to the ground.
He wheeled around just in time to see Pinkie tossed against the brick like a ragdoll. The resulting crunch made his blood run cold. Rory managed to push him away from her with another well placed kick. His success proved short lived when a heavy hoofed blow knocked him to the ground.
He made to stand when the same green hoof pressed against his left leg. The stallion’s weight combined with the odd angle at which his leg was bent sent a familiar crack. The pain and shock of having his leg snapped temporarily ceased what little struggle he had been able to put up.
Just as he thought they might really be done in, the weight against his leg ceased as Pinkie’s hoof sent the full grown stallion flying backwards. There were words spoken, but either by way of pain or shock or adrenaline, he could not hear them.
Frantic hoofbeats sounded and for a moment, everything was silent. Then, Pinkie’s voice as if spoken through a fish bowl drifted to his ears, “And stay gone!”
Rory attempted to roll upright but collapsed back to the filth-laden street. Every muscle in his body ached, and it took all the willpower he had left just to breathe. Pinkie’s face appeared in his field of vision and, after staring at her for a while, he realized she had knelt beside him.
The words ran together again, though he did catch, “What are you doing here?”
“Saving you . . .”
Her hoof stroked his now-broken leg, sending up a shockwave of agony. He squealed, pulling away from her. Don’t touch it. Closing his eyes, he tried to slow the inevitable resurgence of pain and the crushing consequences of his own folly . . .
Stats
Page generated in 0.041 seconds
Total duration
638 users online
798,964 hits today, 1,822,946 yesterday
FIMFiction
My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic Fanfiction
Designed and coded by knighty & Xaquseg - © 2011-2024
Follow & Support Us
Support us
SubStar
Chat!
Discord
Follow us
Twitter
MLP: Friendship is Magic® - © 2024 Hasbro Inc.®
Fimfiction is in no way affiliated with or endorsed by Hasbro Inc.®
Amazing chapter, as usual. I knew it was Farthing as soon as the cops showed up and mentioned a "jumper." So, so tragic! And Rory has officially made it clear that Pinkie is, indeed, a handle. I'm imagining all hell breaks loose from this point out. I'm so excited (read as: "terrixcited") for the next chapter!
Edit: Oh, and I don't think the gore was cheesy at all. But I'm kind of desensitized; so maybe my opinion isn't the most useful.
Well... I think I lost my appetite for the next week after reading that...
Anyway, that scene at the end, with Rory getting his leg broken... I have a bad feeling about that.
Whoa pinkie just became bad ass. i love this side of pinkie!
On
Replace 'of' with 'I' or remove 'have been'
she stared
Manehattan
No comma after 'though'
Add 'but' before 'the'
No comma after 'pegasi' and replace 'pegasi' with 'pegasus'
Add 'or' before 'else'
Add something after 'and' or remove it.
about-face
Replace 'is' with 'was'
words
Space between the sentences.
Move the second comma to after 'wrong'
Remove a 'her'
Comma after 'leg'
Space between the sentences.
Yup. Things basically just got ten times worse for everyone involved. Farthing, his family, Rory, Pinkie...
Rory's actions were definitely a confirmation for Dufaux that Pinkie really is a handle. This won't be the last of him, I'm sure. I'm not sure how Rory will deal with a broken leg, though. Maybe he can make a splint for it like he did in college.
Ooh, will Pinkie try to take care of Rory? That would be SO CUTE! *Squees*
Yay more!
I saw the gore warning, and rebelled against it, continuing to eat my cheerios. That was a mistake I'll never make again
But MAN, this was thriller-esque! Pinkie was A-MA-ZING in this chapter, including Rory at the end 
Can't wait for more! 
Hmm.... I wonder if Pinkamena will show up anytime soon.... she would probably scare Dufaux and his goons out of the whole Mob thing
Well if Blue says that's the worse, do I get the imaginary plushie Templar?
6212237 Woah there. Didn't say that was the worst. Only that it got worse. XDD
6213115
You may want to check again.
6213120
Constitutes as worse does not mean this is THE worst it gets, Goober.
6213126
I never said worst.
Apologies for phrasing of the last one.
6213142 Lol, we're like some half-deaf elderly couple. XDD You win this round! But I'll be back to complain about the dishes later.
6213165
If we have no dishes can you complain about them?
*Prepares to tip them out the back*
Looks like Rory is gonna have to go to a hospital no matter what now.
Awesome chapter! But man, was that gore intense.
This here sounds like asexuality! Neato!