The Thoughts That Nag
Rory had never felt quite as lazy as he did lying on the paper-thin prison cot. His current situation however, left him quite unable to jump into action even if he had wished to. Did he want to? With current events being the way they were, he very much doubted he could fulfill his purpose now—with or without the prison bars. Better to rest and gain some semblance of strength.
With a soft groan, he rolled on his other side, willing the pain to ebb even slightly. In the half-light filtering in from the barred window, he could just make out the splint still tightly bound to the swollen limb. The cell might as well be a dungeon from the damp chill seeping into his coat. Though, that could be attributed to his poor body condition.
He eyed the torn cot across from him, grateful it had been vacated. His first cell-mate decided it would be an excellent opportunity to vent with his hooves. Rory could not blame the disgruntled office worker as undoubtedly it had been Father who had sent him to jail in the first place. Still, the thought of being tormented for crimes he had worked so hard to bring to light made him sick. That and the guards had taken no extra measures to treat either his legs or his recent bruises.
His stomach grumbled again, unnecessarily reminding him of the all-encompassing hunger racking his thin frame. According to the law, they were supposed to offer him something to eat. They got around that little affidavit by suggesting that since he did not walk over to the cafeteria when they opened the doors, he had voluntarily given up that right. A piss-poor excuse, but one he could not really hate them for.
The guards, like much of Manehattan loathed Scribe Incorporated and its president. Getting back at him was as close as any of them would come to getting back at Storm Scribe. Besides, Rory did not relish the thought of going out to the common area again where just about every prisoner wanted him dead for one reason or another.There had been no doubt in any of their minds that he was guilty. Not a single inmate so much as dared to suggest otherwise lest he end up in the same boat as Rory.
Just as he began to run over the evidence one more time, the heavy door swung open to let in two guards. The earth pony stallions eyed him with looks bordering on loathing. The oldest spoke up from behind his thick grey mustache, “You’ve got a visitor. You’ll come along with us.”
Rory felt a sinking sensation in his gut. Great, just great. The “defense” attorney appointed by the city had to be the worst source of legal advice in all of Equestria. Not only did he hate Rory and believe full-heartedly in his guilt, but he did not even try to come up with a decent defense. He wanted to see Rory convicted, and so did his damndest to do absolutely nothing at all.
“I—I didn’t think he was coming today,” Rory managed, surprising himself with the hoarse quality of his voice.
“He’s not,” the younger guard spat. “Your secretary came by.”
Pinkie? His heart skipped a beat. Pinkie had not come by for over a week and a half now. Rory took a deep breath, managing to slide off the cot. Immediately, his limbs protested, but he bit back the pain. He followed the stallions out the door and towards the visitation room. After an agonizingly slow walk, they reached the room and chained him to one of the tables as per custom. Too tight as usual, though Rory would not give them the satisfaction of knowing how much pain it caused.
He waited and sure enough, Pinkie was led over to him. Celestia she looked worse for wear. Her mane, once so buoyant lay flat against her neck, bun as forgotten as her secretary uniform. Rory tried for a small grin, but even without seeing himself knew it more closely resembled a grimace. “It’s about time. What kept you? The trial’s tomorrow.”
Pinkie sat down, looking at his chains with wide eyes. “I—they wouldn’t let me visit you. Said my business wasn’t official.”
“You’re my secretary, how much more official can you get?”
“I—well, sorta . . .” She bit her lip.
“What’s wrong?” Something had changed in the game again. Dammit. Too many variables! All his calculations, all the connections he uncovered, they meant nothing without a constant stream of data. He lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper, “Dufaux?”
“No . . . he actually hasn’t bothered me since that night you broke your leg.”
“Thank Celestia.” His eyes narrowed. “What else?”
“That bastard.”
Father. Rory felt his heart leap in his chest. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“No-no . . . but he—” She withdrew a piece of paper, placing it in front of him.
Rory scanned its contents, wincing at the words’ implications. So, he never had any intention of keeping me on. The realization should not have been surprising. Hell, any idiot could have seen it coming. And yet, he could not deny the lump fast forming in his throat. “So that’s it then. That why they wouldn’t let you see me?”
Pinkie nodded slowly. “I guess. Makes it kinda hard to come here on official Scribe Incorporated business if you and your boss don’t actually work for the company anymore.”
A new, horrifying thought came into focus as he stared at her. “He hasn’t threatened you has he, Miss Pie?”
Pinkie blinked in surprise before shaking her head. “Naw. One of his secretaries just strode into the office Monday and told me to get the hell out.”
“So that’s it then.” It hurt every bit as much as his own dismissal. Pinkie. Honest, hardworking, compassionate Pinkie thrown to the curb to satisfy his father’s vendetta. “When’s your train?”
“Come again?”
“When are you leaving? Surely you aren’t sticking around Manehattan for this god-awful mess.”
A blank stare. Then the smallest of giggles. “Boss! Just because I don’t work for Scribe Incorporated anymore doesn’t mean I don’t work for you! I’m still your secretary. As I recall, you said I was until you dismissed me. Not Storm Scribe.”
“But—I . . . you . . . why?” I thought you hated me.
She ran a hoof through her glistening mane. For a time she kept her lips pursed in mock concentration. “Weeeell, I guess you can say that after all this time together, all you’ve taught me about ‘reality’ I’m not exactly the same mare that came into Manehattan all these weeks ago.”
Seriously? “Pinkie, I don’t care what your twisted little mind comes up with, your still the same painfully honest, caring young mare I met on day one! Truth is, I failed to assimilate you.”
Her eyes shot daggers at him. The next words came as a gradual crescendo, “The same am I? The same?! How can you say that? Do you have any idea what I’ve been through because of you? Do you?!” To his great distress Pinkie had started to cry. “Don’t you dare act like I’m not different! I’m—I’m ruined!”
“Now that’s not fair. Professionally speaking you’ve come a long way. Why any company would be—”
“Professionally speaking? Professionally speaking?! Is that all you ever think about? What about me? What about my life at home? How can I go back and act the same as always with this,” she gesticulated to his warped limbs, “hanging over my shoulders? Thanks to you I’m as cynical as the rest of you sick bastards.”
Rory had rarely felt so helpless. Not since his colthood locked in that damned box. “I’m sorry I—”
“Well, congratulations, you got what you wanted. Just like him!”
The words reverberated around the cinderblock cell, striking deep into his heart. The same. I’m just the same as him. Rory lowered his head, too ashamed to speak. “I suppose you believe the charges too?” Where had that question come from anyway? What did it matter if she believed them? Everypony in Manehattan would likely side against him. What was one more? And yet, the thought of Pinkie—his Pinkie—blaming him for the crimes he had worked so hard to bring into the open made him sicker than any of his injuries.
A painful, heart-rendering silence followed. Finally, Pinkie stood. “I don’t believe them,” she breathed softly. She took a long breath, before continuing in matter-of-fact tone, “I may be your secretary, Rory Scribe, but I am far from your friend.”
With that, she left him to his thoughts and the demons that nagged.
“Pinkie are you going to eat that or stare at it all day?” Jazelle clapped her hoof against the dining room table, eliciting a tiny squeak from her roommate.
“Sorry, Jazelle. I just, just don’t feel like eating.”
“Don’t feel like eating my pancakes? Mare, what’s wrong with you?” Of course she knew the answer. With all the press coverage of the trial it would be hard not to. She sat across from her friend, pouring a tall glass of orange juice. “Look, I know it’s hard, but sometimes in life we lose. It ain’t Rory’s fault, and it sure as hell ain’t yours. So stop worrying over what you can’t change.”
“But he didn’t do it,” Pinkie moaned slamming her face against the table. “They’re just making up loads of stuff that I know he couldn’t have done.”
Jazelle sighed, rubbing her mane. “Do either of us know what goes on in that stallion’s head? Hell, for all we know he’s guilty!”
“He’s not guilty, Jazelle! I know it. I’d swear on my Pinkie Sense.”
Coming from Pinkie that meant a lot. Still, Jazelle could not stopper the concern she felt whenever she thought on the trial. Sure Rory was a good pony at heart, but he had within him an unnatural drive to achieve his goals at whatever cost. That aspect had changed little over the course of time. Could he have been so desperate to take Storm down that he forgot himself in the process? No . . . and yet, the possibility lingered. “Sorry, Pinkie.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
“Just . . . Rory’s been my friend for years. Even if it’s only one-sided, I don’t want to see him put up for what Storm’s done. But here I am sitting in my bar doing nothing.”
“I don’t think there’s anything we can do . . .”
“No, not really. Though,” she lifted up the newspaper, squinting at the headline, “A better defense attorney couldn’t hurt.”
Rory had given up standing the first day of the trial. The judge, either by pity or facing the inevitable had allowed it. So instead of facing the faces of the ponies his father had wronged, he lay in front of the defense podium and listened to their testimonies. All were laced with the same venom, loss, and longing for vengeance he knew all too well himself.
A disgust flowed through his veins at the recounting of each of the stories. Disgust for what had transpired, disgust in his own failure to stop it, and disgust that Father would walk for each and every one of them. So intricate had been Storm Scribe’s web that even with his own calculations and data, Rory had no ability to prove any of it false. All he could do was watch the full brunt of his father’s sins fall upon his shoulders. At this point, he only wished it would crush him.
Yet another witness’ story having been told, the judge looked to his defense. “Any questions, Mr. Posp?”
The obese pegasus waved a flabby hoof feabily, not even bothering to rise from the bench he had draped his blubber across. “No, your honor. I believe the story was clear enough.”
Yeah, so clear you fell asleep for most of it. Rory wished he could have slept too, but either pain or respect for their suffering kept him vigilant. He glanced behind him at the packed courtroom, watching the newsponies snap pictures or scribble hasty notes in their books. Just as constant as always was Pinkie Pie seated in the far corner, watching with sad eyes. A part of him always wished her to come closer and another was grateful she could not see how far his condition had deteriorated.
The guards had given up taking him back to the prison every night. His legs simply would not allow it. So they had thrown him into a repurposed office and called it good. Though he had been given food, the pain made it nearly impossible for him to keep it down. Rory had given up trying some time ago, clinging to the hope that somepony might take him to the doctor if he passed out. Though they had finally given him medicine to dull the pain, at this point, it seemed more likely he would be taken to the next world first.
They continued the witness parade, and Rory allowed it to blend together. His eyes felt heavy and he longed to be dragged back to his makeshift cell. Even the mouldering cot sounded good about now. Better than lying here on the wood, that was for certain. It took a long moment to realize that the trial had finished for the day and the guards were talking to him.
He glanced down as his now unrecognizable legs. Groaning, he lifted his head, hoping they would get the message. They did and within seconds he felt one sling him over his back. He had given up his dignity a long time ago. If they wanted to blame him for crimes he didn’t commit, they might as well have the common decency to carry the cripple out of court.
Milo had never imagined it possible to loathe Storm Scribe any more than he already did. But this, this took the cake. How could they all just go along with it? Why were they so damned blind to the reality? Just a few weeks ago, any of these same ponies on the witness stand could have been professing Storm’s guilt.
Their reactions were not unheard of. For the first time, they finally have a vulnerable, accessible target to pin their pent up frustration and hatred on. It did not matter if Rory was innocent as long as he served as Storm’s scapegoat, they were happy. They could lie to themselves, profess that it had all been Rory’s fault regardless of the evidence to the contrary. It disgusted him to no end, but he could not blame them.
“Milo? Are you ready to go back?”
He turned to stare into Quill’s eyes. His only rock in the sea of uncertainty. If anypony would understand it would be her. He had waited long enough. Waited until she could not have slapped the “spur of the moment” label on it if she tried. And yet, it would affect her as surely as it would him.
“Milo?”
Taking a long breath to gain the courage, he made his move at last. “I’m going to do it.”
Quill raised an eyebrow, “Sir?”
He turned to face the door Rory had departed from. “He needs a halfway decent defense, Quill. I’m—I’m going to do it.”
“You do realize this will bring up questions. Are you prepared to—”
“I’m prepared,” he growled through clenched teeth. “I’ve done enough hiding to last a lifetime.”
“Then I’ll stand by you, sir.” Quill let out an almost filly-like giggle.
“What?”
“Well, it’s just . . .” She raised a hoof to hide her snigger. “You’re Manehattan’s ace prosecuting attorney. I wonder how everypony will react to you taking up the defence?”
Milo snorted a laugh of his own. “I wonder . . .”
Thanks so much for being patient with me through the hiatus! I really love all the comments and encouragement you've given me thus far. We're getting closer folks! Now that I'm free, I hope to have this done for you soon.
— Bluegrass
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Out of hiatus in time for the holidays, eh? Well, happy holidays. Hope there's more coming.
Yay !
Oh, this update was a treat! Thanks for it!
Comma after 'Manehattan.'
Space between sentences.
Comma after 'Celestia.'
Comma after 'buoyant.'
It would flow better to make it two sentences, the first ending with 'innocent.'
Should be 'defense.' (Every other occurrence of the word in this chapter used the American spelling.)
You go, Milo!
Defend like you've never defended before!
It's so frustrating to see Storm Scribe get away with every single one of his crimes. I really hope he takes a long walk off a short pier. Celestia knows he deserves that and a whole lot more.
Ouch. That hurt my heart.
Still, it's great to see some ponies taking a stand for Rory. Hopefully Milo can gather enough evidence to help him win the case, however slim the chances may be.
It was also great to see another chapter. Looking forward to more. A Very Merry Christmas to you!
Loved this.
Oh my horse feathers! This chapter was amazing!!! Can't wait to see more!:)
It's a sham that this story was canceled, it was a good story.
6885806
100% agree. This needs to be finished.
Jazzy continues to be the voice of reason in all of this.