An Artist Among Animals

by Bandy

2: A Short Story

Ponyville didn't have a shady part of town, so much as it had a part of town that was shady.

Rarity remembered the morning when a landscaping team from out of town rolled through town lugging a monstrous dirt-caked drill and proceeded to lay fifty trees before noon. The whole town was abuzz. The machine shook and groaned and spit out dirt at the push of a button. A testament to modern progress, they called it. Equestria had beaten its guns into its plowshares, and whatever was left into giant landscaping drills.

Most of those trees still stood, leaning softly against the fence of Ponyville park. From just after midday onward they cast long shadows across the whole street. During winter they would shed branches onto the flat rooftops of the businesses beneath them.

Rarity didn't notice the shadows. The heat persisted despite the shade.

She looked right. Then left. Then right again. Then left again. Then she repeated the whole process three more times. Her horn lit up, illuminating a nearby alleyway. Then she looked right again. Then left again. At some point it had almost turned into a game. If it hadn't been as deadly important as it was, she would have sung to her movements. You do the pony polka and you turn yourself around and put your hooves behind your head you have the right to remain silent--

The whole process made her feel like an idiot, but embarrassment was better than getting caught. Nopony was around to see her anyway, but that was the whole point of the rhythmless dance: to make sure. Rarity looked right again, just for good measure. That's what it's all about.

Rarity lifted her head high and trotted through the line-up, her eyes peeled to one building in particular. Tree branches frayed a rough, single story silhouette a similar color to Rarity's tail.

She thought of a song, hummed to herself, and raised her hoof.

One and two and three, two and--and three and--

A metal peephole, partially concealed by the uneven grain of the rust patterns, blinked. From behind the door came a muffled voice.

"You've got rhythm."

"I do, thank you," Rarity replied, her tone cool and collected, her eyes fixated on a rust spot next to the top hinge.

The door glided open on well-oiled hinges. A large white pony sporting an equally large leather jacket eyed the alley behind her with distaste.

"Miss Rarity."

"Mister Snowflake."

"You got an appointment?"

"No. But it's urgent."

He sighed. "Only for you, Miss Rarity."

"You are such a dear." She patted his shoulder, testing the jacket’s texture. "How does the jacket fit? Too tight around the top? I still love how it accents your coat."

"It fits perfect, Miss Rarity. I'd wear it around town every day if it were legal."

"Oh, you. I'm just glad it still fits. Mistreated leather can shrink, you know."

Snowflake leaned against the wall and looked down. "Forgot about that much. How did you like the record?"

"I played it last night while I was working. It's quite catchy."

"Thank you, Miss Rarity.” Snowflake stood up straight again. “Mister Noir let me pick it out myself. I know how much you like the big band stuff."

"You are too kind," she beamed her signature smile. "There's just something magical about big bands. Like a memory coming to life before your eyes."

"Pretty words, Miss Rarity." Snowflake's hoof brushed against a second door behind him. "Sorry to keep you. Mister Noir's right inside. He's not busy."

"Not a problem."

Her parting smile lit the tiny entry room with ease, but the encroaching, rotting darkness of the main foyer weighed her lips down. The walls wavered before her eyes, shrinking like mistreated leather when she looked away. Torn cracks of light vented through the window, where they reflected off a thin layer of smoke stuck to the ceiling. From one corner sprouted a weedy gramophone spinning an unplayed record.

Something metal snapped into place. A glass bottle clattered. Shadows thrown over the back of a low couch came to life. "Shit,” somepony mumbled.

"Mister Noir," Rarity stated, "it's your most fashionable and loyal customer." She paused, then added, "please put down that gun."

From behind a rich, deep desk at the head of the room peeked an aging stallion, his features all lost in the darkness except for a pair of glowing gold eyes.

"Miss Rarity. Did you have an appointment?"

"No, but it's urgent."

"Well, your urgency has cost me a bottle of good cider." Noir's hoof moved to the side of the desk. Rarity flinched, then relaxed as a lamp lit up and cast the shadows aside. Two henchponies who had appeared behind the couch dropped a pair of hoofguns and slouched into the furniture. Even in the light, Noir’s grey fur seemed to bleed into the wall behind him.

"I can replace it, don’t worry. I know a good friend who makes good cider."

"So I've been told." Noir swept his hoof across the table, sending several empty bottles and a few papers to the floor. "I apologize for the inconvenience in getting the record to you. We've recently had some troubles with prying eyes, and I can't have our system getting out. I always thought our knock was pretty clever. I’d like to keep it.”

"Of course."

Noir sniffed the air, then turned his head towards the couches. "Turn the music back on."

In a flash the two cronies were up, dashing over to the gramophone and jamming the needle into the record. A metallic squeal cut through the air, and a moment later the sound of an old trumpet filled the room.

Rarity's ears perked out of habit. Her hooves twitched in time to the rhythm.

One, one two three one, one and--three one--

"This is last week's record."

Noir nodded. "We don't usually keep the records--darn shame too, they're good tunes--but I liked this song especially. Some young pissbeak group made it, but these old swingers were able to spruce it up." He hummed the rhythm to himself. One, one two three one, one and--three one--

The record skipped. Noir returned to reality in a gasping cloud of smoke.

"So Miss Rarity, what brought you here without an appointment? I trust our last shipment of furs was up to par?"

"Oh. Yes." Rarity coughed. "The shipment was up to par, and then some. You are the best at getting the mediums I need to properly express my artistic ideas. Have you seen Snowflake's new coat?"

"The big one?"

"Yes, the big one."

"Guards the door, right?"

"The coat--look, you have always been good to me in getting what I need. And I have always provided for you so you could do that. Now, I'm afraid, I'm in need."

"Everypony's in need of something," Noir mumbled, suddenly agitated.

"This is a special case."

“How appropriate.” He paused to belch, then leaned back in his chair and ran a hoof through his fraying grey mane. “Excuse me.”

“If you could pay attention to what I’m trying to say--”

“I am eliminating unnecessary thoughts.” He sat up in his chair. “Now here's a necessary one: the only difference between between two ponies who want something is who's willing to take it from somepony else. Greed is the last expression of free will."

"You can't be free if you're a slave to bits."

"Or exotic furs."

Rarity grimaced. A drunk Noir would be more difficult to work with--though not impossible.

"Don’t be that way, Mister Noir. You are the first pony I came to in this time of need. That speaks to your ability to provide. To be generous. My business is in trouble. It has been brought to my attention that I have an extraordinary debt to the bank, and if I can't get a large sum of bits to them by the end of the month they'll take the boutique."

“Which bank?”

“The national bank.”

"I don’t own that one. And you think I'm the one with a money problem!"

"But you would have a problem without my business--which is always free of extraneous loose ends and always profitable for all involved." She placed her hoof on the edge of the table as gently as she could. Her presence was enough. "Look at this from a business standpoint. The golden days of the Equestrian Marefia are over. Ever since Alexandro Philarmonica was killed and his family in Los Pegasus disbanded, your way of life has gone downhill."

"They drew that upon themselves. That’s what happens when you try to kill all your competition.”

"They were the biggest family in the country. How long did it take their empire to come down? Four days. It was that easy."

Noir grumbled and reached for the bottle. His hoof patted the table and came up empty.

"So, ponies started talking. If it was that easy to disband the largest criminal enterprise in Equestria, they must not really be that powerful. Why should they do business with an organization that can't command power? Or respect? Would you even bother yourself with black market dealings ten years ago? Now they're your chief source of income."

"My chief source of income is you, Miss Rarity. I don’t follow the rules. I just go with them."

The seething look in Noir's eyes, like a panicked animal, gave her pause. "I apologize for bringing up the Philarmonicos. I know your past with them."

"Do not think you know anything. What do you want from me?"

“I’m only asking for a favor."

"A favor."

"Yes. An extension on my payment. I need some time to get my affairs in order, and at this time I do not have the funds to reimburse you for the latest shipment.”

Noir cocked his head, as if curious. Something snapped in his front hoof. The bottle sailed into the wall and exploded. "That's a problem,” he growled. "After all I've done for you, Element of Generosity, you go and do this to me.”

Rarity remembered just how imposing a figure Noir was when he stood up. Old and fat and wrinkled and cornered. “Please think of all the things I’ve done for you. Your business skills are unparallelled--you have to see the benefits to our continued partnership. I’ve created the most lucrative line of fur clothes in all of Griffonia--”

“I smuggle your furs to Griffonia because they don’t allow fur coats in Equestria. If it weren’t for me, you’d be nothing. If it weren't for the law, we’d be nothing.” Noir sighed. "If you can’t help me make money, then what good are you to me?”

“I'll find a better way to get your money, then."

“Better? You can pay me in bits or gold, and you clearly don't have any bits left."

“I’ll find a better way,” Rarity repeated, this time more feebly.

“There we have it, then.” He held up his hoof, adorned with a thin gold watch. “We are mere channels through which the money can flow, and right now I need it to flow in my direction. Do you get it? I can't survive if I'm constantly being nice."

"Be reasonable, Mister Noir.” Rarity leaned against her chair and looked at the ground. “There must be some room for compromise here."

"I will not compromise, no matter how much you bat your eyelashes at me. Money is power, Miss Rarity. We can become the axis on which the world spins, if we can afford it."

"Well, I can't afford it." Rarity turned up her nose in a last-ditch effort to take control of the situation.

Another bottle sailed through the air and hit the wall. This time it fell to the floor with a thunk, unbroken. Rarity wondered briefly whether or not Noir kept all his empty bottles behind his desk on purpose.

"Then we'll just have to get our money some other way,” he said.

"How do you mean?"

Noir shrugged. "If you were anypony else, I would send my men out and burn your house to the ground.”

Rarity looked around for an unoccupied couch to faint on.

"But," he continued, "that seems like a waste of potential. I know what you’re capable of. Call it an alternate method of payment."

"And what does that mean?" Rarity asked. Her eyes darted to the door, then to the couches still occupied by the apathetic goons.

Noir leaned across the table, his eyes glinting like gold bars.

"Fine gems. No government-standardized value, and still very pricey on the proper markets."

"Oh. Well." Laughter was ill-fitting for the tense, smoky air, which was why it hurt Rarity's ears to hear herself chuckling. "Why didn't you just say so? I can go out in the fields beyond Ponyville and dig you up a wagonload of gems in no time at all."

Noir shook his head. "Those uncut gems you have are of no value to me. I don't want dirt gems."

"I assure you, they are not worthless."

Noir didn't seem to care. "What I need is cut gems. In the market world it's the cut that makes all the difference. Fine gems fit for rings and crowns and magical artifacts.”

Rarity snorted helplessly. “You can’t be serious--do you remember what happened the last time I tried robbing someone?”

“Come back in a few days. I’ll have a plan for your job then.”

Rarity drew back. "I am no petty criminal."

"Actually, this kind of robbery is a felony. So don't worry about petty criminality. That'll be a snowflake compared to the avalanche that will bury you if you get caught."

"Regardless, I will not participate in your ghastly odd-job.”

His laugh unsettled Rarity. "You already do participate. You are the one who buys. You are the one who sends my carriers to Griffonia weighed down with the products you made. Your success was the product of my labors." He noticed some hesitation, some snide comment half-forming between her lips. "Or I could just burn down your house." Like a bored schoolcolt, he put his hooves under his chin to prop his head up. "That would be fun. I haven't commited a good act of arson in too long. The problem is my image. I can't be seen throwing marelotov cocktails into somepony’s open window. I'm too important a figure. Cops know me. I can't risk my own livelihood when I'm destroying somepony else's. That's why I'm leaving the choice up to you, Miss Rarity." Folding his hooves behind his head, he leaned back in his chair and bared his teeth in a mad smile. "There’s always a way to run.

A rare autocarriage roared down the street. Rarity bristled at the noise. She was losing her edge. Everything about this situation wore her down, the cigarette smoke, the money, the smell, the anger she couldn’t express. She felt like a shiny rock in a press being cut down to size. "I have no choice, then. You'll get your gems.”

Noir’s smile widened. "You're a good mare, Miss Rarity. You got sense in you. That’s the problem with ponies today. They care too much. All these hippie love groups and liberals and activists. They don’t get it. They’re so busy trying to save the world they fail to see that in the long run they’re not really changing anything. Money flows. Trees grow. You and me, we take what we need.”

Rarity wondered briefly if Noir was trapped behind his fine wooden desk, drinking himself into the past. What would he be content with? Money? The elimination of conflicting thoughts? He didn’t want happiness, that was for certain. It would elude him so long as he continued down his path, and he knew it as well as she did. Maybe he stayed behind his desk and refused to go out for fear of realizing how terribly he had miscalculated.

Noir motioned towards the door, and that was the end of it. His face vanished behind a curtain of descending smoke. All except for two leering red-rimmed eyes. “See you soon,” he crooned.

The metal door shut behind her. She looked right. Then left. Then right again. She coughed up smoke, looked left again, and ran away.