Pipsqueak the Valiant's Adventure Journal!

by Casca

Vol. 2 Interlude 3

Mayor Mare didn’t even like dried cranberries.

But there she was, finishing the bag, watching shops, pedestrians, businessponies and other creatures of the dawning night blur past as the bus made its way down to the east side of the city. The bus was not too cramped yet; it was still in the early leg of its route, and Mayor Mare had acquired for herself a window seat. Not because the Maretopian scenery was particularly inspiring—rampant pollution and a class chasm as big as the Great Sea was anything but—but because it was better to have to squeeze between a wall and one pony than two. Or griffons, or changelings. And because it was better to drift into meditation sitting down than standing up.

A pack of six griffons lurched on board. If they had a reason for not flying, nopony in the bus dared to ask for it. They wore leather masks and gloves over their beaks and claws, an unwritten rule of social etiquette that, it seemed, did not share the same pedestal as not staring menacingly at everypony else around.

Dried cranberries. She didn’t even like them! They tasted okay and had a chewy quality to them, and on the whole were more than edible, but she didn’t like them per se as she liked, say, alcohol, or gambling.

At least it isn’t a vice.

Mayor Mare stuffed another hoofful of the things into her mouth. She was disappointed, she was shocked, she was angry, even, at herself, angry for not feeling as disappointed as she should, disappointed for feeling as she did—

It’s getting cylic, she reminded herself. You know what happens when that happens.

Shut up.

She closed her eyes, and returned to the game room.

Mayor Mare, as with most other professionals, reviewed mistakes aggressively. However gambling was not something with revisable tactics or skills that you could further hone; what Mayor Mare expected out of these reviewing sessions, even she did not know.

No, that was not quite true. You could hone certain skills for certain games. The poker face, for instance, and the Venetian twist if you wanted to be strict about it—the way some ponies fumbled and slipped made Mayor Mare wince physically—but everything else...

There were the smart ones who could do math and calculate the probability of getting a high rank based on their hand in poker. In Big Two, there were the ones who could guess the variations of possible tricks in opponents’ hands, based on their own hand and what was in the pile—in fact, plenty of ponies kept track of the pile with amazing focus and memory. There were also so, so, so many ways to cheat, especially if you were a changeling who could turn a bit of skin into an ace, a king, or whatever earned you a straight or flush. She had heard of goats who ground their mahjong tiles into blanks with their rough hooves to achieve ridiculously high-scoring combinations. It wasn’t even against the rules. Which was why she never touched mahjong.

But those—all the tactics, the guarding, the manipulation—were all just ways to lose less. If you wanted to win, you needed luck. And at her level of play, you couldn’t survive without it.

There had been one dealer and seven players, all ponies, including Fair Weather and herself in the small game room, the semicircle poker table taking up half the room. She went in and sat down. A couple snarled out of surprise, and a couple more out of malice, and the dealer was about to say something when Fair Weather raised a hoof. He probably had dirt on all of them, because instead of giving him the dirty eye, they subsided.

“Is it really you?” asked Fair Weather, looking at her sideways.

“Let’s find out,” Mayor Mare said.

And then for the next two hours, she had won and lost and won and lost, breaking even right down to the single digits. None of her wins had been spectacular, which was worrying because she was used—no, had been used to them; while none of her losses had been tragic, she found herself folding a lot more than she was accustomed to. Mediocre hand after mediocre hand, she had folded and lost her forced bets, winning them back in increments with a few easy three-of-a-kinds or flushes only to lose them over the next few rounds.

Oh, sure, her hands would have made pairs and two pairs and even the occasional flush if she had just held on to them, but it wasn’t the same. And it would have cost her, because Fair Weather was getting flushes and straights by the round.

He had said nothing when she left the table. She did not dare to even look at him. It was clear who had been lucky and who had not.

Lucky Die had lost her mojo, and it was killing something inside Mayor Mare.

But why would it bother her? So she had broke even. She hadn’t lost their livelihood or anything, they still had a roof and food. And it had been only one night. She could win easily enough from a few smoky alleys and hole-in-the-wall joints, provided she didn’t win too much. She could easily do that, but what she wanted to do more than anything was go back to that casino and break the bank. It was a stupid impulse, but it was there.

So I wasn't lucky. Big deal, right?

It was bad luck to mention luck, but Mayor Mare figured that if the Lady were a pony who had the capacity to be offended, she might as well get friendly with her and start calling her on a first-name basis. Mayor Mare, as with her rivals in the peak of their time, had always been lucky and simply lucky. That was how gambling worked. Nopony had a hand of cards or a stack of chips for cutie marks, nor did anypony ever come from a long line of professional gamblers (few married and even fewer taught their children). You’d get ponies destined to be carrot farmers or clerks or cloud kickers sitting at your table, winning with unbelievably good hands. Because gambling wasn’t about special talents, cutie marks nor destiny. It was about luck.

For some reason, it frightened her to think that she could not gamble well.

Next to her was a zebra. She had not been there when she got on the bus; she must have fallen into a half-sleep, which was not surprising considering her age. The six griffons, too, were gone, replaced by a couple of goats and more ponies. Above her, the bus lights had switched on. It was dim and relaxing, and the added space encouraged her to breathe a little more.

It doesn’t matter. It’s only one game, and you didn’t even need to play it. You could have gone to a small joint just as easily. No need to get so beat up about it.

I know. But I still can’t help feeling like this.

Why?

You know the answer. But you don’t want to. After all, these ponies are supposed to be not your ponies. And this game isn’t not supposed to be your game any longer.

Your lingering attachment, “Mayor”, is the cause. Because deep down, you never quit. You thought you were a good pony, but really, you're just hiding it under a mask. Nothing's changed.

The bus slowed to a crawl. Outside was a mess of neon lights, not just the red and orange and yellow of the bumpers and headlights, but also blue and green and pink and purple and all the colours the Maretopians thought were classy attached to their buggies and sedans. Moments later, distant honks began to filter in from behind, soon culminating into a sea of noise. Combined with the glazing lights, it was pure chaos. Motorcycles chugged dangerously close to the side of the bus, weaving through the gaps, sending fresh soot up Mayor Mare’s nostrils.

I’m not gambling for me. I’m gambling for us so that we can get home. Me and Pipsqueak. How bloody else do you expect to get the money?

You keep on telling yourself that, almost as if it were true.

It is!

Probably. Partially. But you know your heart. You know yourself.

Of course. I’m Mayor Mare.

And also Lucky Die.

Suddenly, the crawl revved up into a charge, and Mayor Mare felt the force lurch her forward. She heard the zebra mutter, “Damn drunks. Serves them right for getting knocked down, but bloody well inconveniences everyone else...”

I am also Lucky Die. What’s it to you? Mayor Mare asked herself. I can’t deny my past. I am who I am. You can’t just simply change your past. You can’t just simply run away.

Then you have no right to call yourself reformed.

Does reforming mean you just drop whoever you once were?

According to you, yes. Remember Sallytyne?

She refused to. She tried not to. But a strange, thick, musky scent wrapped itself around her like a shawl, and she found herself drifting to back then, almost thirty years ago...

Her with her pink mane, a permanent souvenir and curse from some zebra mercenary. Running through the quickly thinning night crowds, saddlebags heavy and dangling and making her sore. Her lungs burning, her eyes searing.

Sallytyne—oh, Sallytyne, the dearest stallion a mare could ever want, unsuspecting and yet so accepting when she finally confessed her identity to him; Sallytyne, who never touched a chip nor a drop of alcohol in his life, yet so much more dear to her than either. Keeping up alongside her. Frantic. She had never seen him like this before, his nostrils so flared and his eyes so scared—

And then the explosion, and another, and she was running wholeheartedly now, she could not even think about dodging, hiding, anything that would have helped her odds, she had never needed help improving her odds—

And then Sallytyne was hit, he had to be, because there was blood, but she never saw it, because she was still running, she did not even look back—

She had been the lucky one. The blast was that close to them. She had been the lucky one, and that meant that Sallytyne was not.

She had loved him. Even with his stupid name, that slow-looking grin of his, how amazingly honest he was, somehow still alive through slaving in a burger joint in the dank end of Maretopia’s factory district, Sevninreal. She had needed a place to hide. He hid her. And she fell in love.

She had been lucky to live, and she swore that she never wanted anything to do with gambling again.

He had told her once how worried he was, and she had so happily replied, “It’s who I am. It’s the way of life I’ve been handed. Some ponies know how to gamble, some ponies know how to cheat, but some ponies are just lucky. And I’m the luckiest of them all.”

And he had not said a thing, he had bit his lip instead of sighing and whispering in her ear like he always did, “No, because what would that make me?”

And she had sworn. She had sworn on it, on him, on the motherland of her childhood and the Princesses that ruled it, on everything that could be sworn upon under the heavens, and she had forgotten.

---

When she next stirred, it was to an irritated bus driver standing in front of her.

“This is the last stop,” he said. “Get off.”

Mayor Mare nodded dumbly and complied, ignoring the bus driver muttering, “Hobos,” as he went back into the driver’s seat, slamming the safety grille with a vengeance.

Where was she now? She was surrounded by neon lights and bars and creatures of minimalist fashion in the middle of a busy sidewalk, some other corner of the central, most likely.

Eyes sore, she made her way to the other side of the road and looked for the bus that would take her back. She had brought only a little money with her; if she had to, she could cheat a cabbie out of his full fare, with some friendly assistance from Mr. Knife. She had never done it before, but she had heard of it, and if it was so common, it would not be too hard.

The bag of cranberries were still in her mouth. It was almost empty. She felt sick, but couldn’t bear to throw them away. So along they came. A few minutes later, the grunting vehicle pulled up.

A brief look at the clock display at the driver’s seat told her it was two-thirty. What would Pipsqueak say if she strolled in at such an ungodly hour? What would her own mother say, bless her, if she were still alive? Mayor Mare wouldn’t know; she hadn’t seen her since her final visit to the little cottage in the glen, just before joining the second-ever Maretopian Poker Championships and starting her life of turbulence.

Myoar Mare placed a few remii on to the counter. “I’m going the long trip,” she muttered. “Keep the change.” After locating a seat, a griffon came on board and sat in the opposite aisle. He was dressed in a neat suit and tie, and his feathers were sleek and oiled. One of his claws was not gloved.

The bus rumbled into movement. It was just the two of them.

“Dried cranberries,” noted the griffon after a while of pointedly looking away. Mayor Mare let herself glance at him.

The griffon smiled. It was made awkward by his beak, but it seemed well-meaning enough. “Just... I helped some kid get some dried cranberries yesterday. Thought it a coincidence is all.”

Mayor Mare felt a chill creep up her spine. She believed in coincidence all right, except she called it luck. “Really?” she asked aloud. “Nice of you to help little kids.”

“I wasn’t planning to, to be honest. But there was something about him. Lost, I think, in the middle of the night on Watcherbay Street.” The griffon sniggered. “If only there were more kids like him.”

Perhaps chasing up this lead wasn’t such a bad idea. “What did he look like?” asked Mayor Mare casually.

“Couldn’t see too well in the dark, but he had a patch over his eye. Brown patch, over the left,” said the griffon. “Why? Do you know him?”

Mayor Mare paused and gave it some thought. He didn’t seem dangerous; if he was, he would have avoided her until her back was turned. Attackers didn’t like it when you could see their face clearly. It made it easier to identify them in a line-up. That was, of course, if the attackers didn’t intend for the victim to die.

“He’s my nephew,” said Mayor Mare, settling on the truth, for a given value of truth.

“Oh! Just my luck then, huh?” exclaimed the griffon, evidently pleased.

“No, no, the pleasure is mine,” said Mayor Mare, nodding graciously. “Thank you so much for taking care of him. I was worried when he had slipped out while I was taking a nap, I told him not to go out on his own but, well.” She added a suitably elderly-sounding laugh. “Kids.”

“Fair enough,” nodded the griffon. He pursed his beak, and then continued, “What’s his name? You don’t have to say if you don’t want to, of course.”

“Pipsqueak,” replied Mayor Mare. “And you can call me Mayo—Mayonnaise. Yes. Nice to meet you.”

“Ferriham,” said the grifffon with another nod. “So what brings you out so late at night, Mayonnaise?”

“I needed a walk. I have insomnia,” said Mayor Mare.

“And you walked all the way here?” laughed Ferriham. “That must be some pretty bad insomnia.”

“Heh, yeah,” said Mayor Mare, inwardly cursing herself. “Well, I cheated a bit by taking the bus.”

“We all have our reasons,” agreed Ferriham. He was leaning forward now in a relaxed manner; he really did look the part of an executive. His black trousers even had a sheen to them. “Myself, I don’t like flying this late. A lot of the baser changelings take to the skies around now. Love-stealing, or something.”

“They do?” asked Mayor Mare.

“Yeah. They’re so easy to bang into, what with being pitch black, and you’d think that having holes in their legs would make them whistle, but no, they’re as silent as the grave,” said Ferriham, shaking his head. “Next thing you know, it’s a collision. There really needs to be legislation on those.”

“I, ah, sympathize,” said Mayor Mare, feeling uncomfortable. He was uncannily friendly, and in Maretopia of all places. Even in Ponyville she rarely had conversations at all. “But it’s better than walking, at least, right? Flying.”

Somehow, the conversation drifted on as the bus swam through the jungle of structures and signboards. Mayor Mare was getting sleepy, and trying to find topics was an increasingly difficult task, until at last Ferriham said:

“Forgive me if I’m blunt, and you don’t need to answer this, but tell me: do you know of a certain pony named Copper Mast?”

The lull Mayor Mare had sank into suddenly cleared and she shot up. “Do you?”

“I do.” Ferriham nodded gravely. “I owe him a debt. Helped me get across the sea to find my sister and took us back too, and not for a penny. Back when I was still a desk chick. Had to work my ass off working with the crew, tying up the sails and things, but I got off light enough.” He lowered his head and ruffled his feathers. “Truth be told, that’s kinda why I helped Pipsqueak last night. He reminded me of him, like a miniature version of Copper Mast. Even the brown patch looks similar. I dunno. I just... you know?”

Her brain was working hard now, struggling against the heaviness that was setting once again in her eyes. In a quiet voice, she asked, “Do you know where he is now?”

“No,” said Ferriham, “I wanted to ask you that.”

“Pipsqueak isn’t his son, you know,” said Mayor Mare smoothly. “But he is related. He’s Copper Mast’s brother’s nephew, or something. Quite distant.”

“Which makes you related to the captain?”

“Through marriage,” said Mayor Mare a little too flatly.

“Ah.” Ferriham nodded sagely, and his face became overcast.

“Mind if I ask why you were going over the sea?” said Mayor Mare kindly. “Sounds like quite the adventure.”

“Adventure?” Ferriham seemed to roll the word in his mouth, then spit it out. “You could call it that, yes. You’re from Equestria, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” replied Mayor Mare easily, “we’re from Navelthorough.”

“Explains the accent,” shrugged Ferriham. “Anyways, my sister, she always wanted to live in Equestria. Never liked it here, never liked it in the mountains. Who could blame her?” The smile on his face turned bitter. “Maretopia’s a shithole, and she wanted out.

“Ma left us and Dad died, so we lived with our uncle. Middle class family in the Kingdom, honestly not too bad. I helped him in the fishery, he sent her off to some flight camp in Cloudsdale, because truth be told, he couldn’t be happier about having to feed one less mouth. She wouldn’t tell me until later on, but she was bullied pretty badly, and tried to tell the counselors but nobody would listen to her. No offense, but pegasi are pretty flaky when it comes to responsibility. Personal experience.”

The ungloved claw flexed and clenched.

“So she tried to bear it, finish the camp, and almost would’ve, but then an accident happened. Somepony fell through the cloud layer down to the ground. It was some wimp who couldn’t even fly, sis told me, but because of the fiasco the camp got cancelled. And the administrators were in serious hot water, because, fuck, a pegasi dropping through the clouds?” He was almost shouting now. He remembered himself, but the scowl remained. He looked keenly at Mayor Mare, who was resisting the urge to gulp. “Do you know what they did?”

Mayor Mare could barely shake her head.

“They told the parents it was Gilda’s fault.” The eyes were now pinpoints, harbours of a cold, controlled fury. “My sister, bloody well bullied and then blamed for something she didn’t do. As if the pegasi couldn’t accept the fact that one of them couldn’t fucking fly!

“Of course she was sent back in disgrace. Uncle never heard a thing, he just thought she failed, and gave her the usual disdain for it. But it did something to Gilda, and she was never the same. Always moody, angry. Got into a lot of fights with Uncle, until one day she ran away from home. Uncle had about enough, so he turned me out too.” The scowl softened and Ferriham took a deep breath. When he next spoke, his tone was almost wistful. “I chased after her. Found her. We did odd jobs here and there. Mostly manual labour. Griffons are tough nuts, after all. We rented a pokey one-room apartment for way too much.” He sighed, and the air turned cold. Mayor Mare shivered.

“One day we had an argument. Gilda wasn’t a kid anymore, but she was far too young to be out on her own. But she ran away anyways. Took what money she had, ran to her friend’s. Ranbo-something. Ponyville. Nice-sounding place, but you wouldn’t believe it...”

A clammy silence set itself in Mayor Mare’s hearing like wet concrete. Ferriham was retelling with a bitterness only a brother could bear, but she knew the story already. She had been there. She had watched as Pinkie Pie pulled prank after prank on Gilda. She had wondered whether to step in, but they were grown mares, for goodness’ sake, or so she had told herself. And the next thing she knew, Gilda was gone.

She could see nothing but Twilight Sparkle and her friends hugging and partying and rejoicing the departure of the bully. Congratulating Rainbow Dash for humiliating and breaking off with the griffon, whose only friend she was.

Ferriham mumbled something about how he had found her at last in the mountains, and how he had made his way back, but Mayor Mare was feeling too cold to process it any further.

“Do you know of Ponyville? Have you been there before?”

“I haven’t,” said Mayor Mare softly. “Listen, I’m so, so sorry about—”

“What good would it do?” snorted Ferriham. “What’s done is done. And it wasn’t your fault.”

No, thought Mayor Mare. It was.

“The simple truth is that as good as Equestria is, it’s only for ponies,” said Ferriham sadly. “With names like Ponyville, you think you’d be able to tell, but then you learn the hard way. Griffons are rough cuts, intimidating, scary, flesh-eating creatures. We’re monsters, if you believe half the things ponies say about us. Not including present company, of course.” He cradled his head in his claws. “That kid of yours, Pipsqueak. I told him I ate ponies, and you know what he said?”

“Tell me.”

“He said I wouldn’t because if I wanted to, I’d have done so! He didn’t believe that anything ate ponies. And he made me thankful, for the first time in my life, that I didn’t eat Ranbo and her friends like I wanted to.” The ungloved claw flexed once more and teased at the glove. He looked at Mayor Mare. “He’s such a child, but somehow, I wish more ponies were like him. Him and Copper Mast.”

“Believe me when I say that I wish that too,” murmured Mayor Mare.

“Promise me that you’ll take care of him. Raise him up properly,” said Ferriham. He looked outside the window and stood up. “It’s... it’s been a pleasure talking with you, miss Mayonnaise. I’m sorry for just... I don’t know what’s gotten into me. One drink too many.” He grinned slyly, but she could tell it was a bluff. He hardly smelled of alcohol.

“He’s actually my friend’s nephew,” Mayor Mare managed to say.

“Right,” nodded Ferriham, and winked.

The game was up. But Mayor Mare felt that she had to do something.

“Are you... happy here? Is your sister okay?”

“Ma’am, this is Maretopia,” said Ferriham bluntly. “I’ve got a job and Gilda’s getting an education, and that’s as good as it gets, but I’d leave this place in a heartbeat.”

“Then you could try and visit Ponyville again!” said Mayor Mare, standing up as well. “I mean, I’m the—I’ve got an unused house there. You could drop by, and maybe I could show you around, and maybe—”

“Thanks for the offer,” said Ferriham, smiling wistfully, “but that won’t do. Ponyville just isn’t a place for a griffon. There simply isn’t much place else a griffon can be except for here. Good night, miss Mayonnaise.”

Before Mayor Mare could swallow the lump in her throat, Ferriham got off the bus, never to be seen again.

The rest of the trip was the chilliest fifteen minutes she had ever spent in Maretopia. She spent it in sullen, silent thought.

It was simple. The answer had been there all along.

She had been distracted by the lights, the crowds, the filth. She had tasted, and lost, power. It was the power to win and to rub it in her enemies’ faces, and to stand on a mental pedestal high above the drunks and prostitutes because unlike them, she was lucky. It was petty pride; she had been a sore loser. It was injured ego that made her yearn for the casino once more. Lucky Die not being lucky? It was an attack on her very identity, an offense demanding to be justified, and that was almost reasonable, except it wasn’t hers any more.

She had also restarted for good reasons. But she had also quit for good reasons too.

Feeling bad for losing was natural. So was feeling guilty for feeling bad. It was the two halves of her vying for attention. It was, ultimately, merely petty. She had never truly dropped her past nor her present, even though she said she would; she had simply tucked them away, as it were, until they were needed, because deep down, past the shrewd negotiator or the ruthless gambler, she was practical, and saw that there was still use for it yet. In a way, she was hiding behind a mask. But it was more like changing shifts. Same company building, different guard at the door. And she could see how petty she had been, could see everything now, because of the simple, sobering effect of seeing somebody else’s bigger problems.

She was Lucky Die. But she was also Mayor Mare. The point was that it didn’t matter who she was; what mattered now was what she did, and she could sort out her identity issues later, in the comfort of her office and a quart of Golden Delight.

Perhaps, eventually, Lucky Die would finally die. There was no place in Ponyville for somepony who lived on something as fickle as luck, and she did not intend to return to Maretopia ever again if she could help it. But until then, Lucky Die would keep playing, as long as they needed the winnings. And it wasn’t as if she couldn’t win. There was no need for the self-condemnation. Gambling was something that simply had to be done, and she was the only pony who could do it.

What mattered was what she did. And what she had to do now was get Pipsqueak home.

It was almost painful, how easy Pipsqueak was to read. The poor lad was bored out of his skull, and he would be very happy to hear that they were moving on. And the thought of that put a smile on Mayor Mare's face as the bus zoomed on, taking her to where she needed to be.

Comments

[NaiKujibo]

I kind of like the Mayor chapters more than the Pipsqueak chapters.

[Firebirdbtops]

well done, and what an interesting hint towards Pip's father's real character.

[PresentPerfect]

I think my current reaction is sitting dumbstruck after having been raked through a row of hot headcanon. I need to mull this one over; that was a lot to take in all at once!

[Sea Song]

A beautiful encounter that puts yourself in context with others in a new and enlightening way - such things are worth savouring, and you have certainly done so with this fantastic chapter. Your Mayor Mare is such a good character! I'm impressed - this is raising your already high bar, in my opinion. I'll look forward to your updates!