Conference Call

Inspiration

Conference Call

I wake up, my head throbbing. The fandom was certainly enthusiastic, if nothing else. For the first time in years, I feel like an irresponsible college student ditching class to go party. But now con appearances are expected of me and part of my job, in a way. Writers never know when a job might fall out, so a bit of self-promotion is never out of place. And if you can have fun at the same time, more power to you.

Still, this type of "promotion" is draining to say the least. At the moment I'm wondering if attending the rave was a particularly good idea. I'm an old man now, even compared to most of the con-goers. Some of the parents there even asked me if I was there with my kids. No, I don't have any kids. Well, yes, I do like the show, by default almost. I'm more here on business, you could say. What kind of business? Well, you see...

After persuading myself out of bed, I make my way down the narrow, wooden stairs to the kitchen, start up the coffee, then head back up to my bedroom to make myself presentable. I have an important appointment this morning and, despite the entreaties of my aching head, it's time to get to work. I can smell the roasting coffee as I adjust my tie in the mirror. My profession isn't particularly known for its affluence, but I do have a few good outfits that at least let me look important. Working from home, I don't make a habit of dressing up in anything more professional than PJs, but certain clients require a more dignified and polished appearance.

I'm in a mood for a solid plate of bacon and eggs, but that probably won't be such a good idea this morning, all things considered. I instead pop a couple of bagels in the old metal toaster, multitasking making breakfast and readying everything for my "conference call." I tidy up the counter and the petite, yellow kitchen table to make room for my work things before scooting the table to the side to make more room in the center of the compact kitchen. I get out some jam, cream cheese, a couple of plates with silverware, a thick piece of chalk... By the time I'm done drawing the circle the bagels are nice and toasty. I spread out the cream cheese on mine as I speak the incantation.

The air over the circle shivers and ripples, aligning itself with the other side. I take a bite of my bagel, inspecting the phenomenon. Sometimes the process takes a while and requires some gentle prodding, but this time the gate quickly snaps into place with sudden clarity. A bright background comes into view within the tear in space that has settled in the middle of my kitchen. Fabrics and sewing materials can be seen strewn about the room on the other side. I hope I didn't catch my guest at an inconvenient time. A quick glance to the antiquated clock on the wall reassures me I'm on time. I frown over my coffee, seeing a particularly pampered and well-groomed cat slide its head into view for a peek.

"That's a very important client, Opal, don't bother him." A refined voice wafts unseen from the rip. A moment later my guest steps forward. She shoos the cat away before stepping seamlessly from her world to ours.

"Good morning, Rarity."

"Good morning," she greets, taking a seat at the table. "I must say, you are looking rather nice today. The variety of your outfits never fails to astound me!" I serve her bagel in front of her with a side of butter and jam. She levitates a knife and delicately spreads a pat of butter over her bagel, then dabs a minute amount of preserve before taking the daintiest of bites. I have to admit, seeing magic done like this makes me a bit jealous. No circles, no incantations, no tedious preparations. Just natural, effortless intuition.

"Thank you, I try," I accept modestly.

"So I take it you've restocked since last time, Mr. Markel?" she asks. I smile knowingly, gesturing behind her. She turns around and sets eyes on a large wooden trunk behind the portal she'd stepped in from. "I'll take that as a 'yes,' then," she says, making her way over. A blue aura surrounds the lid of the box, pulling it up. A rainbow of color spills out as soon as the trunk cracks open, lighting up the room. Interestingly, I note some reflected light shining through into my client's workshop in her world.

"Will that be satisfactory payment?" I ask somewhat smugly.

"Oh... Oh my." Rarity gazes from one corner of the trunk to the other. It's filled to the brim with a well-stocked collection of rare and exotic gems. She carefully lifts up a sample and brings it in close to examine it. "It will indeed!" Slowly, she sets the jewel back where it was and turns to face me. "Sadly, I only have the one story to tell you this time. I cannot allow myself to accept all of this for merely that."

I take a sip of my coffee before responding. The arrangement between Rarity and I is a simple one: I trade her gems that I've acquired through... various means in exchange for a moment of her time and having her tell me the occasional story or two or twenty-six. It's mutually beneficial and takes care of my needs quite well. However, there's a question that I've been dying to ask the unicorn since our last meet-up.

"Rarity, I hope you don't take this the wrong way," I tentatively begin, raising my cup, "but this time I have a slightly different... proposition in mind." She looks over at me with a shocked expression that quickly melts into a self-satisfied smile.

"My dear," she scoffs with a toss of her mane. "I do think you'd need a bit more than a box of trinkets for something like that!" She pauses a moment in her dramatic indignation before casting a wistful glance back at the treasure trove behind her. I take another, longer sip of my coffee before moving ahead with the conversation.

"Actually," I resume, "I wanted to see if you could arrange a conversation between me and your friend Twilight. For a while now I've been intrigued by unicorn magic and, from what I've heard from you, it sounds like she's somewhat an expert on the subject."

Rarity awkwardly clears her throat and considers for a moment. "Ah, well, that's a bit different then, isn’t it?" She crinkles her brow with a moment's thought. "I certainly don't see why not. I imagine she'd be thrilled by the opportunity." She retakes her seat at the table and takes on a serious expression. "However, as much as our dealings have been both profitable and delightful, I cannot, in good faith, send Twilight to the home of a veritable stranger. No offense intended, of course, Mr. Markel."

I admit, I expected some initial resistance to the idea. To be fair, I'd been practically interrogating my guest in past visits on her many adventures, but nowhere near that amount of information had flowed in the opposite direction. To simplify matters when dealing with my various "suppliers," I assume the guise of a collector and purveyor of tales and stories. It's close enough to the truth, any which way you slice it.

"I can understand that, but the venture is purely academic," I explain in soothing tones. "If you only have the one tale for me today, that's fine. Consider the rest a bonus for putting in a good word with Twilight for me. If she doesn't wish to come, then I won't press the issue."

"You're not planning anything… shady, are you, sir?" She casts a dubious look in my direction.

My only reply is a teasing grin, albeit quickly allayed.

"Even if I were, your Twilight could blast me into next Tuesday if she ever felt the inclination. I'm sure she'd definitely be capable of handling a minor charlatan such as myself."

Much to my chagrin, this is not a bluff, nor a ruse, nor any sort of duplicitous manipulation on my part. I've seen power, and I know enough to know I don't have it. If we were being generous, we could describe my talents as modest, and I would hesitate to say even that. This is the greater part of my reason to speak with Twilight: I've been aching to learn more about impromptu casting, and unicorn magic seems to nail the arcane nail on the head. As it is, in most cases I have to depend on memorized incantations and pre-planned rituals in order to get anything done around here. It just takes so much time, and everything has to be just right, and by the time you're done setting up even the simplest spell the whole day's gone by. And yeah, I know, I can hear people whining already… Hey buddy, nobody wants to hear you complain about your First World magical problems. Don't you know there are starving children in Africa that are going without any magic powers right now? Yeah, well okay, sorry. My heart bleeds for all you non-magic folk. Really.

"Mr. Markel, you do yourself a discredit," Rarity politely offers. She considers briefly, then replies. "Very well. I'll inform Twilight of your wish to speak with her and share in your admirable pursuit of magical knowledge," she says with a dramatic flair, followed by a slight roll of the eyes. "I'm sure she'll be only all too eager."

"Excellent, so it's a deal, then," I announce. Rarity nods her affirmation. "Now on to our usual business," I begin. "You said you had a story for me?"

Rarity's genial demeanor changes drastically at the reminder.

"Yes, yes I do," she says with a heavy reluctance. She takes a long, healthy look back at the trunk full of gems, as if to steel herself. "I just don't see how these stories always end up being so embarrassing to me…" I lean forward, my fork dangling idly from my fingers. I do still remember the ordeal with the Best Young Flier's Competition. As mortifying it may have been to Rarity here, it sure did turn out to be a fan favorite.

"I'm not here to judge," I reassure her, despite my mischievous grin. Somehow my assurances have failed to comfort my guest, as she glares at me from across the table.

"As you may know," she grudgingly starts, "Pinkie and myself have not typically have had the closest of relationships. To be frank, I couldn't count on one hoof the things we have in common…"

"…and after the beast had been bested and everypony was safely accounted for, I realized that you may not always have the world in common with your friends, or even see them every day, but that doesn't have to mean you care for each other any less," she finishes. "I'm just glad that ordeal turned out for the best. If Pinkie and I hadn't reached an understanding just then, I simply don't know what we would've done!"

I look up from my notepad and smile at her. It truly was a heartfelt story, but, then again, I can't truthfully say I haven't been moved by her tales before. Sometimes I have to remind myself that these events really are happening over on her side, albeit universes away. I feel a slight twinge of guilt at exploiting my client's sincerity, but it is quickly quashed by the force of repetitive routine. I finish up scribbling the last of my notes down.

"I think I have it all," I tell her. Rarity lets out a sigh of reprieve at having finished her tale. Both our breakfasts have long since vanished, our cups carrying the remnants of cold coffee.

"In that case, I'll be off," she says, her brow creasing slightly in concentration as a blue light envelopes the wooden trunk full of jewels. Would Twilight blink an eye at the effort? I suppose I'll just have to wait to find that out. "Thank you, Mr. Markel, I look forward to our next meeting."

"Likewise," I put forward. "And on Twilight Sparkle?" Rarity floats the trunk into her workshop with no small effort, relaxing only when it sets down with a hefty thud.

"I'll make it a point to discuss the matter with her." She must see something in my face, because she continues with a shining smile. "Trust me, sir, I will paint you in the best possible light!"

I watch the white pony saunter back into her workshop. After she has gone, I utter the words to break off the connection. I wait for the window to the other world to abruptly fade to transparency before toeing the now-vulnerable circle of chalk, interrupting the leylines of force. Grabbing my notepad, I walk up the creaky stairs to my office. I plop down into my chair and swivel to face my other magical portal, clicking hurriedly on the mouse, rudely waking up my computer. With a hum and a persistent yet mysterious plinking noise, the computer rouses from its slumber, the screen flickering to life.

If I were the more productive sort, I'd immediately log into my account and send off the latest episode. How responsible. As it goes, however, the next couple of hours are spent dicking around my prerequisite list of various websites before I can actually get anything done.

In between friend-list updates and internet Best-Of articles, I'm able to mold Rarity's rough personal accounts into a coherent script with a clear and concise introduction, intermission, and denouement, all topped off with a classic Letter-To-The-Princess.

At this point, some people may justly wonder why I even bother at all. I admit that to some, my life must seem like some bizarre Rube Goldberg machine. I venture forth to foreign lands to trade and barter for exotic goods, then return home where aforementioned commodities would net me a guaranteed fortune or a Nobel Prize at the very least. Yet in lieu of cashing in like any sane person might do, given the circumstances, I meander into yet another reality to trade off these treasures in exchange for… stories? Tales and recollections? Which I then take no small amount of time and effort to craft into cartoons and children's books? Why would anyone go through this, some people might wonder? Well, if you're the sort that sees the culmination of life as owning the biggest and best stuff, then maybe you'll have some trouble understanding this next part.

Gold is worthless in a gold mine, as one old proverb goes. In all its many forms, money is merely a means to an end, and, unlike many others, my end destination isn't "get more money." I think that's actually the starting point, if you ask me. I have enough to make sure my needs are taken care of, and I enjoy what I do. Besides, I've grown fond of the bohemian image the lifestyle of a writer often necessitates.

Leaning back in my chair, I let my mind drift off. I take another look over the words in front of me, mulling over plot and dialog. It's not always the easiest thing, transcribing interviews into workable, marketable pieces, but thankfully this instance is fairly straightforward. Yes, for all my disregard of traditional work-ethic, this is hard work. Don't tell anyone.

Eventually, I get the narrative sorted out and sent to the show runner. Pending minor edits, the episode should be good as is. It isn't always as easy as this, though. For all its sugary sweetness, on any given day Equestria can out-grit any reality show MTV has to offer. The real world of Equestria isn't always so family-friendly as we see on Saturday mornings, but I consider it all part of the job to make sure things stay relatively G-rated. After a hard day of editing, slacking off, and more "editing," I lean forward to grab a book I've been working on.

A loud noise interrupts my slumber.

The light is on. Funny, I can't even remember falling asleep. I look outside the window in front of me and all I see is darkness. I grab my cell phone, wincing from aching muscles, the consequence of falling asleep in my office chair. Four in the morning…

There's a crashing noise downstairs. It wasn't just part of a dream. I have wards on my house to protect from break-ins, which you'd think would be reassuring, but this information only serves to narrow the possibilities down to things actually strong enough to break through those wards. One or more of which could be downstairs in my kitchen right now. I quickly consider my options. Oh yeah, there's the Staff of Obli… ah, wait, that's downstairs… Then maybe the Ring of Annihi… damnit, that's shut away in a box in the basement, isn't it?

I grab a bat from under the bed.

Voices drift from downstairs, setting me on edge. I peer into the doorway leading into the stairway. Between the bright light of my bedroom and the pitch black encompassing the lower level of my house, I can't see further than a few feet. This all does not make for a very persuading case to explore downstairs. Still, something must be done.

I scoot downstairs along the staircase beside the wall, bat in hand. My steps are painstakingly slow as I will the steps not to creak. What is this thing? My mind races, thinking of the various worlds I've exploit-… ah, explored. But why would they come here? I usually work as the middle-man, really. I can't imagine how any inhabitant could be upset at the slight use of their entire reality for personal profit. Quickly, I run through my mental rolodex; did I owe anyone (or anything) money?

I wince as a step creeeeaks beneath my foot. The vague whisperings immediately cease. My grip tightens.

Gearing up my guts, I take my bat and charge down screaming the rest of the steps into the darkness. A frightened girly cry mimics my own, and a bright purple light erupts forth and sends me crashing into the wall behind me.

The Fuzz

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Inspiration

The Fuzz

With a groan, I open my eyes to a soft, stable glow illuminating my kitchen. I can hear two voices talking to each other. As I stir, they stop and focus on me.

"Ohmygoodness, are you okay?" I hear. I look up, seeing a purple unicorn standing over me with a pink, floofy companion at her side. My head pulses with the shock from being knocked into my kitchen wall. My ears are ringing; not just ringing, but it feels like bells and alarms are going off around me. The vision of the two ponies before me swims as I attempt to rise. I must be hallucinating. Wait, no. Talking ponies exist. Not hallucinating. With some effort I stand up, leaning heavily on the wall. I blink my eyes slowly, checking to make sure they're still firmly secured in my head.

"I think so," I say after another steadying moment. I run my fingers over my head, wincing when I feel the back of my skull. Oh, that's gonna be a nice bump.

"I'm so sorry, you just jumped out of nowhere! I really didn't mean to hurt you," the purple one says, leaning forward.

"That's… fine," I say absently as I take an experimental step forward and make several distressing discoveries simultaneously:

1. Walking makes the floor, walls, and ceiling move in an unpleasant and nauseating fashion.

2. I've just stepped in a puddle.

a. I've just stepped in a puddle in my kitchen.

b. Puddles don't belong in kitchens.

3. A small explosion seems to have demolished the general area, including sink, fridge, cabinets, etc. (further surveying to continue when world stops moving).

4. The world hates me.

a. This observation is not exclusive to this world and may not preclude the enmity of other worlds, as has been demonstrated by my two guests.

This is too much. I sit back down with a sad and defeated splish. "What happened here?" I feel a certain detachment between my body and my brain, and my voice comes out sounding dazed and distant. The purple pony, Twilight Sparkle, I'm assuming, answers.

"I think it may have been due to a misalignment with the location identifiers. I thought I'd calibrated everything correctly, but I think the spell may need some, er…" She lifts up a soaked hoof, "adjustments." Somewhere in my head a response is stirring. I give a neutral groan in the meantime.

"Hey, are you sure you're okay, mister?" The bright pink pony steps forward, eyes full of concern. She's wearing a pink and black frilly (if now somewhat damp) dress. "C 'mon, look at me! How many hooves am I holding up?"

"Uh." I concentrate my eyes on the singular appendage. "One."

"Congratulations!" she says, beaming. "You pass with flying colors!" Her smile fades as she turns back to her friend, letting out a low whistle. "Wow, Twilight, you walloped him good." Twilight winces in embarrassment, then walks over to inspect me herself. She presses a hoof against the side of my head and gives a token pause for my implicit compliance. She then gently handles my head with a calm medical detachment, looking into my eyes and feeling around my skull.

"There don't seem to be any fractures, but I'm hesitant to give any solid diagnosis," she says after a moment. "If I were to go off pony medical standards, I'd say he has a concussion," she says after a moment.

I groan in response. I think this is a fair amount of communication, considering the situation.

Twilight looks around her, evidently seeing something of importance, because soon I see her horn surround itself in undulating waves of light. "Alright," Twilight says to me, "just keep still." A soft, warm light envelopes me and lifts me up, much to the immediate displeasure of my stomach. I twist in midair and vomit unceremoniously onto the kitchen floor. I am promptly lowered down. "Okay, okay!" Twilight says. "No moving. Definitely no moving." She looks up, her horn glowing again. I brace myself in anticipation of being raised up again, but this time I thankfully remain stationary. I push myself up to my previous sitting position up against the wall and try to get my thoughts in order. In the meantime, several of my couch cushions fly out of my living room, floating over to gently prod against me.

"Excuse me, can you lift yourself for a moment?" Twilight requests. I comply, pushing myself a bit off the floor, enough for the cushions to slide under me. I lie back on the floor, my head now supported against the floor by a soft pillow. I relax a little, feeling a bit better.

Twilight lets out a sigh of relief and steps back. "Well, that's one problem out of the way." She looks up and down and around the room and furrows her brow.

"Twilight?" Pinkie says. "What are we gonna do?"

"I don't know. I just need a moment to think." She turns and faces towards the center of the kitchen, where my gate to Rarity's boutique is usually wont to manifest. "I saw the seam between the worlds and I made a proper pathway. It shouldn't have collapsed, but, I admit, I could definitely have been off about the force of the vacuum. And everything was blown outwards, not sucked in. Is it a vacuum at all, or-"

"Twilight?" Pinkie interrupted. "I know you're excited about all the sciencey stuff, but it's not really a good party if somepony's lying on the floor throwing up." Twilight looks at her a moment, then back at me. "Usually," the pink pony finishes.

"Yes. You are right. I need to make sure you're taken care of," Twilight says to me, giving one more searching gaze to the blast zone. "I've just never seen anything like this before... No, nevermind about that. I should've taken better precautions, especially with my first time attempting a spell of that magnitude. I'm really sorry about that..."

"It happens." I weakly wave away her apology.

"I need a place to think, although preferably someplace quieter than out here. Is there any place I can go to concentrate?" I close my eyes to think.

"In the basement, there's a chest…"

"Oh hey! It stopped!" Pinkie trots over to the front door, visible from my kitchen. And yes, something had stopped. Compared to just a moment ago, my home is now relatively quiet, and oh, it feels just so much better.

"What… What's going on?" Twilight says. Her voice sounds so loud now! Had we all been shouting? I turn over onto my front and estimate my ability to get up. With all the noise gone, my head feels much more clear. I don't know why I didn't notice it before? Perhaps it just fit so well in all the general chaos that was going on.

"I think I feel a bit better. How long was I out for?" I ask.

"Five minutes or less, I believe," she says. That's an alarming amount of time for just a concussion. I briefly wonder if her spell disables its targets, but I force my sluggish mind to move onto other issues. "What was all that noise just now?" Twilight asks again.

"The explosion must have set off the car alarms in the neighborhood." If that's the case, then I really do need to get up and about. Slowly and carefully, I hoist myself up.

"I don't know what a… car alarm is, but you should really lie down," Twilight advises as Pinkie comes back into the kitchen.

"Oh hey, you're up! But you should really be down."

"No, I'm fine for now, but I need to get you two out of here."

"You mean back to Equestria?" Twilight asks.

"No, just out of here," I say, gesturing around the kitchen with my free arm, leaning against the wall with my other. "There's too much to explain right now, but I'll fill you two in later. First, you need to follow me." Twilight gives me a skeptical look, then makes a decision, stepping in line behind me.

"Well, Rarity says we can trust you, and she's a good judge of character."

"She's an okay judge of character," Pinkie says, "but you seem like a swell guy!" I start down a hallway from the kitchen, followed by the two ponies. "Plus you didn't even yell at us for exploding your kitchen." I turn and look past her at the blast zone that had been my kitchen not an hour since. Even from here I can make out chips and splinters of my yellow kitchen table stuck in the wall like deadly shrapnel. Pinkie beams at me.

"…We'll talk about that later."

I open a door at the end of the hallway and lead my guests down a flight of stairs to my rather plain basement. Cluttered shelves lean against the walls, but that's not what I'm here for. I stumble over to a large wood and metal chest. The chest is beaten and weathered and generally unremarkable, save for being perhaps a bit larger than what one might imagine. It'd make a nice feature at an antique store.

Secured to the wall is a small wooden panel with several keys hanging in a row. I grab one and kneel to open the chest.

"What is this?" Twilight says, peering into the chest. She sees a stone staircase descending well past ground level. The staircase is well lit and quickly grows wider once you clear the relatively narrow entrance. I'm glad to see it seems to have been unaffected by the magical explosion. With an excited gasp she asks, "Is this an artificially created space?"

"Yes. Get in it."

"I still don't know anything about what's going on," she says. I rub my temples, alleviating the frustration of having to repeat myself.

"I can't explain everything, but you have to hide for a bit and the safest place is in my laboratory down there."

"You have a laboratory?" Twilight lifts a hoof, but stops there. Pinkie taps my waist urgently.

"Uh, mister, I think those noises are starting up again." I take a moment to listen. Sure enough, I can hear the faint but growing sounds of sirens.

"Alright, we are officially out of time. Get in, get in, watch your head," I say, ushering the ponies in. Before I can shut the lid, Twilight turns back to me.

"You know, maybe I can help?"

"No, no thank you. Just get down there and, whatever you do, don't touch any of the equipment!" I say, raising my voice at the end so the descending form of Pinkie can hear.

"Equipment? What equipment?" Twilight's eyes light up.

"Oh, all kinds!" I say. With a gasp, she turns to hurry down the stairs like a kid scurrying off to a candy shop. "Just don't touch anything!"

With those two out of the way, I come back up, closing the basement door behind me. The sirens grow in intensity for a minute or so; I can tell from the throbbing in my brain that they're pretty close, in the neighborhood, even. Moving to the front of the house, I open the door and peek outside. The sirens have stopped, but I see what appears to be a couple of cop cars, a fire truck, and an ambulance all further down the block. It looks like cops are going door to door, investigating homes. That was a much faster response time than I expected, but I suppose words like "bomb" and "explosive ordnance" really get people moving nowadays.

I go and pick up the couch cushions and the bat, depositing them back in the living room. I hastily clear anything that could be seen from the front door, including my vomity mess from earlier. There's only so much damage control that can be done, though. Looking at the blasted linoleum and the growing pond that has installed itself in my kitchen, I realize that any attempts at concealment are futile. If only I had a charming yellow table I could cover all that up with.

I look around for anything else to prepare. My eyes land on the water sprinkling out from under the sink. I'd slap myself if it wouldn't send my head spinning. Kneeling down in front of the sink, I reach behind the bent pipes and twist a couple of knobs until I stop getting drizzled with water. Standing up and steadying myself against the sink, I look down at myself and my drenched clothes. Nothing suspicious here, no sir.

The idea of a raid is not new to me. Current pony fugitives aside, I've always been a man with plenty to hide, so I've built up various contingencies ahead of time. Don't get me wrong; I've never (mostly never) been involved in anything illegal (anything particularly illegal), but that doesn't make me a fan of any level of the executive branch. There are always too many questions. Thankfully, the pre-built mental pathways I've prepped for this moment are a blessing with my current debilitation. From what I saw outside, I have a few minutes before the authorities reach my home. I go into my living room to lay down on the couch and plan out the rest of the morning.

Straight up denial is the most obvious course of action, and dismissed just as fast as the idea comes. With law enforcement, I'm well within my rights to deny any entry to my humble abode, but soon enough in their investigation they'd infer the source of the explosion and then they'd be in the house and poking about, regardless of what I had to say in the matter. If I actually let them in, however…

With a rough plan in mind, I get up and weigh the effort of going upstairs to change clothes, but a loud knock at the door instead captures my attention. I hadn't thought they were this close already. I shamble over and open the door.

Two uniformed police officers are standing on my porch, a couple of patrol cars on the opposite side of the street. Leaning out, I can see two other officers knocking on my neighbor's door. I step outside into the cool morning air, closing the door behind me.

"Hello, can I help you?"

"Good morning, sir," one of the men said, flashing a badge briefly. "We're investigating reports of an explosion in the neighborhood. Have you seen or heard anything that could be considered unusual or out of the ordinary?"

"Oh, yeah, there was a huge plumbing explosion in my kitchen. Did you need to come in and take a look?" I stand aside in my doorway, inviting them in. The cops share a quick look between them.

"Sure, if you don't mind," one of the officers says, stepping inside. The other stays on the porch a moment, speaking into his radio. "…think we found the place…" I lead the first officer into the kitchen, but he spots the destruction early on.

"What's all this?" he asks, taking a look at the busted up and flooded floor, the broken pipes, and the walls with bits of wood and metal stuck in.

"I dunno, I'm not too sure," I begin as the other cop comes through the door. "I think there was pressure building up in the… the pipes and it just got too much and exploded everywhere. I just got through cutting off the water to the sink. It was spraying all over the floor." I hold up a hand to my head. "The noise was huge, but I didn't think it'd be this much trouble."

"Yeah, this looks pretty bad here," one of the cops says, bending over to look at the busted up plumbing. "I'm just going to ask you a few questions to get an idea of what happened, is that alright?" The officer asks me a series of questions about what I was doing last night, if anybody else lives here, what I do for a living (there's nothing like the instant diffusion of suspicion by saying you write for My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic), and other general inquisitions.

"Hey Ogden." The officer I'm talking to calls out to the other cop in the kitchen, kneeling by the busted up sink. "What do you think?" The other cop is shining his flashlight around the kitchen, then gets up.

"Well, we're probably going to have to wait for the bomb guys to take a look, but I'm not seeing anything like a home-made explosive. It's probably just a freak accident, but better safe than sorry." He briefly checks something on his phone. "They'll be here in about thirty minutes, they'll take their look around, and that'll be it."

"Eh, it's probably alright," the first cop says to me. "I wouldn't worry about it. But we're gonna need you to fill out a report for the office." The other cop comes up with a clipboard with some papers held on it. "Just detail your version of events here, try to remember as much as you can."

"Yeah, sure thing," I say, accepting the clipboard. "Also, I'll probably need a copy for my insurance, if that's alright. Sorry you guys had to come out here this early, by the way."

"It's alright. We actually get a lot false alarms for stuff like this. Kids with fireworks, or cars backfiring. It's always something. Anyways, just have a seat and fill that out, and we'll be done in a sec." I go over to the living room and sit on the sofa with its slightly damp cushions.

Several minutes go by as I absent-mindedly fill out the police report. My mind instead wanders over to thoughts of the inevitable hassle and expense of fixing up the kitchen, not a task I'm particularly looking forward to. I wonder if I can get away with forwarding the bill to the Princess…

The officers have a good look around, taking notes and pictures, even. For my part, I've written out a plausible scenario that really isn't all too far off from actual events. For practical and time-saving purposes, I've streamlined the events of this morning. There's no reason at all to waste these good men's time with magic ponies. That would be silly.

I'm just about done with my homework when there's some commotion near the door. I lean over and see the police at the door questioning two men in some very serious suits. I didn't think this was big enough to get the Feds involved. I can't exactly say I'm particularly comfortable with this escalation of events. I decide to get up and take a closer look.

"…case before I see some ID," the officer at the door tells them, blocking their way.

"No problem," one of the suited men says, fishing out some folded up papers and a badge. "Here's my ID, and while we're at it, this should be sufficient documentation for your records." He gives the officer a moment to browse the papers. "We'll be taking over this case from here." As the two swap information, the second newcomer comes in and walks up to me.

"Jason Markel?"

"Yeah, that's me."

"My partner and I are here to investigate the recent incident."

"The explosion in my kitchen? I already explained most of it-" I look down at the report I'd been filling out.

"Yes, thank you," he says, curtly confiscating the papers out of my hands, tucking them away in his suit. "So, this is where it happened, huh?" He steps past me into the kitchen and squats down to get a closer look at the floor. "You wanna tell me exactly what happened, then?"

"Um, sure," I agree, joining him. "I was sleeping upstairs and a loud noise woke me up. I came downstairs-"

"What kind of noise?"

"What kind? It was sort of a… metallic… knocking sound? I think it was something with the water pressure and the plumbing, because-"

"Nope. Not the plumbing." He turns back to his partner. "Nelson, I think we got something here." The other suited guy comes up to stand next to him. Behind them I can see the police exiting, closing the door behind them.

While we're on the subject, I should mention something about the Feds. My specific vocation has left me with a focused distaste for any three-letter government organization: FBI, CIA, NSA, TLA… I also have a murky history with the IRS, but that's a completely different matter.

Cops I don't mind so much. In general, cops have a few sets of qualifiers they look out for, and if you don't fall in those sets and if you keep quiet, they'll leave you alone.

The Feds play a completely different ball game. The Feds dig and keep digging until they find something. The most effective plan of action is to appear too dumb and stupid to have pulled off whatever it is they think they're looking for. I attribute my previous successful evasions to my superior acting abilities, of course.

"Was it the aliens?"

The agent halts his investigation of the floor and looks up at me.

"Aliens?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"You've seen them, right? Listen, I know you can't tell me much, so I'll leave it at that. Just let me know if you need my help with anything," I offer, giving the two plenty of room to make their assumptions.

"Yeah, thanks," he says, getting slowly to his feet. "We'll keep that in mind." He starts to turn away.

"No, wait, this could be something!" his partner says, grabbing the first man's arm.

"What?"

"What?" I echo.

"This is the first time we've heard of any noise or activity preceding the event!" he says, adjusting his glasses. "Even if his testimony is incomplete or even a little bit unusual, it could still hold a hint or a possible lead."

"Yeah, I see what you mean. Good point," the first guy says, facing me. "Okay, what we're gonna do is Nelson here is going to interview you, try to get an idea of what's going on. While you two are chatting away, I'm gonna take a quick tour of the property and see if there's anything out of the ordinary that could've caused this. For your safety, you know." Without waiting for a response, he takes off to the living room.

"Wait, hold on." I instinctively start off after him, but Nelson grabs my attention.

"Mr. Markel, I know this all may seem a bit unorthodox, but it's very important we receive your full cooperation in this matter."

"No, I get it, it's just…" I take quick mental stock of my home, trying to think of anything, any little thing, that could incriminate me if found or stumbled upon. My mind comes up empty. Good. "It's just I don't like people going through my stuff, but if it's for national security, I'll do my part."

"You're a real patriot, Mr. Markel," he delivers with a brilliant poker face. "Going back to what you were saying earlier, could you recall exactly what happened starting from last night?"

"I don't know if I can remember much, but I'll try." If there's one thing I've learned in traveling from world to world and interviewing the denizens of the multiverse, it's this: Everyone loves talking about themselves. Everyone's a narcissist, deep down inside. Oh, some cases are surely louder than others, but if you say just the right words at just the right time in just the right tone, you'll strike gold.

I cross my arms and look down, concentrating hard. "I'm trying to remember if there was anything strange last night that could've caused this. And you know, wow, I really did think it was the pipes," I say with a bewildered look on my face. "How did you know the pipes didn't explode?" It doesn't matter he wasn't the one who actually pointed that detail out. He'll still take credit.

"Oh, well, even when you first walk in you can see right away the epicenter of the blast is here, in the middle of the kitchen. See? You can see a rough circle in the tile here, and it spreads out from there. Also, you can tell this isn't the result of a typical homemade explosive, or you'd see more charring of the area along with some residue from whatever chemical agents were used. You can walk in and smell that. If that had been the case, trust us, we'd be having a very different conversation," he said with a joking smile. I make small impressed noises obligingly. "Now, can you tell me more about the noises you heard? Those could be very important."

"Right, there was a sound last night..." I relate my fabricated story to Nelson, clarifying occasional details. During my recollection, the other agent continues to prowl around the house, sporadically snapping pictures. "-just didn't get a whole lot of sleep last night, and I'm sorry, I don't want to disturb your investigation, but that's the sixth picture you've taken of my lamp."

"No, no, it's just a nice lamp. I think my Nanna has one just like it."

"It's vintage."

"Yeah, no, great taste, pal." He claps my back and heads up the stairs. A wince escapes from the jolt, and I repress it the best I can.

"You know, I didn't I quite catch his name," I say, pointing back to the stairs.

"Oh, sorry." Nelson holds out his hand. "I'm Agent Nelson, and my colleague is Agent Eames. He can be like that sometimes."

"Like what?" I say.

"Nothing," he answers with a deferring glance.

"Jason Markel," I tell him quickly, gripping his hand with a firm handshake. His brows furrow in concentration, and I hurry along to the next topic. "Say, you mentioned earlier this was the first 'event' you'd come across with any noise or sound beforehand. Give it to me straight, is this something I should be worried about? What are we dealing with here?" I lean in conspiratorially.

"Oh, well, I really can't-"

"Nelson! Get up here! I think I found something!"

Nelson and I share a wide-eyed glance before we bolt upstairs, me one step ahead of him. What is going on? There's nothing upstairs to be found. Nothing at all, I'm sure of it. I reach the top of the stairs and see Eames standing in my office with his back to me.

"Care to explain, mister?" He slowly turns to me and my heart sinks into my stomach. He holds in his hands the Rarity and Pinkie Pie blind bags I keep at my desk. "You know, most little girls outgrow their pony phase around ten or eleven." I walk down the hall to my office.

"I write for the cartoon," I say, relieving him of the plastic figures.

"You write for what, now?"

"I write for the cartoon show My Little Pony."

"You write for My Little Pony?" Nelson asks, coming into the increasingly crowded office.

"Yes, I do," I confirm for him. "Is there a problem with that?"

"No problem at all, Mr. Markel," Eames says, walking over to Nelson and putting his arm over his shoulder. "But you should know that Nelson here is a huge fan. He's one of those... what are they called? Bronies?"

"Ah, it's just that my daughter really likes the show, that's all. I didn't know you were one of the writers, though. Small world, huh?" Nelson says.

"Yeah, no kidding." I try not to let out my sigh of relief too fast. "So not that I don't enjoy meeting a fan, but are we almost done here?" I ask, arms out expectantly. The two look at each other, silently appraising the situation.

"I hesitate to call it prematurely, but I think we can finish up here," Nelson says.

"Hold on there. I saw one more room downstairs," Eames differs. "Say, buddy, does that door in the hallway lead to a closet, another room, a basement, what?"

"It's a basement. It's where I keep all the junk I'm not using. I don't mind showing you two around," I offer up. "But after that, are we done?"

"Calm down, tiger, we'll see about that." Eames heads out the room and down the hallway. I'm about to follow him when again Nelson stops me.

"Mr. Markel, if it isn't too much trouble, do you think you would have anything lying around… you know? For my daughter..."

"Don't worry about it," I tell him. "Does your daughter have a favorite pony?"

"She really likes Twilight Sparkle," he says with a shrug. I make a detour into my bedroom and fish a Twilight plush from a pile in the closet.

"Here you go," I say, tossing the toy his way. "Hey, at least somebody's having a good day today. Anything else?"

"My… daughter also really likes… Fluttershy."

"Does she now?" I go back to my office and, after some searching, find a vinyl Fluttershy that I never got around to unboxing. "Would your 'daughter' like it signed?"

"If you don't mind…"

I'm on my way downstairs and I see Eames waiting for us. Coming right behind me is Nelson.

"Christ, Nelson, you sure took your time. What were you-" Eames meets him at the bottom of the stairs, staring him down in silence. Nelson averts his gaze, his arms laden with ponies. "And nothing for me?"

"If you want-"

"Shut up. Let's get going."

I lead them to the basement and descend down the steps, the other two following not far behind. "Anything incriminating or otherwise of interest, gentlemen?" I say, reaching the middle of the basement.

Eames steps closer to one of the shelves and looks closely at a bunch of staffs, staves, and other magical miscellany I have plainly piled in the open.

"These are…"

"Oh, those. Some friends and I do Dungeons & Dragons stuff for fun. You ever hear of LARPing, like in that one show?" It's a story I've saved precisely for this sort of occasion. I suppose at this point I have to be grateful for these guys, otherwise I might never have had a chance to use it.

"Yeah, I've heard of all that," he says blankly. "Just never seen it before."

Nelson walks over to the chest and bends down to take a look.

"Mind if we check the chest?"

"Sure, no problem, just make sure you don't touch anything." I reach up to the wooden panel on the wall and grab a key.

"Don't touch anything? What do you-?"

"I mean don't touch anything, 'cause you'll get your hands all rusty and dirty," I explain, flipping up the top of the chest. The chest is filled with old tools, car parts, and pieces of scrap metal. I snatch a rusting water pump off the top of the heap and show it off. "I don't even know why I'm keeping this junk, but… There you go!" I toss the part back in, kicking up a layer of dust and rust.

"I can see that," he says, hiding his hands in his pockets, away from the staining debris. "So, I think that should be it for our investigation. Are you ready, Eames?"

"Yeah, I figure we're done here," his partner agrees, coming over.

After wading through the kitchen, I see the two agents out the door.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Markel," Nelson tells me, hoisting Twilight and Fluttershy under his arm.

"No problem," I say. "Is this where I look into the little red light?" In response, Eames reaches over and fishes around in his inside jacket pocket.

"Oh yeah, about that." My heart skips a beat. There's no way, right? "Give us a call if you notice anything out of the ordinary," he says, handing me a business card. "We'd appreciate the heads up."

"I'll definitely keep it in mind." The two of them get in their car and drive off, leaving me behind with a flooded house and an aching head full of questions about what's going on. Thankfully I'm not quite as stupid as these suits left here thinking. From the looks of things, this morning's incident isn't exactly an isolated event. This isn't, in itself, very surprising; there's a lot of spacetime out there, and I hardly have a monopoly on magic or world-hopping. But evidently these inter-dimensional transgressions are enough to warrant investigations on, like an up-jumped traffic cop following the trail of some kind of infamous quantum-leaping serial jaywalker. And don't look at me like that. My ventures are mostly clean in execution, and generally leave people's furniture in one piece.

My biggest concern, to be honest, is how much this is going to affect me. I've put a lot of effort into being able to live the lifestyle I currently lead, and I'll be damned before anybody jostles me out of it. I walk inside and lock the door behind me. Seeing my kitchen empty only magnifies its sorry state. More than anything, though, I want to climb upstairs and collapse on my bed.

It's going to be a busy day.