Curtain Call
The ringing phone broke through Rocky's sleep like a quarray eel through shale.
There were many things that could be said about the telephone as both a tool and a symbol of New Yoke. It wasn't invented here—Grand Bell's lab had been in Beantown—but the first networks had been laid here. Diamond Dogs had always known the earth spoke. Threading the wires beneath the city had been a chance to show ponies they were right all along. Rocky had been there himself, back when he was barely taller than the terriers. He'd helped dig the tunnels, helped lay the literal groundwork, helped make Barkelite represent the city as much as concrete or structural steel.
But Crunch stomp it, the damn thing could never be called quiet.
He fumbled for the earpiece for a few moments. Turning on the lights would take more time; blinding himself did that. Once he had it in paw, he brought it up and grunted "What is it?"
"Good evening, Mr. Cobbleboa," hissed the voice on the other side. The speaker couldn't help it, but Rocky had never gotten the impression that he'd ever tried to.
"Evenin'? Already?"
"Evening still."
Rocky turned his alarm clock to face him, the faint magical glow of the hands barely enough to light them up, much less any other part of his apartment. Eleven fifty-six. He held something back, not sure if it was a groan or a growl. "Barely put my head on th' pillow, M. What gives?"
"The Boss requires your presence at the usual location."
That woke him up better than coffee could hope to. "Now? Seriously?"
"You know you are never off duty, Mr. Cobbleboa," the voice on the other line said, scolding him like a pup who'd forgotten which end of the pickaxe to hold. "Not until you choose to terminate your association with us completely."
"Yeah, yeah." Rocky rubbed the bridge of his snout. "I'm comin', I'm comin."
"Good dog."
"Screw you." Rocky hung up without fear. M knew to expect that from him, especially after a long day at the latest dig site. The Howland Tunnel wasn't going to maintain itself, much as ponies liked to think it just showed up by magic one day. Of course, most ponies would think the city began and ended at Manehattan. If pressed, they might remember Stallion Island, Princesses, maybe even the Broncs, but Rocky doubted even one in eight realized that Barklyn supported the rest of New Yoke City in every sense.
He shook off the familiar old complaint like rain and turned on the lights. After the usual wince—damn pony-made bulbs; you'd think those big eyes would make them realize how much light hurt—he got dressed in his good slacks and his best shirt. One of them was ironed, the other was creased, and this late, he didn't care which was which, so long as the suspenders still went over his shoulders.
The path up from his apartment was a familiar one. Up from the negative seventh floor, out onto Saddlantic Avenue, and then the usual trudge. The usual place was deliberately far from any subway stops—another gift to the city from Barklyn, you're welcome—so it almost as fast to walk the fifteen blocks, and cheaper besides.
Not exactly easier, though. New Yoke never slept, and there were still a fair number of ponies who suddenly had business on the other side of the street when a Diamond Dog came down this one. Some didn't, but most of those still had that brittle hardness in their eyes that spoke of how they were proving their own toughness by walking past Rocky. One little growl and they'd break like opals.
But Rocky let them by and let them be. He knew he was an ugly son of a bitch, may Mama Cobbleboa rest in peace. Even dumb pet bulldogs made ponies nervous. One walking around on his hindlegs, with shoulders like a minotaur and paws the size of buckball baskets, meant their little horse brains wanted to run and stare at the same time. He couldn't blame them; that was just how Dogs got treated on the surface. Just like what Barklyn gave the city: Out of sight, out of mind.
Please. For the ponies' sake.
That got a growl, enough of one to make the pony who'd wanted to show off his switchblade decide to find a different conversation partner. Getting called for a job this way always made Rocky's mind chase its tail. Did more good to complain about the weather than about how nonponies were treated in New Yoke. At least there was an office you could mail that would ignore your letters.
"Rocky," said a deep-throated voice. The kind that never showed when it got bent out of shape over the grass burners. "Fancy meeting you here."
He turned and felt his ears perk up. "T! Good t' see it ain't just me dis time."
Mr. Turnip returned his own shallow smile. Despite the late hour, the donkey's usual grey suit jacket, wire-rim glasses, and almost purple mane were as impeccable as ever. "Indeed. Given the late hour, the relative urgency of our dispatcher's tone, and now your presence, I imagine this will be quite the notable mission."
Rocky shook his head as they fell into step together. "Still don't get how you can tell what dat lizard's feelin'. I can never smell it t'rough all da smug."
"There is a bit of an art to it," T said with that weird walking shrug quadrupeds had to settle for. "His emotions do not behave in precisely the same manner as ours."
"T'ank Crunch for dat. So, how you doin'? Ain't seen ya since dat Honburros job."
The shallow smile never shifted, though the words came just a touch faster. For Mr. Turnip, it was the equivalent of prancing in place with excitement. "I have been well enough. Continuing my studies, performing a few minor tasks for The Boss, the usual."
Rocky nodded. "Yeah." His ears flattened when he noticed ponies on the other side of the street giving them less than friendly looks. "Yeah..."
Mr. Turnip's mouth flipped to just a subtle a frown. "Is everything alright with you?"
"Jus' t'inkin'." Rocky barked out a laugh. "An' ya know dat never goes well wit' me."
That got a shake of the head. "As I have told you time and again, you are far more intelligent than you give yourself credit for."
"Yer a good guy, T, but I know what I am." Rocky cast a paw over the street. "An' I know what dis borough is."
T didn't even need to follow the gesture. He just nodded. "Ah."
"Yeah. Humpin' Manehattan. You know Princess Twilight's t'inkin' o' puttin' a branch o' da School o' Friendship here? Dunno what's goin' on in her little purple head, but I can't tell if it's da shot in da arm this city needs or lightin' a match in a gas pocket."
The grin made its understed return. "You mean like that mission at the phoenix sanctuary?"
Rocky chuckled at the memory, even as his nose wrinkled at long-dissipated smoke. "Pre-freakin'-cisely."
"I, for one, choose to be cautiously optimistic about the prospect." T went into his lecturing rhythm, the kind where he laid out everything neat as minecart tracks and Rocky couldn't help but follow along. "I do not know how it will turn out; it could outclass Ponyville or it could be a disaster. But we will not know until it happens, and it is out of our control. Ergo, the best choice is the one that will neither send me into gloom nor overwhelm me with false hope."
After a few silent steps, Rocky said, "Dat's a lotta woids for 'wait an' see.'"
"Just because a drooling simpleton such as yourself cannot fathom more complex lines of thought does not mean those lines should not be pursued," said a voice that was best described as "cultured." Like yogurt.
Rocky sneered at the sheep, proudly dressed in archaic armor that had probably woken up half of Manehattan as he'd clanked down the street. "Well if it ain't the Right Dishonorable Sir Lintsalot. Fo'give me if I don't curtsy; this gown's a rental."
"Cur. Swindler." Lintsalot gave each of them a nod in turn.
"Counting cards is a legitimate strategy," said Mr. Turnip, his smile unshifting. "It is hardly my fault if Las Pegasus refuses to accept that some games cannot be rendered completely in the house's favor."
Rocky raised an eyebrow. "Pretty sure kickin' you out's how they make sure the house wins in blackjack, T."
"A crude solution at best. Especially given the availability of fur dye." T waggled his ears amid a mane that had been more than a few colors over the years.
Sir Lintsalot gave a harrumph and tried to trot ahead of the others. Tried. Plate mail only allowed so much speed.
"You could at least pretend that our presence doesn't offend you," said Mr. Turnip. "For many creatures, that's the foundation of etiquette."
Lintsalot didn't even glance back. "Forthrightness is a principle part of my oath of service."
"You are very literally the only sapient being on this hemisphere who cares about said oath."
"It is ironclad."
Rocky snorted. "More like steel wool."
Gritted teeth briefly joined grinding steel. "I can only hope you scoundrels can comport yourselves as gentlecreatures around the good Madame le Flour."
Mr. Turnip sighed. "At this point, I will not even bother noting that she is at least as much of a scoundrel as any of us."
"She is an exemplar of nobility and a victim of cruel circumstance, like myself. She did not gladly accept this lifestyle of dishonorable brigandry like certain creatures."
Rocky rolled his eyes. "We didn't choose dis, Linty. No one chooses t' work for Da Boss, it jus' happens."
"Bah," Lintsalot didn't quite bleat. "As if I could trust the word of a criminal."
"Do pardon me if I fall behind, gentlecreatures," said Mr. Turnip. "It is a struggle to walk through irony this thick."
"'Gentlecreatures' indeed. Hmph."
Rocky nudged the sheep. Not enough to tip him over. Not this time. They had an appointment, after all. "Your woids, Linty."
"When I said I could only hope, I did so knowing it was in vain."
"I assure you, we will treat Madame le Flour with the same respect you show us, if not more so. Right, Rocky?" After a moment of silence, Mr. Turnip cleared his throat. "Rocky?"
"Awright, awright, sure. I'll try t' get along wit' da bitch."
Sir Lintsalot whirled with improbable agility, standing in Rocky's path with horns lowered. "How dare you!"
"What? She's a bitch. What's next, you're gonna get mad when I call T a jackass?"
"I believe the term you've conveniently forgotten is 'hen,'" said Mr. Turnip.
"Yeah, that." Rocky managed to keep the smile off his lips as he worked around Lintsalot. "Sheesh, Linty, it's just a woid in Barklyn. Hey T, you think maybe I should be da one offended for a change?"
"Speaking as the resident jackass, I must ask that the two of you try to maintain some degree of professionalism."
"Whaddaya talkin' about? I'm plenty professional!" Rocky spread his arms to the sky, as though asking any passing princesses to affirm that. "You're talkin' to da most professional dog east o' Filly!"
"And what a sad picture that paints," Sir Lintsalot muttered as he trailed after them.
"Big talk. At least I'm allowed to set paw back home."
"Were you one of my peers," Lintsalot forced out, "I would gore you where you stand."
"Wuzzat, da tenth time you said that? T, I know you've been keepin' track."
"The ninth, actually," said Mr. Turnip.
A breathy sigh came from above. A high-pitched voice that belied the size of the streetlight-cast shadow said, "And to think, when I first signed on, I was told zis was a, how you say, a 'crack team.'"
Rocky crossed his arms as he glanced up at the snowy griffon coasting above them. She said she embraced the elegance of simplicity. He said she just didn't wear anything. "Well hump you very much too, le Flour."
Mr. Turnip simply nodded and said, "Madame."
Lintsalot gave what he would call the proper bow that a noblehen of le Flour's status deserved. "My dearest Farine."
She landed by his side. "Ah, mon petit chevalier—"
"We get it. Ya speak Prench. Somehow the rest of us manage t' speak Equish jus' fine, an' I know it ain't the foist language o' anyone here. Schist, what're you up to, T, seven?"
"Almost. Cervinadian dialects are not tackled lightly."
"Hmph." le Flour raised her beak in a huff. "Well, I know Ze Boss will not appreciate us killing each ozzer before we arrive, and I suspect ze only way we will accomplish such a feat of restraint is if we continue in silence."
"May be the foist good idea youse ever had."
Mr. Turnip glanced back. "I don't suppose you'll be able to hold your horns long enough for some pleasant conversation, Sir Lintsalot?"
"I have little to say to one who gladly consorts with such a ruffian."
"Interesting. I find myself genuinely unsure whether or not that was a pun."
Lintsalot scoffed. "The knights of Avalamb do not pun."
"Clearly."
The group said little more as they walked the final block to their destination. On the surface, literally and figuratively, it seemed to be nothing more than yet another Manehattan office building. The lobby doors were locked, but they worked their way around to a service entrance. From there, it was down three flights of stairs, only two of which were on the building's plans, to a bare corridor that smelled of dust and neglect. None of the doors were labeled; anyone who didn't know where to go didn't even know there was something to find, and the magic of the place would hide it from them even if they made it this far.
Through a door indistinguishable from any of the others was something like a police interrogation room, bare but for the door leading in, a door leading out on the opposite side, a folding table, and several chairs.
And the dragon.
He wasn't quite a teenager, but certainly not yet an adult. Almost serpentine in form, twining around the back walls and under the table to fit himself within, with a head like something that lurked in ponds and could wait a week for an unwary wildebeest. "Hello, everyone," he said, clear membranes sliding over his slit-pupilled eyes.
"M," Rocky said as he took a seat.
"Monsieur."
"Mymigurax."
"Wyrm." Lintsalot stayed standing, the door closing behind him as he entered the room.
"As always," said Mymigurax, "I will assume you mean that with a 'y,' Sir Lintsalot."
"Yeah, as in why ain't t'ree of us havin' mut—"
M silenced him with a raised claw. "You know my opinion on such alleged 'comedy,' Mr. Cobbleboa."
T cleared his throat. "Perhaps it would be best if we dispensed with the usual thinly veiled insults, sir."
"I believe you are correct, Mr. Turnip. The Boss has asked you all to meet with me for a momentous occasion."
"Dis da good kinda momentous," Rocky said as he leaned back in his chair, "or da kind where we all catch a nasty case o' not bein' useful no more?"
M shook his head. "As I have assured you time and again, Mr. Cobbleboa, you are all free to leave at any time, with no consequences whatsoever."
"Yeah, an' next yer gonna tell me Da Boss herself's comin' t' dis meetin'."
M blinked, which was notable in its own right. He usually made a point of not moving his eyelids. "I was, yes. How remarkably prescient of you."
Rocky nearly fell out of his chair. "What!?"
"Our liege deigns to speak to us directly?"
"Sacré bleu!"
"This is..." Mr. Turnip adjusted his glasses, eyes darting in thought. "Well, it's certainly unprecedented in my experience. Rocky, you've been here the longest. Has she ever—?"
"Never. Been followin' that bi... Uh, that mare's orders for more dan ten years, an' every job's been t'rough her scaly mouthpiece here. No offense."
"I am scaly, and I do act as her mouthpiece. I see nothing offensive in your statement. In any case, The Boss apparently has some matter of such importance to all of us, myself included, that she felt the need to inform us all simultaneously." Coils shifted, retreating from one corner of the room. "Naturally, she prepared for such a day."
Once the last length of scaled muscle moved away, the four could make out a magic circle. It couldn't be anything else; this wasn't the sort of room for random decorations, and nothing that involved that many eye-watering runes and unspeakable shapes served as just a conversation piece. M spat purple flames into the circle, which spread along the drawn lines and leapt from symbol to symbol, brightening as they went. By the time half of the diagram was consumed, the blaze had grown too bright for Rocky to look at, and judging by the shocked cries around him, the others didn't last much longer.
"Son of a..." Rocky held a paw over his face. "Why's everybody always gotta go fer the eyes?"
No one answered him. He furrowed his brow, lowered his arm, and waited for the afterimages to fade. "Uh, guys? Youse all..." He trailed off once he could make out what had silenced them. Really, he should've guessed.
For in the circle, with nary a single ember or scorch mark to be seen, stood The Boss.
Rumors swirled around her like gravel around a drill. Some said she was Mymigurax's mate. Others said his mother. One guy, a kirin who Rocky had worked with precisely once and had never seen again, swore on his horn that she was Celestia herself.
It turned out he wasn't far off.
The Boss strode into the room like she owned the place, and to be fair, she did. Her muscles rippled like she could dig a new tunnel between Manehattan and New Jockey with a single buck. Her wings, while folded, shifted just enough to confirm that they were real. Her horn still faintly glimmered with magic, even though she wasn't casting anything Rocky could spot.
But that wasn't what really struck him. You couldn't live in Equestria long and not know what to expect from an alicorn. It was the eyes that got Rocky more than anything, eyes that simultaneously pierced the soul and found amusement wherever they looked, like The Boss was in on some joke no one else in the room knew.
"Princess!" Lintsalot had never taken a seat, but still gave the impression of shooting to his hooves. "Your knight stands ready!"
"You knew?" cried le Flour.
"Why didn't you say any..." Mr. Turnip trailed off and sighed. "We never asked, and she likely told you in confidence anyway."
"Correct." The Boss barely spoke above a whisper, but it still drowned out Lintsalot's response.
M rose from his seat as she approached, allowing her to take it. Her mane and tail trailed behind her, roiling in a million little unfelt cross breezes. She steepled her hooves as she panned her gaze over the four before her. "Rocky, Madame Le Flour, Sir Lintsalot, and Mr. Turnip. I have known you all for a very long time, and I have much to thank you for."
Rocky grinned. "Nice t' get some recognition fer once."
Le Flour clouted him about the head with a wing. "What le chien means to say, Madame, iz zat it has been our pleasure to be of service to vous."
T cleared his throat. "If I may ask, Boss, why did you ask us here?"
"A personal request. One that I needed to see you carry out myself." Rocky found himself wondering if they taught that enigmatic smile, or if it just came naturally to alicorns.
Sir Lintsalot held himself so straight that his coat quivered. "Speak the word and we shall do as you command!"
"Is this really necessary, ma'am?" M said from The Boss's left wither, hovering there like Discord whispering temptations to Luna.
She spread a wing and stroked the dragon's jaw with a tenderness Rocky has never expected her to show, nor him to enjoy. And yet, M still leaned into the touch like a foredog's lap candy. "It is," she said, an oddly sad smile on her muzzle.
Then she looked back at her employees, and that tenderness went back to wherever it spent most of its time. "Your task is relatively simple and yet incredibly dangerous. All you must do is bid our audience farewell."
Silence reigned for a few moments, or at least took the role of second-in-command. Finally, Mr. Turnip said, "Audience, Boss?"
"Indeed. Don't you see them? They're right there." She pointed to her left.
The four turned to one of the meeting room's walls, no more populated than any of the others. Less, even; that one didn't have a door.
And yet Mr. Turnip screamed and fell out of his chair.
Rocky was at his side in an instant. "T! What's da matter wit' ya?"
The donkey thrashed. It was all Rocky could do to keep him from braining himself with his own hooves. "I see! I see!"
"Squattin' Crunch, it's worse'n th' Hinnysmouth job." Rocky scowled as he realized no other creatures had yet joined him. "Hey! Youse guys feel like maybe helpin'?"
He looked up and saw le Flour and Lintsalot both transfixed by the blank wall.
"C'est impossible," said le Flour, staring as only a raptor could.
Lintsalot shook enough for his armor to rattle. Rocky had seen that plenty of times before, that had been indigination. This was fear thick enough to smell. "It cannot be. It must not be!"
Rocky growled and turned to The Boss and M, who watched the others like a pair of pups who'd just kicked over an anthill. "You happy with this?"
The Boss shook her head. "No, but it needed to be done. All good things must end, Rocky."
"I knew it. I humpin' knew it. This was a job for life in th' worst kinda way."
And she just bowed her head. Like she was sorry about this. "You're more right than you know. Though you've yet to thank your true employers."
And Rocky couldn't help but steal a quick glance at that one wall that should've been just like all the others. And the glance became a long, unbelieving stare.
And finally, deny it though he may, it happened.
Rocky saw you.
Pinkie thrashed behind the puppet theater, as did the actors. The pile of rocks fell apart, the bucket of turnips tipped over, and the bag of flour sprung a leak. The dust bunny didn't do much, but it wasn't like it could. Gummy, meanwhile, just gradually slumped down to the bedroom floor like a drop of caramel down a kitchen counter, the tremendous but still toothless alligator four times as long and twenty times as docile as his owner.
After several more seconds of horrified screaming and wailing, Pinkie perked back up and said,"And they lived in existential crises ever after. The end!"
Pound and Pumpkin shared a deeply confused look. Yes, both had grown up with Pinkie as an aunt/older sister/best babysitter ever, but some things couldn't be waved away no matter how much exposure they got.
"Well," she said, "what did you think?"
The twins shared a glance that spoke volumes, most of which were pages full of "No, you go first." Pumpkin bit her lip. "Um, well, Pound can—"
"No, you're the smart one, Pumpkin, you tell her."
He got a glare that promised grim retribution. "It was definitely a... unique way to end Pinkie Puppet Pals. But... uh..." Pumpkin looked to her dear brother for assistance, any earlier scowls clearly just the product of youthful folly.
He rolled his eyes and sighed. "Why'd you end it so weird? And... self-referral?"
"Referential," Pumpkin said reflexively.
"That."
"Oh, that." Pinkie tilted her head back. The twins braced themselves for parsing way too many words per second. "Weeeell, ever since you told me you were getting too old for normal Pinkie Puppet Pals and I went for the gritty reboot, it was a lot more fun than I thought it would be! But now you've both graduated and you'll be working full-time with the construction crew and Pumpkin's going off to Canterlot to study at Please-Stop-Calling-Me-Princess Celestia's school, and..." Pinkie wiped at her eyes. "Well, you really are both growing up. So I wanted to really spice things up and give you a super-gritty, super-mature ending you'd never forget!"
The last root rolled out of the overturned Mr. Turnip, as if to punctuate the statement.
Pumpkin couldn't help but track it. "You, uh, definitely did that."
"No question," said Pound.
"So you liked it?"
Another, less repetitive shared look. "It was perfectly Pinkie."
"What Pumpkin said."
"Hooray!" Pinkie leapt through the puppet theater, grabbing both twins in a familiar embrace. "I'm so, so, so glad to hear it. Thank you soooo much!"
Pumpkin happily returned it. "Thank you for all the stories you told us over the years."
"We wouldn't be us without them." Pound glanced over Pinkie's shoulder at the fallen, nearly empty form of Madame le Flour. "And we'd... probably be worse off."
Pinkie just hugged the twins more tightly with wings and forelegs both, wiping at her teary eyes with her magic.