> Sugar and Spice
>  by Pearple Prose
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

> Turns Out Sometimes, You Gotta Do Some Crimes
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The worst day of Pony Joe’s life began, as all of his days tended to, with clear skies, the smell of hot coffee, and Sunny Skies talking about something he didn’t care about.

“–And she keeps on badgering me about this silly weather plan of hers! Everyday she just whines about ‘special occasions’ and ‘ideal atmospheric conditions’ and everytime I just say–” The pegasus mare threw her hooves up in the air and knocked the coffee cup she was holding with the tip of her wing, and splashed coffee across the top of the bar. “Oops. Sorry! And everytime I just say, look, nopony is going to see the weather at night and then she gets upset at me for not liking her weather plan and then–”

Joe, who hadn’t been listening for the last fifteen minutes, looked away from his newspaper and at the fryer next to him, then lit his horn and lifted out a tray of piping hot, freshly made donuts. They rested on the side while Joe slouched over to his table of ingredients. “Donuts’re ready,” he said, glancing back at Sunny. “You wanted chocolate frosting on them, right?”

“–And honestly being local weather manager is hard enough when you aren’t having to worry about your sister’s feelings – Oooh!” Sunny paused to take a deep sniff of the donut aroma that pervaded the air of the diner. She sighed. “You know me, Joe – can never turn down a chocolate donut!”

“Yup.” Joe covertly rolled his eyes. “Same order, every time, without fail.”

Sunny hummed, deep in thought. “Actually,” she said, “could I haaaave…” She stared off into space for a second or two.

Joe stared at her.

“…Sprinkles?” Sunny smiled at him sweetly.

“Sure,” he said, “coming right up.” He dropped a donut onto the counter in front of him and, in a quick and practiced motion, coated the top with an even glazing of chocolate and showered the whole thing generously in rainbow sprinkles. Then he slapped it onto a plate and slid it across to Sunny, who watched the whole thing with awe.

“Mmmm.” Sunny picked up her donut with reverent care and bit into it. Her eyes rolled back into her head as she chewed. “You make the best donuts, Joe.”

“I know.” And then Joe went back to his crossword puzzle.

It really was a beautiful morning in Canterlot that day. Sunshine slanted down through the windows of Donut Joe’s Diner, where a modest number of customers were grabbing some much-needed coffee on their way to work. The counter of Joe’s kitchen cut through the middle of the restaurant, parallel with a row of barstools and flanked at one end by a dusty, broken gramophone.

The diner itself had seen better days – beyond just the broken gramophone, the windows hadn’t been cleaned in long enough that the sunlight didn’t so much shine through them as it was sieved; the brightly painted tiles on the far wall had been turned into some strange, surreal mural after years of accumulated cracks; and there was a patch on the linoleum floor in front of the door that stuck to your hooves like velcro and would come off with a weird ripping sound.

The regulars had started referring to it as ‘the Patch’. It was probably meant as a friendly gesture, but the Patch was so legitimately unnerving that it came off as, at best, genuine terror.

Joe liked the Patch anyway. He was sort of like a father to it – and like all good dads, his child scared him too much for him to do anything about it. They had a strong relationship.

Sunny finished her donut and let out a tiny burp. “Oops! Excuse me!” She laid her head on the counter and sighed with satisfaction. “Ah, the perfect way to start the day. Joe’s coffee, Joe’s donuts, and then off to work to–” She paused. “Oh gosh, today’s going to be terrible. I just realised I’m going to be late to my meeting okay goodbye Joe thank you for everything goodbyeee–!” And she jumped down from her stool and cantered towards the door.

Joe didn’t look up to say goodbye – just frowned down at his crossword and listened to the clip clop clip clop riiiip clop of Sunny Skies’s departure. Last time he’d looked up, the sunlight had gotten in his aching retinas and his mood would be even worse than it already was. He hadn’t slept properly in about a week, it felt like. It was getting bad enough that he was having trouble just finishing this stupid crossword–

“That the Canterlot Herald?” came the voice from across the counter. It was rough, stained by years of tobacco, and familiar. “I was havin’ trouble with that one, too. Twenty-two across, yeah?”

Joe looked up at the dark shape that had blocked out the sunlight, and said nothing.

“’Mercenary.’” The stallion in the black suit propped up his elbow on the bar. He grinned at Joe like a shark.

Joe had hoped that if he hadn’t looked up, he somehow wouldn’t have caught his attention. Joe, despite what you’d think, was very much an optimist. “What do you want?” he asked, trying to sound firm even as the sweat started to prickle across his brow.

“Ain’t about what I want, doughboy,” said the stallion in black. “Boss wants ya. Grab the goods and get going.”

Pony Joe sighed. 





“And you’re sure you’ll be okay without me, yes?”

“Father, for the last time! I am a grown mare! I can look after myself.”

“Pshaw! It was not so long ago that I was singing you to sleep and changing your smelly diapers, little one!”

Saffron Masala rolled her eyes and sighed. “Father…”

Coriander Cumin guffawed. “Oh, I do not mean it, dearest-to-my-heart.” He put a calloused, yellow hoof on his daughter’s own. He said, in the tongue of their homeland, soft and musical and familiar: “I just worry for you, you see. Canterlot is scary, and large, and strange. Allow a father this chance to be worried, yes?”

The two were sitting in a small corner of their restaurant, tucked away in their own little world. The Tasty Treat did not open for several hours, yet. Distantly, through the windows, they could see the early-risers drifting to-and-fro in the warm, damp air of the dawn.

“I promise you, Father,” said Saffron, smiling. “We have many friends here, now. Our restaurant, it is a hit!”

“Yes. Yes, it is.” Coriander, finally, smiled – a seldom-seen thing, usually, but it had become more frequent as of late. “Your mother would be very proud.”

He stood up from the table, picked up his saddlebags in his teeth and slung them onto his back. Saffron went over and helped him strap them on, for he was an old pony, and rotund, and thus he found it difficult to do such things these days.

When they were finished, Coriander looked at his daughter, sternly, and cleared his throat. “Now,” he said, “I have given you a list of things to do, as a reminder. You must water the herb garden daily, keep our larder stocked with fresh vegetables, wipe down the tables–”

“Yes, yes, Father, I know!” Saffron said, wrapping him up in a hug. “I will be fine. It will only be two days, yes? For your trip?”

Coriander smiled bashfully, just a little bit, but nevertheless he argued, “Well, I have never left you for two days before today! I cannot help it.” He grabbed Saffron in two hooves, pulled her in, and gave her a rough kiss on the forehead. “You are growing up! It is very exciting.”

Saffron gave her father a smile, but did not say anything. She loved him so very much, but…

Well. She was looking forward to the next few days, if she were to be honest with herself.

Coriander held his daughter in his strong, weathered hooves for a long moment. He stared at her. “Most importantly of all, Saffron Masala,” he intoned. “You will remind any who offend you that they must answer to me. Coriander Cumin will brook no insult.” Eventually, when she had given him a nod, he let her go, and held up a hoof. “Right! Off I go. To Ponyville!” he bellowed, and marched towards the door.

“I will pray for good fortune, Father!” Saffron sang to him as the doorbell chimed with its opening.

“Hah!” Coriander called back over his shoulder. “Pray for Ponyville, dearest, not for your old father! They are the ones who have to impress me if they wish for the Tasty Treat to bless their peasant palates!”

And then the door swung shut behind him, and he was gone, vanished into the hustle and bustle of Restaurant Row.

Saffron sat there, for a while, and listened to the tick-tock of the old grandfather clock in the corner. She pondered the possibilities left open to her. The restaurant was not to be opened for several hours yet.

Should she water the herb garden? Take inventory of the larder? Wipe the tables down?

Or she could go sunbathing in the Canterlot Gardens, like she’d wanted to do since she’d got here.

Saffron smiled. It was a good day in Canterlot.





The high-backed chair – almost a throne, really – spun around on well-oiled wheels, away from the picturesque view of High Canterlot, with its beautiful trimmed lawns and enormous manor houses. The brittle, aged pegasus stallion curled up in the chair met Pony Joe’s eyes, and he said, “Do you know what happened earlier today, Joe, my old friend?”

Joe fiddled with the rough, worn leather of his seat, and wished very dearly that he was somewhere else. “I don’t know, sir. What happened?”

Cuckoo Capone grinned, and waved a genteel hoof at the racks and racks of ornate cages that decorated the entirety of the western wall of his study. They each contained delicate, beautiful cuckoo birds, cooing to one another, and filling the study with a mildly unnerving ambience. “A little birdy sung to me, m’boy, and it was that old, sweet tune that I so dearly love to hear…” The old, yellow pegasus leaned forward out of his chair and slapped a hoof down on the surface of his enormous desk, rattling the box of Pony Joe Doughnuts on the desk. “Opportunity!”

Cuckoo Capone had been a mainstay of Canterlot high society for many, many years, ever since he’d inherited the birdseed business from his late father, along with the entirety of his fortune. Nobles and businessponies loved him – he held enormous parties on his estate, flirted and gossiped and told anecdotes that made younger ponies listen in with intrigue. He played the part of everyone’s favourite rich uncle, complete with pipe and cane and generous, generous gifts.

Pony Joe didn’t know much about that side of the old pegasus – he was far more familiar with the crooked, conniving crime boss: Cuckoo Capone, with his nest of lies and blackmail.

“But we can talk about that in just a bit,” said Cuckoo. He reached over, pulled a glazed doughnut from the box on the desk, then climbed out of his luxurious office chair and swaggered over to the bird cages, balancing himself on a cane made from lacquered ash and adorned with a golden bird’s head at the top. “It’s been such a long time since we caught up, hasn’t it, Joey boy?” As he spoke, he fed crumbs of Joe’s doughnuts to his birds, clucking under his breath.

Joe gulped. He’d heard stories about those birds. Many of them made no sense – cuckoo birds didn’t eat ponies, did they? – but he knew that they had keen ears. If birds had ears. Do birds have ears?

Point is, they spooked him. Pony Joe didn’t like birds – could never tell what they were thinking.

“Can’t complain,” said Joe. Or wouldn’t, if he knew what was best for him, he amended in his head. “Thanks again, Mr Capone, sir.”

Cuckoo clucked with his tongue. “Think nothing of it, m’boy. A deal’s a deal, is it not?”

“Right. Yeah.”

“And it has been quite the luxurious deal, hasn’t it, Joey? For the both of us, that is.”

Joe nodded. He tried to ignore the sweat dripping down his brow.

Cuckoo looked over one shoulder at him, and gave him a smile that might be called fatherly, if it hadn’t seemed so very, very sharp. “How’ve my boys been treating you? Well behaved, I hope?”

“Perfect customers, Mr Capone, sir.” Pony Joe eyed – in what he hoped was a casual manner – the two suited stallions by the door. They looked on passively, although Joe couldn’t help but feel they were looking at him, expectantly. “Been a lovely bit of business, servin’ ‘em.”

“Oh, well, that is delightful to hear, Joey. It warms my heart – just like how your coffee warms my boys’ stomachs on lovely mornings such as these.” Cuckoo laughed, and ruffled Joe’s hair in a way that made him want to go home and take a shower. “And if all goes as-is, you can expect plenty of custom for as long as you need it.”

When Pony Joe was just a little colt, one of his favourite things in the whole wide world had been the ongoing adventures of Con Mane, legendary super spy. He didn’t really remember where Con Mane had come from – he probably wasn’t even a good guy, honestly – but he used to spend quiet afternoons and rainy evenings and boring school-days inside his head, imagining himself wearing a black tux and armed with awesome gadgets, saving the world with a smile and a lovely mare on his arm.

Con Mane had stuck with him for a long time, a little voice in his head – that foalish desire to be the hero. He’d chat with him, sometimes, when he was comfortable and warm in his diner, listening to his dad’s favourite music on the radio.

But Con Mane had died not so long ago, and Cuckoo Capone was stamping on his grave.

“Yes, Mr. Capone, sir.” Pony Joe tried not to sigh. “Thank you, again.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t thank me just yet, son,” said Cuckoo Capone. “I have more good news! The boys and I, we got a job for you. Something uniquely suited for you and your… situation.”

Pony Joe watched Cuckoo  hobble back behind the desk. The old pegasus reached down, grunting as he pulled out a very heavy wooden drawer, and began rifling through it. From where he sat, Joe could see him push aside several pieces of paperwork, revealing briefly the red-and-gold of a familiar ledger.

“Ah, here we are,” Cuckoo said, slamming the drawer shut. He stood up and tossed a sheaf of paper onto the desk. “Take a look-see.”

Two faces stared up at Joe from the desk, black and white and slightly faded – a newspaper cutting from the Canterlot Herald. The pony on the left was a pretty mare – she wore dark eyeliner and jewellery that pinned back her long, wavy, beautiful hair. On the right, with a stubby arm slung protectively over his daughter’s shoulder, was a portly old stallion with a thick, dark moustache. The mare was smiling, while the stallion had elected to give the camera a steely glare.

Pony Joe didn’t have to read the text to know who these two were – Saffron Masala and Coriander Cumin, owners of the Tasty Treat. According to what he’d heard through the grapevine, they’d kickstarted some kind of culinary renaissance on Restaurant Row.

He pushed the newspaper cutting aside and, sure enough, there was a photograph of the Tasty Treat itself underneath. Somehow, even in a black-and-white photo, Joe could tell exactly how colourful the building was.

“See, Joey,” Cuckoo Capone began, leaning back once again in his enormous chair, “my boys and I, we got our hooves in a lot of pies. Your diner is just the tip of the iceberg.” He steepled his hooves and, for once, a serious expression crossed his gnarled old features. “We got half of Restaurant Row dancin’ to our tune, Joey m’boy, but it turns out that the Tasty Treat is too tasty a treat for us to pass up.”

Pony Joe fiddled with his hat – it was a sign of respect to remove your headwear in the Cuckoo’s presence – and avoided meeting the mafioso’s eyes. “And you want me to…”

“Show ‘em who’s really in charge around here,” Cuckoo spat. “Coriander Cumin, he’s out of town for the weekend, and he’s a stubborn old mule. Now? There’s just little Saffron, all alone, and the restaurant is ripe for the picking. So.” Cuckoo jabbed Joe with a hoof. “Take those big ol’ hooves of yours and put ‘em to good use. The boys and I would really appreciate that, see?” And he grinned that awful grin.

Pony Joe wondered what Con Mane would do in this situation. Outwit Cuckoo Capone with wonderful wordplay? Render him helpless with a superpowered gadget?

He probably wouldn’t agree to the terms, and he definitely wouldn’t leave with his tail between his legs.

But Pony Joe wasn’t Con Mane. That was just the long and short of it.

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

“Ah, wonderful!” Cuckoo reached out and bumped Joe’s hoof, sealing the deal. Then he glanced down at an ostentatiously huge watch on his wrist. “Ah, just in time for your next shift. I shall make a note of your generosity for the future, Joey m’boy. Boys, show our friend to the door.”

On cue, something tapped insistently on his shoulder. Joe got up, replaced his hat, mumbled out a “thanks for your time” and was led to the door.

“See you in a hour or so, Joe,” said one of the goons, as they walked him back through the opulent manor of Cuckoo Capone. “Warm up some o’ dose bearclaws for me, yeah?”

“Yeah, sure.” Joe thought, distantly, back to the sight of Cuckoo Capone, nestled in his chair, scratching something down into his ledger.

Then he looked out, across the grand view of the city of Canterlot, towards Celestia’s Sun setting on the far horizon.

Night was falling, and he had a job to do.





In the mornings, Saffron would put together a pot of tea, just like her mother used to make when she was a filly. She would let it sit on the side while it steeped and she made breakfast, and the smell of food and delicious tea together would rouse her father from his snoring slumber upstairs.

By the time she remembered that her father was away, the tea had gone cold. Then she got upset for a little while.

Then she realised she was going to be late, went “Eep!”, and ran out the door.

La Cocina de Cardamomo – Cardamom’s Kitchen, as Cardamom herself had told her – sat near the centre of Restaurant Row, sandwiched between a failing deli and a place that sold paninis. It was smaller than either of them, but had more business than both of them put together; Cardamom and her family lived inside the tiny building while their customers spilled out into the street, taking up residence at the various old camping tables that the staff would set up at the crack of dawn.

Customers always asked Mama Carda why she hadn’t upgraded to a larger, more expensive establishment, and Mama Carda would always just smile, say that she’d always wished ponies would relax and enjoy the sunshine once in a while. Then she’d ask them if they would like another cup of tea, and the customers would always say yes.

Everyone loved Mama Carda. Saffron adored her.

“Carda!” Saffron called out as she pushed open the door to the Cocina. Behind the counter, the kitchen was a blur of motion – ponies hurried back and forth and shouted out orders in all sorts of different languages, flipping saucepans and slicing up vegetables and, at the head of it all, Mama Carda herself commanding them all like an orchestral conductor.

Carda looked towards the door, and beamed with delight when she saw Saffron standing there waving at her. “Saffron!” The earth pony mare ducked past various passing cooks and waiters, snapping off directions and advice in between shouts to her favourite customer: “You are here for those ingredients you ordered, yes? And please, take a seat!”

Leaning against the large window at the front of the Cocina, there was a row of wicker chairs for customers waiting for take-away orders. Saffron took a seat, looked to her left at the window-ledge where Carda kept her plants lovingly arranged, and took a deep sniff of a petite flower with bright orange petals.

“Very pretty, yes?” said Carda, sitting down on the chair next to hers. Wrinkles crinkled kindly at the corners of her eyes when she smiled, her greying mane curled into a ponytail that draped over her shoulder. “They are something new I discovered in the market the other day.” She held out a small basket full of herbs and spices that Saffron had requested the other day.

“It smells so very delightful!” Saffron took the basket gratefully and beamed at her. “I have never seen such a plant.”

Carda lifted a nearby watering can and tended to the orange flowers. “They are a very special flower from the farthest edges of Equestria. A beast known as the tatzlwurm is said to cultivate them – not because it wants to eat them, but because the delightful aroma lures in hapless prey.” Carda glanced at Saffron’s look of sudden horror and laughed. “Do not worry, cariño, I am not intending to eat you anytime soon!”

Saffron eyed the plant again, muzzle scrunched in distaste. “Well. At least it looks lovely…”

“Tastes lovely, too! I’ve been using the leaves for my morning tea and they are quite delicious. Speaking of…” Carda went behind the counter and produced a pot of tea. “You look like you haven’t had your morning tea, my dear Saffron.” And she winked a beautiful green eye at her.

Saffron got up and walked towards the counter. “Oh, if you were making this for a customer, I do not wish to–”

Cardamom waved away her concerns and offered her a fresh cup of hot, bright orange tea. “Do not be silly. I set this to boil the moment I saw you come in.”

Saffron stared at Carda dumbly and didn’t resist her when she pushed the cup of tea into her hooves. “But I did not see you even–”

“And besides,” Carda went on, propping her elbow on the counter and leaning a head on her hoof, watching Saffron’s expression. “I would not give away my precious supply of tatzlwurm tea to mere customers, cariño.” And she gave her another wink.

Saffron didn’t know what to say to that, so she just drank her tea instead. It was delightful, as Carda had said.

She sat there for a little bit, while Cardamom went back to directing her staff around the kitchen, waiters flowing in and out of the front door like passing traincars. Eventually, Saffron looked up at the clock, realised that she had a busy day ahead of her, and got up to leave. “Thank you so much for the tea, Carda!” Saffron called out, “but Father is away and I must get to work!”

Cardamom looked over in her direction, opened her mouth to say something, and then paused as she stared at something over her shoulder. Saffron glanced back through the window behind her, and only saw the ever-present sea of customers.

When she turned back, Carda was rattling off something in a language she didn’t understand to a burly-looking family member beside her. Then she turned back to smile at Saffron, saying, “I am sure you will not disappoint your father, Saffron Masala. You two are like the tatzlwurm and the flower, yes? You work with one another. Now, you must simply stop being the flower.”

And then Mama Carda gave Saffron a look, and Saffron could see the side of Carda that had seen her become the owner of one of the most successful businesses on Restaurant Row. “Now? You must be the wurm.”

The two waved goodbye to one another, and Saffron left. Outside, Carda’s burly-looking family member was telling a strangely-dressed stallion who was smoking a cigarette to leave. Saffron gave the stallion a frown – who even wears a big black suit on a sunny day? – and went on towards the Tasty Treat.





The Roasted Root was on fire again. Normally this wasn’t a problem – it was run by a dragon, for one, and serving up enough flame-roasted ratatouille to meet the demand meant that it tended to get a little hot under the collar in the kitchen, for two.

The moment Joe turned the corner, though, and spotted the plumes of smoke being funneled into a dusky-dark ashcloud by the local weather team, he knew it was the Bad Kind of “on fire” — the kind where Ginger lost out on too many customers and started showing off  too many teeth.

“OI, DEEP FRY. STOP MESSING AROUND OR YOU’RE TONIGHT’S DINNER.”

Speak of the devil. Joe spotted a small crowd forming in the street, which only seemed small because Ginger was in their midst, standing taller than even Princess Celestia at the shoulder. He trotted over to them while they tore into a hapless earth pony at their feet (verbally, of course. Once, Ginger had accidentally bumped into Joe, and proceeded to feel guilty about it for the next month.)

“Mornin’, Ginge,” said Joe, pushing through the crowd. “See you making some new friends.” Ginger and the rest of the staff of the Roasted Root, undaunted by the smoke pouring out of their restaurant behind them, had set up shop right on the street; an orderly queue of ponies with jangling coinpurses stepped up to Ginger’s enormous makeshift stove-fire, and Ginger and their crew gave them their orders directly from the grill. The ponies who weren’t looking to buy were just there for the spectacle, Joe supposed.

Eyes still locked with Deep Fry’s, Ginger just grunted over their shoulder at him. “Charming,” they growled, the ‘m’ sound swallowed up by the rumbling tindre of their draconic voice. Deep Fry whimpered. Apparently the earth pony had dropped something or other onto the sidewalk right before Joe had showed up. Probably unworthy of note on a day where Ginger wasn’t feeling a little on-edge, but today certainly wasn’t that.

Eventually, Ginger turned back to the enormous iron skillet that served as their workstation, sparing Joe intermittent glances as they worked. “’S good to see you, Joey. You bring the goods?” No longer the centre of their attention, Deep Fry slowly deflated, and then ran back to work before Ginger decided he was slacking off or something.

“Yep yep. Right here.” Joe levitated the box of doughnuts onto a hastily-erected camping table. “Not gonna lie, I’m liking the setup. Real nostalgic-like, you know?”

Ginger barked a laugh, and immediately triggered the fight-or-flight responses of half of the members of the crowd. Even Joe jolted a little bit at the sound. “Nostalgic for when I first got here, you mean? Nostalgia’s overrated. This lemonade stand routine gonna cost me, like, two thirds of my usual customers these days. Gimme those.” Ginger reached back and snatched up a donut, comically tiny in their enormous hand, and popped it in their mouth. “Mmm. Needed that.” Ginger paused. Smiled. “For the customers, of course.”

Joe would have laughed, but Ginger made the same joke every time, and he didn’t really feel up to laughing that day anyway. “Yeah, ‘course.”

Ginger didn’t say anything for a fair while – just let themselves fall into the easy rhythm of cooking while ponies bustled around them. Toss the vegetables in the pan, flip them back and forth, serve them up. Toss, flip, serve. Toss, flip–

“Hey, Joe, could you lend me your horn for a moment?”

Joe blinked, came back to himself. “Yeah, I guess. What do you need?”

Ginger looked down at the pegasus chopping vegetables next to them. “Go take your break early, Shallot.”

Shallot glanced up, startled. “But I–” Then she looked over at Joe, back at Ginger, took the hint. “Oh. Righto. See you in a bit.” She put the knife down on the table and flew off.

Ginger looked back at Joe. “Need someone to chop these vegetables for me, turns out.”

Joe laughed, despite himself. “Alright, I can hang around for a little bit.” He trotted over to Ginger and picked up the knife in his magical grip. “Been a while since I’ve worked in a kitchen. Or outside a kitchen, I guess? What do you even call this setup anyway?” Joe gestured to the camping tables that the kitchen staff were using to prepare their meals.

“’Familiar’ is what I’d call it,” said Ginger, flame flickering at the edges of their nostrils. They tossed some searing-hot food from the griddle onto a nearby dish. “You think we had comfy kitchens in the Dragon Lands?”

“…No?”

“You’d be right. And if I had had a comfy kitchen, then the other dragons would have smashed it up and told me to go eat rocks like everybody else.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I would eat rocks like everybody else. You know why?”

“Because rocks are delicious.”

“Because rocks are goddamned delicious, that’s why.” Ginger looked down at him, eyebrow arched in suspicion. “I haven’t told you this before, have I?”

Joe looked up at them, smirking. “Oh, no, only every other day or so.”

“Oh.” Ginger nodded. “Good. Rocks are delicious.” They picked an errant onion off of the roasting hot skillet, inspected it grimly between two talons. “No idea why you ponies love this weird stuff.”

“Probably because rocks break our teeth and rip up our insides.” Joe slid a bowl full of chopped vegetables over to Ginger and leaned back against the table edge, watching the staff as they worked. “We non-fire-breathing types had to make do somehow.”

“S’pose. Can’t really complain, seeing as I’m the one cooking this stuff for you weirdos.” Ginger sighed, tossed the onion back onto the skillet, and said, “So when are you going to quit?”

The table screeched as it slid forward an inch on the cobblestones. Joe had pushed it back when he’d seized up in surprise. “W-What?”

Everyone stared at them for a second, then looked away when they noticed Ginger glaring at them. They turned back to Joe, expression neutral. “You got a buyer lined up for the Diner already? Or is that why you came over here to see me?”

Joe stood up straight and scowled. “Don’t be stupid. I ain’t selling the Diner. And I ain’t leaving.”

“Very convincing,” said Ginger.

“Shut up,” said Joe. He’d intended it to come out sounding all angry but instead he just sounded like a bratty teen. “I just came to deliver your damn donuts, not so you could make fun of me.” And with that, he began to walk away.

“Joe,” said Ginger, whose voice had become altogether too un-Ginger-like. “I wasn’t making fun of you. I just…”

Joe paused, glanced back at Ginger over his shoulder. Their expression made him sweat, despite himself – made him think, ‘Do they know?’

Ginger said, “If you’re unhappy now, Joe, it might be better to quit while you’re ahead.” Then, after a moment’s pause, turned back to their staff and shouted, “Hey, flowerbrains, is the restaurant aired out yet?!”

Immediately, Deep Fry ran back inside the restaurant, then hollered out an “all-clear”. The staff of the Roasted Root, as one, gave out a sigh of relief, then began to dispense their remaining orders while gathering up all their gear to return indoors. Joe could see the expressions on their faces — focused; proud; at home. They didn’t look at Ginger the same way the crowd did.

Ginger directed them, and they listened. Sometimes, Joe figured, dragons found other things to hoard besides gold.





On her way to the Tasty Treat, Saffron Masala had ran into several ponies in the street that she’d recognised – whether as customers or as “competitors” – and had taken great delight in waving and giving greetings to them all.

She’d never really understood why some ponies were quite so obsessed with the idea of competition, if she had to admit it to herself.

And it made even less sense when one considered the sheer variety on display on Restaurant Row – whether it was Mama Carda and her Cocina, or the Tasty Treat and its authentic cuisine, or… hadn’t Saffron seen a dragon roasting vegetables earlier this morning?

There was more than enough variety on Restaurant Row for every creature to find their niche, as far as Saffron was concerned, especially after the whole Zesty Gourmand debacle. The camaraderie was nice. Often, Saffron would get bombarded with recommendations for countless places she’d never even heard of before.

A lot of ponies kept mentioning one establishment in particular – Donut Joe’s? Supposedly the donuts were to die for, as long as you could ignore the Patch.

Whatever that was.

Maybe she’d visit it tonight? As a little treat for herself, while her father was away. Saffron smiled to herself, and giggled.

She turned the next corner, and she saw the Tasty Treat in front of her. Her smile fell. The basket of herbs followed suit, green shoots splaying across the pavement.

Windows smashed. Door ajar. The broken remains of jars of food rolling around on the ground out front.

Graffiti was scrawled across the once-lovingly-painted exterior – a giant, yellow bird, beak open as if it were laughing in mockery.
> Tried to Forget Her, But Then He Met Her
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

So far, today hadn’t been the worst day of Pony Joe’s life– it would have to be really, quite incredibly horrible to outdo the previous one. It was over with now, though, and business had been particularly good. Cuckoo Capone, if nopony else, was satisfied.

Knowing this only made Joe feel guiltier for having thought of it.

He sighed. Oh well, he thought. At least it was near closing time.

Night in Canterlot was a pretty thing – ever since Princess Luna had returned, the sky tended to be woven with enormous, twinkling constellations, like splendid silver tapestries. Sometimes, with no real rhyme or reason, Orion would release his long-drawn bow and fire a little arrow made of shooting stars at an unsuspecting Ursa Minor’s rump, or Draco would come to life and snake his way across the heavens and emit noiseless roars into the night.

Pony Joe liked it when Princess Luna did that. He tended to be one of the few ponies awake late enough to see it, and it was always a subtle thing, only there if you were paying enough attention. It reminded him of when he was a colt, on his birthday, when he’d stay up late and watch old movies with his dad, laughing at ponies doing silly walks and funny slapstick on a black-and-white screen.

Joe hadn’t seen his folks in a long time, he reflected, as he wiped down the countertop and put away his utensils for closing time. He reminded himself to go visit, soon, when he had enough spare cash for the train journey out to Manehattan.

He’d turned off most of the lights, leaving just the one overhead, and the rest of the diner sat in darkness, waiting for the new day to arrive. The radio, old and battered and faithful, played a piece of old jazz, and Joe tapped a hoof along to the beat as he cleaned up.

Then the door swung open, the old bell ringing in tired greeting, and a pony stepped in. Joe turned, and he stopped, with a premature frown falling from his face.

Saffron Masala wandered in out of the cool night air, hair bedraggled, eyes down, and sat in a darkened corner. She did not spare Joe a single glance as she stepped inside.

Joe didn’t move for a long time, rhythm forgotten. His heart pounded in his chest, and guilt wrenched at him painfully, pulled him down to the ground like some inexorable gravity, made him want to curl up into a ball so tight he would be able to block out the world.

Oh no, he thought.

His eyes, slowly, wandered up from the countertop and over to the mare, who had lain her head on the table, her long hair splaying out across the surface, over the edges, and dangling all the way to the floor.

Pony Joe didn’t know what to do. But Donut Joe, owner of Donut Joe’s Diner, knew exactly what to do with a customer, come rain or shine.

First, he reached for the lights and flicked on the ones in Saffron’s corner. Overhead, there was the tinking and blinking as a pair of fluorescent tubes winked into life. One of the dejected mare’s ears twitched, but Joe didn’t see any other movements.

Alright, Joe thought. Pony up, Pony Joe.





“Rough day, miss?”

Saffron Masala blinked. The bones in her arms seemed to creak and complain as she pushed herself up off the table, hair falling against her face and tickling her snout. She sneezed, reached up with a hoof to wipe away tears.

She turned, and saw a large, older unicorn stallion. He wore a baker’s hat on his head, and a white apron lightly spattered with coffee stains and smears of frosting. His face was rounded with chubby cheeks, and he had tired eyes, but he was smiling nonetheless, in a way that felt warm and familiar even though Saffron only knew his face from the sign outside his diner.

Saffron smiled, too, or tried to. She probably looked ugly, she told herself. “H-Hello. Yes. It has been a rough day. A very rough day.” She didn’t know what to say next, so she just sort of mumbled something that didn’t make sense to either of them.

Pony Joe’s ear twitched, and he nodded and gave a vague half-laugh. His horn glowed and a little notepad floated up from a pocket in his apron, along with a well-worn pencil. “Yeah, I know that feelin’. Can Pony Joe getcha anything at least, miss? We don’t close for a little while yet.”

Saffron blinked, and let out a little squeak of realisation. She looked around, found a menu lying on the seat next to her, and immediately picked it up and hid her blushing face with it. “Oh, I am very sorry, so very sorry, I had forgotten it was so late, I’m sure you’re very–”

Pony Joe grimaced, just a tiny bit, and held up his hooves to calm her. “Hey, whoa, whoa. It’s okay, miss. Rough day, I get it.”

Saffron peered over the menu at him. “Yes. Sorry. Rough day. I’ll have, um.” She scanned the menu, but her mind was blank but for memories of a ruined restaurant and worries of a furious father, and so the foreign words did not make immediate sense to her. “This! Yes, this seems very, um, good.” She pointed at a random option on the menu and smiled, extremely widely.

Pony Joe blinked. Then he looked at what she’d picked out, and smiled, almost in relief. “Oh! Yeah, I should have one of those left. You want anything to drink with that?”

“Um.” Saffron pondered for a moment. “Do you have any, uh… tea?”

Pony Joe rubbed his chin with his hoof. “Tea? Yeah, I should have some around. Earl Grey alright for ya?”

Saffron did not know who Earl Grey was, but she assumed they made nice tea, if this stallion was offering it to her. “Yes, his is my favourite tea.”

Pony Joe’s face flickered between amusement and bemusement for a moment before he scribbled something down and turned away, saying: “Alright, coming right up!”

Saffron watched Joe trot off behind the counter and begin rummaging under the countertop. He seemed like a nice stallion, she thought. Ponies in Canterlot seemed very nice in general.

But then, one of those Canterlot ponies had been responsible for destroying the Tasty Treat. Her livelihood. Her favourite place in all the world.

Tears poked at Saffron’s eyes and she let them run down her face and plink onto the tabletop.

How was she going to explain all this to Father?





Joe wiped his brow. So far, so good. For a moment, there, he thought he’d been mistaken about how much tea he actually had left – he only tended to order a little bit of it, his coffee was far more popular – but to his delight he had, in fact, found a pristine box of Earl Grey.

He tried not to think about how, no matter how much the mare enjoyed her sweets and tea, he was still the worst pony in the whole world.

“Order up, miss!” he called out, just loud enough to get her attention without startling her.

Saffron, after a moment, turned away from the window, and slid out of her seat and started walking towards the counter, fiddling with her bedraggled mane.

“A cup of Earl Grey, aaaaand…” With a small pause for effect, Joe lifted a silver platter onto the countertop in his magic. “One ‘New Donutopia’, fresh off the presses!”

On the platter, there existed a whole city block, frosted in all the different colours of the rainbow. Skyscrapers of layered pastry with fluted frosting minarets; city streets recreated in icing form, complete with little decorative street sign candles; and – the pièce de résistance – a recreation of the Royal Palace in the centre, down to the last exotic detail, made entirely out of doughnuts.

The look of wonder that spread across Saffron Masala’s face did, despite everything, manage to put one heck of a smile on Pony Joe’s face.

“It is wondrous.” Saffron sat down at the counter, taking in the entirety of the sugary spectacle with eyes as wide as dinner plates. “How… You have created this?”

Pony Joe buffed a hoof on his chest, and tried to conceal a proud smirk. “Yes, indeed I did, miss. Go ahead, tuck in!”

And so she did, although it took her a moment – she seemed hesitant to disturb the craftsmanship of the piece, but eventually her stomach rumbled and she took a bite out of one of the skyscrapers. As she chewed, her eyes almost seemed to roll back in her head in sheer delight.

When she swallowed, she slammed a hoof down the counter with almost frightening force.

“Great stallion,” Saffron intoned, in a tongue that Joe didn’t understand, “teach me your ways, for you are a master of your craft.”

Joe blinked. The intensity in the mare’s eyes was making him uncomfortable. “Um. Sorry?”

Saffron burped, then put a hoof to her lips. “Oh, my greatest apologies! I am… I lost myself. Please, sir, call me Saffron. Saffron Masala.” She turned her eyes back to New Donutopia, licking her lips in delight. “I would bump your hoof, but it shall be very sticky soon, I fear.”

Pony Joe laughed. It was an honest laugh. “No worries, miss.

"I mean, Saffron.”





“...And that is when Zesty Gourmand herself walked in, sneering as she does, for she is a wicked mare, and she shrieks, ‘What’s this?! What is everypony doing here?!”

Joe gasped. He was leaning over the counter, chin resting on a hoof as he listened, enraptured. “No way!”

“Yes way!” Saffron shouted, frosting dotting her cheeks. “And when all the customers were enjoying their food, too! It was so very rude.”

“Yeah, sounds like Zesty to me. So what happened? Did everypony leave or something?”

“No, no! In fact, everypony began to…”

Saffron wasn’t sure how long she’d been talking. Time and the world had taken a backseat, at some point, and there was only her and Joe and the diner, with its gaudy decor and cracked upholstery and the Patch. It was comfortable. It was familiar. 

Except for the Patch, the name of which Saffron didn’t want to think a third time in case it awakened.

Oh, and there was New Donutopia, of course, but the fair city had seen better days by this point.

“...And then she ran off, into the night, and everypony in the Tasty Treat cheered! For it was a good day, and the evil mare was no match for our good cheer. And that is the end of the story.” Saffron licked her frosting-coated fork and dropped it onto the empty platter. She let out a small burp. “It is a good tale, yes?”

Pony Joe chuckled. “Yeah, I’ll say. Gotta be the most exciting thing to ever happen to Restaurant Row. Place is just a tourist trap, normally.”

Saffron poked him with a hoof and grinned. “That will be the case no longer, Pony Joe. Everypony is cooking food they love for ponies who enjoy it. It is a good place, now.” She held her cup of Earl Grey but did not drink from it – the taste was quite foul and unfamiliar, but she did not say anything, as she did not want to offend Earl Grey’s honour, whoever they were. “And it is all thanks to Rarity and Pinkie Pie!”

Pony Joe raised an eyebrow and whistled. “Man. You must be one of the luckiest ponies in Equestria, gettin’ two of the Elements of Harmony to help you out.”

Saffron sighed in content. “Yes. The Lady of the Lotus has smiled upon me, I am certain, for she sends two of her blessed mares to our aid.”

Pony Joe tilted his head at her. “Huh. Yeah, lots of ponies think the Elements of Harmony are blessed. They’re a pretty big deal.”

“I had not heard of them.” Saffron scratched her chin with a hoof and thought. “I think somepony explained to me who they were, but it held no meaning to me. They live in Ponyville, yes?”

Joe nodded. “Yep. They’re our resident superheroes, really. Like the Power Ponies. Or Con Mane.”

Saffron’s eyes widened. “You lie!” She gasped in delight.

“No, no, I swear!” Joe laughed at her expression. “Saved Equestria a few times now. Discord, Tirek, the changelings…”

Saffron’s eyes sparkled in the flourescent lights of the diner at dusk. She leaned in and whispered: “You must tell me everything. Everything!”

Joe smirked. He glanced up at the clock on the wall, and his face fell. “I’m real sorry, miss – closing time was ten minutes ago. I gotta get home for the night.”

Saffron blinked. Then she rubbed the back of her head in embarrassment. “Oh, right. Yes. I must be heading home too. Father will be–”

Then she blinked again. Slowly, she put her hooves to her face, and moaned into them. “Oh, ye gods, I forgot…”





Joe felt like he’d been slapped across the face. Oh. Right. Ruined livelihood. Right.

Worst pony in the world. Right.

“I. Um. Are you going to be okay, miss?” he said.

Tears fell down Saffron’s face as she began to sob into her hooves. “Oh, Joe,” she said, between breaths. “I… I don’t know what to do! Someone has ruined the Tasty Treat!”

Because Pony Joe couldn’t stand up for himself. Right.

“Oh… Oh, I’m so sorry, Saffron…” In that moment, Joe just wanted to reach across the counter and… make things right. Somehow.

Somehow.

“Do you need help?” Joe shouted, much louder than he intended, and he immediately slapped a hoof to his lips.

Saffron’s sobs quieted for a moment. She looked up at him over her sodden hooves, eyes red and wet with tears.

“I… I’m a strong guy.” Joe rubbed the back of his head and avoided her gaze. “I clean up a lot. I got magic. I can bring some stuff over tomorrow and I can… help out? I mean, I wouldn’t want to–”

“You would do that?” Saffron breathed. “For me?”

“I mean…” Joe imagined what Con Mane would do. Something cool, and suave. He’d give a winning smile.

So Pony Joe smiled, and he said, “It’s the least I can do. Day off tomorrow, anyway.”
> Doing Some Chores, Now It's All Restored
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

It wasn’t actually Pony Joe’s day off tomorrow.

Honestly, Joe rarely had days off – he was married to his work, even if it wasn’t the happiest of betrothals. But the look on Saffron Masala’s face had silenced any complaints he might have had.

Well. There was one issue, which hit him at the same time the door did that morning – he was not a morning pony – and that was the fact that it was probably better for him if he was at least somewhat inconspicuous. Cuckoo Capone probably wouldn’t like it if he was seen, y’know, undoing all his own handiwork.

Or maybe he would? Joe paused in the middle of dressing for the day, shirt dangling off of one leg.

At some point, Joe figured, one of Cuckoo Capone’s gang was going to come and lay down the law for the Tasty Treat. They probably wouldn’t make it too pretty, considering their track record.

But what if Joe did that for them? He was in their good graces at the moment, at least, based on their attitudes since he’d done the dirty deed.

Or at the very least, he could just look like that was what he was doing.

Slowly, his eyes trailed up from the white shirt in his hooves, his favourite shirt, his iconic shirt, and settled on the black tuxedo hanging in his wardrobe.

“Oh, who cares,” he said, out loud. Might as well go out in style.





Turns out that saffron is really hard to clean up, thought Saffron, bitterly. It had a way of just getting everywhere when it was thrown, jar and all, straight onto the floor.

She sighed, blowing some of her dangling strands of hair around a bit. She hadn’t bothered to do her mane up nicely that day – because, really, who had the time? – and so it hung down the back of her neck in a messy ponytail.

She wasn’t wearing any of her usual clothes either; she didn’t feel like getting any of them dirty when she was spending all day cleaning up a ruined restaurant. Her eyes drifted from the saffron-y carpet to the various stains that coated the fine drapery and tapestries, the smashed paintings, and the incongruous mess that was the kitchen.

Then her ears perked, and she looked up in surprise. There was a knock at the door.

“Coming!” she sang, and began to step neatly over the detritus that coated the floor towards the front door.

It took her a while. Long enough that there was another loud series of knocks resounding throughout the dining area when she finally made it to the door. “Yes, yes, yes, I know, I am–” Saffron paused, door slung open, with her hoof clutching the handle. Her jaw was hanging open.

Pony Joe was standing there. He was not wearing his usual baker’s hat, or his old apron, or his iconic white shirt.

Instead, he was wearing a crisp, white dress shirt, a smooth black tuxedo, and it was all held together with a tiny red bowtie at his neck. The outfit probably would have looked a little better if it didn’t all seem to be a couple of sizes too small.

Joe tried to smile, but it came out as a vague baring of his teeth. “Hey. C-Cleaner’s here.”





The last time Joe had worn his tux, he’d been almost a decade younger and attending his brother’s wedding. He’d been catering the whole affair, and learned that trying to flirt with mares with that as his icebreaker was not nearly as effective as he’d hoped it would be.

Turns out that running a diner for several years isn’t great for your figure, to top it all off. Who knew?

“Are you sure you’re not… too warm?” Saffron asked, looking more than a little bit concerned. “That does not look very… Comfortable.”

“Naw, it’s fine,” said Joe, mopping his brow with a hoof. “I’m pretty, uh, sensitive to the cold, see.” He settled his saddlebags full of cleaning supplies on one of the (mostly untouched) tables and began to squeeze out of his black coat. The little pink rose in the chest pocket fell out and disappeared into the thick rug at his hooves. He didn’t notice.

“If you’re sure,” said Saffron, seeming amused. “You Canterlot ponies are quite interesting, do you know that?”

Joe looked at her over his shoulder and smirked. “Psshaw. You’re telling me. I’m from Manehattan.”

Saffron squeaked, slapped a hoof to her face, and cursed in something musical and foreign. “Ah, yes, of course. Please excuse me. I am very new to all of this.”

When a response wasn’t immediately forthcoming, she opened her eyes, and looked at Joe. He was staring at her blankly, mouth open slightly. “Um. Joe? Oh, I am so sorry! I did not know it would offend you so greatly!” She turned away, blushing in embarrassment.

The movement made Joe blink, and shake his head. “No, no, sorry. You just... “

He hadn’t seen Saffron without her clothes before. It wasn’t such a strange thing, really, but there was a smoothness to the curve of her neck that he hadn’t noticed until now, and the lack of eyeliner made her eyes seem brighter, more alive, in spite of the tired rings around them.

Joe shook his head again, and forced a laugh. “You didn’t offend me. I was just thinking about it, and, honestly? I’m probably more a Canterlot pony now than I was ever a Manehattanite.”

After a moment, Saffron looked back over one shoulder, eyebrows raised. “Is that true?”

“Oh yeah!” Joe laughed again, and began rummaging through his saddlebags for cleaning supplies. “I haven’t gone to Manehattan in years. Been too busy, really.”

“Oh. That is sad. Do you not have family there?”

“No, I do. Folks live there, down by the docks. My dad – big earth pony fella, y’know the type – used to haul stuff off of boats back when boats were, y’know, a new thing. Didn’t pay diddly squat, but it kept us all afloat.”

“And your mother?”

“Mom just used to look after me. Sometimes we couldn’t afford to pay the electricity bill, and my dad would spend all day down at the docks working overtime to make up the slack. My mom would sit with me in the dark, wrap us up in blankets, and we’d read books and stuff.”

“Oh… That is so very sweet.”

“Hmm. Yeah. Honestly, though? I didn’t really understand my mom for a long time.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, she was a unicorn, born and bred in Canterlot. Went to Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns, real big rich-pony place, ya heard of it? Held in the highest regard. She had her life all set out for her. Top of every class. Magic out the wazoo.” Joe paused, and stared at a crooked painting, thoughts elsewhere. “Coulda been great.”

“What happened to her?” Saffron looked up from a particularly difficult stain, and gasped. “Oh, ye gods, tell me she didn’t have an accident!”

“Worse.” Pony Joe laughed. “She met my dad.”





The rest of the day passed… nicely. Nicer, Saffron admitted quietly to herself in her heart of hearts, than she’d ever expected it would go.

There had been a clamp pressing down on her heart – a great and evil pressure that blocked out the light and sucked the warmth from her bones.

But every time Pony Joe seemed to show up out of nowhere, he brought with him a bit of relief. A distraction. Blessed, blessed distraction.

She peeked across the room and saw him, tongue out, working out curry stains from the carpet. It was not a dignified pose by any means, but she felt that Pony Joe had enough dignity in him to make it work regardless.

The thought of food lit up a lightbulb in her head, and she squealed – just a little bit – with excitement.

Maybe there was a way she could try to repay him, after all.





Pony Joe, as much as he smiled and he laughed and he joked, was not having the best time of it, if he were being honest.

For one, as much as he made it look easy, cleaning was not exactly something he enjoyed doing – especially when, instead of the smooth countertops and plastic furnishings of Donut Joe’s Diner, there were only thick rugs and entangling drapery and annoying little flimsy wooden–

He took a deep breath. Okay. Keep it cool, Joe. You got this.

He was sure it was a lovely place to dine, when it wasn’t covered in weird-smelling stains and broken pottery and glass that had poked holes in everything pokeable – including him, more than once. But it was really hard to appreciate that when, every time you lingered for too long, memories of breaking in, finding the nearest smashable thing, and just throwing it to the ground, biting down hard as you pulled those stupid draperies from their stupid–

Pony Joe groaned, clutched his head. Yes, he was the worst pony in the world. Yes, he should keep reminding himself of that.

Tears began to poke at his eye. Oh, by Celestia, was he really going to start crying now?

And then the smell struck him. It was sharp. Spicy. Made his eyes sting a little bit, and fuzz over with tiny tears. He blinked, and stood up, smelling the air.

“Joe~!” came a sweet, singsong voice from the kitchen. “Dinner is ready!”

Pony Joe’s stomach growled, and he realised just how long he’d been bent over cleaning. Must have been several hours.

Joey needed food.

“Coming!” he called, getting to his hooves. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his dress-shirt at some point, and the spatters of various foodstuffs on the ruffled white material didn’t really faze him beyond a deserved eye-roll. He stepped over towards the kitchen – noticeably much easier now that they’d gotten rid of all the broken porcelain and suchlike – and poked his head in through the doorway.

Saffron Masala was there, and she was in her element. He caught her just as she finished slicing and dicing various vegetables on an old cooking board, humming all the while, and sliding them into a large pot that was trailing delicious, spicy steam into the air. The bags under her eyes, Joe noticed, seemed to have vanished, at least for the moment.

She looked nice, Joe thought. She looked really nice.

He cleared his throat. Saffron looked up from her dish, eyes wide, and she gave him a big grin. “Please! Take a seat!” She flicked her tail, casually, elegantly, at the little table in the corner of the cosy kitchen. The motion made his heart flutter in his chest.

“Yes, ma’am.” He sat down, feeling inelegant and… rotund, in the little chair. He frowned. He needed to get in shape…

Saffron walked over to the table, two plates hovering magically around her head, and slid one of them in front of Joe. “It is served!” she said.

Then, when she sat down with her own food, she closed her eyes and raised a hoof, and sang something in her native tongue, something long and sweet. She pressed the hoof to her chest and was silent for a long moment.

When Saffron opened her eyes, she caught Joe looking at her with a bemused expression. “Oh!” She laughed, a light blush playing across her cheeks. “My deepest apologies. I was just saying ‘thank you’.”

“Oh.” Joe smiled. “No problem, Saffron.”

“No!” Saffron pressed a hoof to her lips, then sighed in frustration. “I mean, yes, thank you. Of course. I am very thankful! But I was thanking the Lady of the Lotus, just then.”

Pony Joe raised an eyebrow. “Uh. Okay. You mentioned her before.”

Saffron looked at him. Confusion played across her features for a moment, until she gasped in realisation. “Oh! I do not suppose you… know of her here?”

“‘Fraid not. Is she nice?”

Saffron nodded her head excitedly. “Oh yes! Good graces, where to begin…” She looked around the room, then pointed at a picture hanging over the doorway to the kitchen. “There! That is she.”

Joe turned his head and glanced up to where she was pointing.

There was a painting, there, of a beautiful pony – an alicorn, Joe amended – with a pristine golden-white coat, and hair that shone in a myriad of colours, and a very long and fluted horn. Magenta eyes stared out from under long, curved eyelashes. A soft, knowing smile played across her lips, and golden jewellery hung around her neck and across her brow. It took a moment for Joe to realise she was sitting on an enormous lotus flower in the middle of a great blue ocean, with more lotus flowers floating serenely in the background.

“She is the Lotus Lady,” Saffron explained. “She is who Father and I give thanks to, in everything we do. She brings good fortune, and wealth, and prosperity, to those in her good graces.”

“Huh,” said Joe, after a minute or two. “Looks just like Princess Celestia.” He turned back around, and found Saffron staring at him with astonishment. “What?”

“That…” Saffron tilted her head. “Princess Celestia looks like her?”

Joe frowned. “Yeah. Almost exactly, actually. Haven’t you seen her Highness before? How long have you been in Canterlot?”

Saffron shrank a little, in her seat. She tittered – and suddenly, Joe didn’t think so badly of mares who tittered – and she said, “Um. I must confess to you, I have not been here very long at all. I see the statues, and sometimes she is in the newspapers, but I have never seen her in the flesh. I do so dearly wish to, though!”

Pony Joe chuckled. “Ah, it’s no biggie. Summer Sun Celebration ain’t too far off now, and she’ll be on display for ya right there.”

Saffron looked at him. Excitement sparkled in her purple eyes like stars. “We must go to this Celebration,” she vowed. “Together!”

Joe’s heart thumped in his chest. “Um. Sure, yeah.” Then he smiled. “Yeah, together. Oh, uh, one question.”

“Ask away, my friend!”

“What the heck is this? It looks delicious, mind you.”

“Oh! It is aloo baingan.”

“A-who now?”

“It is a dish made with potato and eggplant.” Saffron rubbed the back of her head sheepishly. “It is the best I could do with what I had left, I am afraid.”

“Well, it smells good!” Pony Joe scooped up a forkful and shoved it into his mouth. “Mmm. Tastesh good, too!”

Saffron squeaked in delight. “Oh, I am so glad you like it! Though, ah, you might want to slow down a little bit.”

“Why’sh shat?” said Joe, cheeks bulging. “It’sh delishush!”

Then he stopped. He felt something odd.

“...Ish it getting hot in here?”





To his credit, Saffron admitted, he managed to swallow it all without making a mess.

She was just glad she was prepared for this sort of thing.

“Mmm.” Pony Joe was, currently, lying on the ground, shirt crumpled with sweat, and holding a glass of yogurt-y liquid in his magical aura. “This is… Much better.” He exhaled, slowly, cheeks glowing pink. “What’s this called?” He sloshed the drink around in his grasp and poured the rest of it down his gullet.

Saffron giggled to herself. “It is called lassi. It is very good for this sort of thing.”

“I will name my firstborn child after it,” Joe intoned, voice deep and trembling with emotion.

Saffron’s giggles evolved into outright laughter. “Oh, you silly Equestrians,” she said, with a note of whimsy. “You are all so very, delightfully odd.”

Joe climbed back to his hooves, wiping down his forehead with a napkin. “Yep. Rolling around on the floor after eating just a little bit of potato and eggplant. Pinnacle of high society, right there for ya.”

“Oh, if you thought that dish was hot…” Saffron chuckled to herself, and put on a far too innocent look. “Well, suffice it to say, there are things that grow in my homeland that could shed the scales from a dragon.”

Joe pondered that for a moment. Then he frowned at her. “Are you sure? ‘Cause, like. One time this dragon I know ate a stone-baked pizza oven.”

Saffron fixed Joe with a intense glare, and prodded him, three times, in the chest. “Not. Even. Exaggerating.”

“No, I mean, they took the pizza out and ate the oven–”

“Do you want to know what dragons have under their scales?” Saffron asked, casually, and without waiting for a reply she leaned in and whispered something into his ear.

Joe’s eyes went wide as he processed what Saffron had just told him. Saffron leaned back and looked very smug.

Joe started breaking out into a sweat again, even though the spicy taste in his mouth had long since faded. “You know what?” he said. “I think I’ll just stick to donuts.”





Joe didn’t notice the sun setting until it was only a very distant splash of gold and purple on the horizon, eclipsed only slightly by the edge of Mount Canterhorn. At some point, though, the day had come to a close, and the moon had risen, and with it came all the myriad constellations, great and small and bright and dim and everything inbetween.

He noticed this not too long after he noticed that they were…

“Done?”

Saffron blinked, a word dying on her lips – Joe had started telling her about all those times that Equestria had very nearly but not quite been destroyed, and had inadvertently given rise to a whole saffron field’s worth of questions – and she turned around, swept her eyes across the spotless floor, the repaired draperies, and the polished tables.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was certainly…

“Wondrous!” Saffron pressed her hooves to her cheeks in delight, flopping back onto her haunches. “Oh, Joe, you are a gift! A blessing is you, you lovely pony!”

Pony Joe fiddled with his shirt collar, which had been stuck up at odd angles for the last hour or so – he’d abandoned the bow tie eventually, because it was exceptionally uncomfortable, as predicted – and grinned at her. The smiles came easier now, Joe reflected.

He hadn’t found it so easy to smile since he’d been a little colt, pretending to be a hero.

“Thanks, Saffron,” he said. “It’s all in a day’s work.”

Saffron ran over to him, reached up, and kissed him on the forehead. Then she jabbed him in the chest with a hoof, and she fixed him with a stern glare, and she said, “You, Pony Joe. You will be forever welcome in this place. I swear this upon all the gods.”

It took Joe a little while to respond – ain’t every day a mare ran up and kissed him of all ponies – but when he did, it came out hesitant, stammering, like this: “O-Oh. That’s. Um.”

And he felt warmth rising up into his cheeks. “Thanks.”

Then Saffron started yanking him towards the door with her magic, bouncing on her hooves as she went. “We must celebrate! Father returns, soon, and so we must buy the finest Canterlotian wines, and we will all drink, and we shall–”

Then she stopped. “Oh.”

“What? What is it?” Joe stumbled back a bit as her telekinetic grip faltered, releasing him. He dusted off his shirt, and looked at her, brow furrowed. “Is somethin’ wrong?”

Saffron sighed. “I am afraid we are not yet finished with the cleaning,” she mourned, looking towards the door.

“Oh?” Joe followed her gaze. “Oh.”

Right. The graffiti.

The two trudged outside and stared at it – Pony Joe’s pièce de résistance, the crown jewel of his vandalism: Cuckoo Capone’s calling card.

“Well, uh.” Joe rubbed the back of his head. “I mean. Some soap and a brush and some water and that should come right off,” he said, trying to sound optimistic, more for his sake than Saffron’s. “Right?”

Saffron nodded, but she looked downcast. “Yes. Yes, I suppose it is not much work to remove. But… What is it? I do not understand this.”

Joe stared at it. “It’s uh. It’s a cuckoo. I think.”

“A cuckoo?”

“Yeah. It’s a bird.”

“Yes, I am aware.”

“Oh.”

“But… Argh!” Saffron grabbed her head with her hooves and clamped her eyes shut. “But why?! Why would somepony do this? Why a cuckoo?” She opened her eyes and stared at Joe, frightened tears threatening to run down her cheeks. “Is it... Is this the mark of some foul demon? The cutie mark of a pony possessed? Are they going to come back again and undo all our hard work? Was it all for naught?”

Joe stared at her. Pony Joe, this time. Not Con Mane, with all the snappy quips and the hero’s winning smile. Not Donut Joe, ready and waiting with a box full of donuts, always listening, always patient.

Just Joe.

Joe wasn’t very good at lying – at least, not directly, and not to other ponies. He remembered, with clarity, a time in his foalhood when, hungry and lonely and miserable, he’d snuck into the kitchen and eaten up every last crumb of his mother’s birthday cake, something he and she had spent an entire day baking together.

Joe was miserable often, and often he didn’t understand why, but he knew that eating helped. Or at least, put it away for a little bit. That, at least, had stuck with him, like Con Mane never had.

His father, normally patient, always reserved, had shouted at him. He knew, even though Joe had insisted otherwise. The cake had been expensive – a treat, for a beloved wife.

It hadn’t been the cake that made him shout, though. Just the lies.

“Cuckoo Capone,” said Joe. “Cuckoo Capone did it. Was behind all of it.”

Saffron stared at him. A single tear ran down her cheek, plinked against the cobblestones, but it was forgotten.

He told her all about Cuckoo Capone. He told her all about the dirty deals, and the blackmail, and the manor house, and the stallions in suits and hats who sat amongst his customers.

He did not, however, mention who was responsible for the vandalism. He did not mention the worst day of his life. Maybe, he assured himself, he would reveal all that to her, later, when this was all behind them. It would be just be a joke then.

Just a story.

Saffron did not say anything for a little while after he finished. She stared at him instead, looking equal parts awestruck and horrified. Then, eventually, “That is… I still do not think I understand.”

“You’re a target, Saffron,” Joe said, holding her gently by the shoulders. “He wants you in his ledger, like everypony else on Restaurant Row.”

Saffron stared at him. Then, quietly: "Then what am I supposed to do? Should I tell the guards?"

"It won't work," Joe said, voice hard. "Do you realise how little ever happens in Canterlot? All Cuckoo has to do is say a few kind words and move some gifts around and it'll all be forgotten about soon enough." He paused. "And it's not as if we have strong enough evidence, anyway."

And in Joe's mind, memories of the stallions in black sharing coffee and donuts on a morning with golden-armoured stallions flooded in. Smiling. Whispering.

She was frowning now, chewing at the inside of her cheek in thought. Something occurred to her.

“How… How do you know all these things?”

“I… What?”

“These are secrets, yes? Cuckoo Capone, he appears to be not such an evil pony to everypony else. But you whisper to me of these dark, secret things.” Saffron pushed him away. She looked upon him with new eyes, arms crossed, glaring suspiciously. “So. How do you know? Why should I believe you?”

Uh oh.

What in Celestia’s name was he supposed to say to that?

Pony Joe began to sweat, profusely, as the heat rose in his collar. He felt like he was choking on spicy food. Again.

He couldn’t tell her who he was. That he was one of Cuckoo’s lackeys. That he had him and his diner under his hooves. How could he look her in the eye after that?

He was panicking.

Think.

What would Con Mane do?

“Alright,” said Joe, breathing out, slowly. “I’ll tell you. But…”

Saffron raised an eyebrow.

“You have to promise me you won’t tell anyone.”

The eyebrow was raised higher. “Joe.”

“Promise me.”

“Tell me, Joe.”

“I’m a secret agent.” Joe hated himself. “I work for Equestrian Intelligence.”

There was a long, long pause. The other eyebrow followed the first, connecting somewhere underneath Saffron’s tangled mass of purple hair. “...Secret agent?”

“Yes.” Joe cleared his throat, fixed his posture, swept a hoof through his mane. “I’m under orders, straight from the top. Princess Celestia herself. It’s a highly important, highly confidential mission.”

Saffron tilted her head.

The lies came easy, as if they’d always been there, bubbling away in their own little voice at the back of Joe’s head. “Cuckoo Capone is a very, very valuable target. He’s built an empire, see, got all of High Canterlot in his pocket. He’s got a strong front going: everyone loves Uncle Cuckoo, even if he’s a bit crazy. The Guard have been trying to nab him for years, but he’s…” Joe blew air out between his teeth and shook his head sadly. “Elusive, to say the least.”

Saffron tilted her head the other way. Joe looked back at her, met her gaze with his own.

“That’s why they called me in,” he said, pulling on his smooth, black, tuxedo jacket. “I’m the best they’ve got.”

He saw something twinkle in those purple eyes, like stars.

“Ye gods,” Saffron breathed. “This is…”

Nonsense?

“Incredible! Oh, by the gods, Joe, you are a hero!” Saffron grabbed him by the shoulders, shook him once, twice, and began to fire off more questions than a single stallion can reasonably keep track of.

Joe felt himself want to crumple up and go to sleep. But he weathered the storm.

No, Pony Joe was not his real name. Yes, he’d saved the world. Yes, more than once. Yes, he had all the gadgets. No, he didn’t have them with him. No, he couldn’t speak seven different languages. Yes, he’d had tea with Princess Celestia. No, he was not an Element of Harmony… Or rather, that was all he was allowed to say.

Joe was proud of that last one.

“Look,” he said, plugging up Saffron’s mouth with a hoof. “I get it. I’m kind of a big deal. But we don’t have time for this. Cuckoo Capone’s boys could strike at any time, and we need to get going now.”

“We must go? Go where?” Saffron said, voice bubbling over with excitement. “I can come with you?”

“Yes.” He flashed a winning smile. “I trust you, Saffron. And I need your help to save Equestria.”

The look on Saffron Masala’s face just then nearly – almost – made the whole thing worth it.
> Not Enough Crime? Try it One More Time!
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was the best night of Saffron Masala’s life. She felt like a daring adventurer. An Element of Harmony. A superspy-in-training.

She’d always loved stories. When she had been a little filly, cooking her favourite meals with her father over a roaring fire, he would regale her with stories of demons and monsters, spirits and gods, and heroes.

Saffron always liked the stories about the heroes the most. They came in all shapes and sizes – unicorns, earth ponies, pegasi – and from all backgrounds – rich ponies, poor ponies, kings and queens and farmers…

Restaurant owners.

She squealed.

“Don’t do that,” Joe whispered.

“I’m sorry,” Saffron whispered back. “I am just very excited.”

The two were crouched in a bush, at that exact moment. The night was dark, save for the dappled moonlight that lanced down through the branches of the exotic trees that populated the curved, marbled streets of High Canterlot.

Ahead of them, behind a pair of large, steel gates – decorated extravagantly with gold filigree that formed a bird-like crest in the centre – was Cuckoo Capone’s manor.

“Right,” said Joe. “The plan is simple: we sneak in, we find the ledger, and then we sneak out again.”

“That…” Saffron looked at Joe. Or, rather, the pony she knew only as Pony Joe. Ooh, this was so very exciting! “...is a very simple plan.”

“Yeah, it is. What, not a fan?”

“No, no! It’s just…”

“What?”

“Well, I was expecting something a bit more…” Saffron trailed off, trying to find the word.

Joe gave her a look. “...Convoluted?”

“Yes!”

“Ah, a rookie mistake.” Joe tapped the side of his snout knowingly. “The best plan is often the simplest plan.”

“That is true! Simple is best. There is a saying in my language, you see, that says no plan ever survives first contact with the enemy!”

Joe swallowed. “Uh, right.”

“But you are surely familiar with these things, yes?”

“Right.”

“Which is why you said we should use a simple plan, because it will surely fail, and it will be easier to adapt to something simple, yes? You are preparing in advance!

“We should stop talking.”

There was the rustle and clinking of Saffron’s saddlebags as she got ready to move. “Okay. I will follow your lead, brave stallion!” And she giggled quietly to herself.

Pony Joe swallowed, hard. “Alright. Let’s go.”

And so they went, the night air blowing gently through their manes.

As always, the High Canterlot weather was impeccable. Joe was reminded of this by the softness of the grass as he snuck through the undergrowth, just damp enough to muffle the sounds of his movements without giving him away with dry crunching. The gated fence loomed out of the darkness, slowly but steadily, as the two ponies drew nearer.

Joe led Saffron through the bushes that flanked the pristine pavestones of the main road until they could see a hint of the well-maintained finery of the property through the gaps in the grand gate.

He put a hoof to his lips, then pointed down at the ground. No following. Then he slunk up to the side of the gate and tried to peer through the gaps in the bars.

Saffron watched his expression – focused, intense. Professional. Now this was a pony that knew what he was doing. When Joe, after a moment or two, turned away from the gate and waved for her to follow, he paused upon looking at her expression.

“What? Something on my face?”

“Oh! No. No, it is fine.”

“Right. Okay, so, Cuckoo’s home, but probably asleep, ‘cause no-one’s watching out front, so we should make a move while we still can. They’ve probably taken a break to play cards or eat donuts or something.”

Saffron blinked. “Oh. I see. But how do we get inside?”

Joe pointed. “We can climb the fence.”





Joe could not climb the fence.

In his defence, though, working at a diner all day doesn’t quite give you the, y’know, immense athleticism that a superspy probably has. The fact that he made it this far without getting a stitch he considered overall a win.

So, Saffron went up first.

“Ow!”

“Shhh!” Joe looked around, heart pounding in his chest, at the street around them. No curtains were twitching. No sounds of voices. So far, so good.

“Why is this fence so sharp?”

“Probably... to stop us from doing this.”

“Well, it is very rude of them!”

“Saffron... Could you please climb faster?” Joe chanced an upwards glance and got an eyeful of Saffron’s cutie mark, and quickly averted his gaze, cheeks red. “It’s getting… hard to hold you up like this…”

The weight of the hooves pressing down on his back lifted, gradually, and then all at once as Saffron grunted quietly. Joe winced at the dull pain in his back, then looked up.

Saffron clung to the other side of the fence, looking back over her shoulder at the lawn below her with an anxious expression. Then she looked back at Joe, and it diffused into a smile. “Okay. Are you ready, Joe?”

Joe took a deep breath. He hoped, fervently, that he wouldn’t make an embarrassment of himself.

Then he jumped up and grabbed ahold of Saffron’s offered hoof.





Saffron wheezed.

Joe groaned.

It is very fortunate, Saffron thought, that there were no ponies around to witness them. That would have been a lot worse than just getting caught, for it would also be quite, quite embarrassing.

The two of them lay tangled in a heap in the bushes on Cuckoo Capone’s estate. Honestly, it’d all been going very smoothly until Saffron learned, very quickly, that Donut Joe is exactly as… girthy as his name would imply.

Not that there was anything wrong with that, Saffron quickly amended. Superspies had to stay true to their personas, yes?

“Huff. Okay. Huff.” Joe got to his hooves, looked down at his rumpled tuxedo with a vague sadness, and then looked at Saffron with concern. “Are you okay? Sorry, we probably could have, like… done that better.”

Saffron hurriedly got to her hooves. “No, no! It was very smooth. I barely even felt the fall,” she said, smiling very widely in spite of the pain in her leg.

Joe visibly relaxed. “Phew. Alright. Now, c’mon, gotta keep moving.”

The two began to canter hurriedly across the estate towards the manor.

Saffron knew that Joe had said that there was nopony watching on the estate, but she had nonetheless been incredibly uncomfortable with just running for the door, even under the cover of darkness. But that was what Joe was doing, and he seemed entirely confident, so she did not argue.

“It seems as if this plan would not work if there were ponies here. This is so very clever of you, Joe!”

Joe stumbled a little bit. “Uh. Yeah, haha. I’ve been scouting this place out for weeks. Know all their schedules like the back of my hoof.”

The door to Cuckoo Capone’s manor was no less audacious than the gate – tall, thick, and made from polished dark wood, with an enormous golden knocker in the centre. The knocker was, naturally, an enormous golden bird’s head with a ring threaded through its open beak.

The pair nestled in the porch, glancing around anxiously. Joe turned to Saffron and said, “You keep watch, alright? Just in case they come back early.”

She gave him a cheery salute. “Yessir!” Then she turned and stared out into the darkness.

Saffron was not an evening pony – she went to bed early, as her Father had always held a strict curfew, and therefore she always woke up feeling fresh and ready to face the day.

Thus, Saffron couldn’t remember the last time she had sat outside, in the dusk, and witnessed the night sky at its deepest and most glorious. When the stars spun themselves into exotic patterns, and when the moon shone softly and ever-so-sweetly, and when Ursas Minor and Major snuggled up like a family of bears.

Wait.

Saffron blinked. She wasn’t the most astronomically aware of ponies – Father swore by the power of the stars and their prophecies, but to her they’d always looked like a bunch of little lights in the sky instead of the wells of knowledge they were purported to be.

But here she was, waiting for Pony Joe – international superspy – to break into Cuckoo Capone’s manor, watching two collections of stars that looked very much like a pair of giant bears cuddling up in the cosmos.

For a second, she swore one of them gave her a wink.

There was a soft click from behind her. Saffron blinked, turned, and saw Joe pushing the front door open. She gasped in delight. “You have succeeded?”

Joe looked over his shoulder at her and smiled. “You know it.”

“Was it a difficult lock to pick? Oh, you must show me how it is done, someday!”

Joe paused. He chuckled, cheeks red, and held up a key in his magical grip. “It’s easy when you know where they keep the spare key.”

Saffron blinked. “Oh. Where–”

“Under the doormat. They should probably hide it better, honestly. Anyway! Follow my lead, and watch out for the birds.”

And he pushed open the door.





Stupid birds.

“Joe,” a soft voice whispered from behind Joe’s back. “I do not understand what you’re doing.”

Joe didn’t look away from the birds, nor did he stop clucking softly under his breath. “What does it cluck cluck look like I’m cluck cluck doing?”

“Feeding doughnuts to cuckoo birds.”

Joe levitated another doughnut out of his saddlebags and began crumbling it up into pieces. “I know it looks weird, Saffron, but trust me.”

“But there is some birdseed just over–”

“Trust me.”

Traditional Capone Brand Birdseed was, Joe was certain, as high a quality of birdseed as any other on the market – but Cuckoo Capone’s birds were no ordinary birds. Back when Joe had first been ‘invited’ to the manor, the cuckoo birds in Capone’s study often burst into a wild ruckus of rustling feathers and screeching.

Then, at some point, one of Cuckoo’s boys fed the birds one of Joe’s doughnuts, and they were soothed. Since then, Cuckoo had asked for a steady stream of them as part of their arrangement, and his infrequent ‘invitations’ got at least somewhat more bearable as a result.

The strange affection that Cuckoo Capone’s cuckoos held for Joe’s doughnuts was a genuine point of pride for the baker in him, which said a lot more about Joe’s pride than anything else.

“Okay.” Joe shot a look in Saffron’s general direction, and picked out the edge of a concerned eye in the moonlit darkness. “Cluck cluck I think I’ve got these cluck cluck birds under control, so go cluck cluck find the ledger cluck quick cluck quick.”

Saffron didn’t say anything then – Joe listened to the quick clicking of horseshoes on the wooden floor of the study as she went about her investigation.

Joe stared at the rows and rows of bird cages, doughnuts clutched in his hooves and eyes wide with terror, as if he’d been caught putting cookies back in the cookie jar. They seemed as if they were falling back asleep again, so Joe relaxed just a tiny bit. He noticed, dimly, dark feathers covering the floor around the cage-wall. They had a habit of building up over time if Cuckoo or his boys didn’t make an effort to clean them up.

It was quiet in the study for one moment, save for the soft sounds of birds gobbling up crumbled doughnuts and the tick-tock of a grandfather clock counting off the seconds in the corner.

Then that one moment stretched into several.

Then, “Saffron?”

There was a pause, and from behind the desk there came a muffled: “Yes?”

“You don’t know what you’re doing, do you.”

“Ah, no.”

“Check the bottom-right drawer. And be careful when you open it ‘cause it can get stu–”

There was a sharp creak as the heavy wooden drawer came open all at once. Joe dropped his nearly-empty box of doughnuts as his heart started pounding even harder in his chest.

Saffron made a noise that sounded vaguely like a foreign curse. “Oh, no, I’m so so sor–”

“Saffron,” Joe interrupted, tone extremely calm. “Stop apologising and get the ledger. Red with gold edges.”

Paper started rustling as a pair of hooves dug through the desk. The sound got more and more erratic as the seconds passed. Joe could no longer distinguish the sharp clicking of the grandfather clock from the beating of his heart.

“Joe?” There was an edge of barely contained panic to Saffron’s voice. “The ledger.”

“What?” Joe turned away from the sleeping birds and stepped towards the desk. “Did you find it?”

“It is not here.”

A pause. Joe ran over to the desk, saw Saffron staring down into the open drawer, pushed her aside so he could see.

The ledger wasn’t there.

“Check the others,” said Joe, voice low and sharp. He lit up his horn and yanked hard on another drawer, ignored its creaking complaints and began rifling through the contents. Distantly, he heard the birds tweet softly as some of them were prematurely awoken, but he blocked them from his mind.

Saffron followed suit without another word. Paperwork. Stationery. Photographs of Cuckoo, photographs of his father, photographs of his mother, photographs of ponies Joe didn’t recognise. An old pipe. Tobacco. No ledger.

They spread out around the study: scanned the spines of the books in an artful little shelf in the corner, looked over the mantelpiece of the smouldering fireplace, glanced over and under tables and chairs, tapped the walls for hollow compartments, searched for hidden safes, poked through the pockets of the coats that hung from a hat stand by the door.

Nothing.

Saffron was staring at Joe, eyes twin pinpricks even in the dark. “What do we do?”

Joe tapped the sides of his head. Pony Joe was no good here, and Con Mane had made himself scarce, the sly dog.

But Donut Joe knew what to do. Maybe.

Without thinking, he went back to the ruffled birds and began feeding them his last doughnut. “Okay. It’s not in the study. So that means it’s...” He paused. “Somewhere else.”

“Yes. Of course,” said Saffron nodding along, eyes still wide.

“So if it’s somewhere else then we have to look somewhere else. We have to search the manor.”

Saffron somehow managed to look more surprised. “Search the manor?”

“Yeah.”

“The whole building?”

“Yes.”

“It is a very big building, Joe.”

“I know, I know, I know.” Joe spun around and held Saffron by the shoulders, hysteria bleeding into his tone despite his best efforts. “We don’t have much time. But we need that ledger, Saffron. We can’t leave without it.”

Saffron blinked once. Twice. Clamped her eyes shut and shook her head. Then she looked at Joe, mouth compressed into a tight line. “Right. Yes.” Then she stopped, as if a thought had occurred to her. “But… When do Cuckoo’s men get ba–”

Then they heard the distant sounds of rough, mustachioed, suit-wearing voices.

“Yep. Mhm.” Joe started shaking his head. “Nope. Change of plans. Yep. We gotta start moving quickly, now, c’mon c’mon c’mon.”

He started moving towards the door, but Saffron grabbed his arm and shhh’d him.

They stared at a crack in the door. The sounds of conversation grew slightly louder, and louder, and then there was the creak of an opening door. After another few seconds, Joe glimpsed the silhouette of a head wearing a wide-brimmed hat.

They were in the hallway. Between them and the front door, loitering around the stairs.

Saffron tugged Joe off to the side, next to the door. They glanced at each other, then at the study around them.

“We are trapped?” Saffron asked, rather redundantly.

Joe swallowed. “Seems that way.”

“Maybe if we h-hide,” Saffron suggested, voice cracking ever-so-slightly, “they won’t find us?”

Joe felt something tickle the back of his head as he pressed himself back behind the door, and he reached up behind him with a hoof and felt the wooden frame of the coat-and-hat stand. He tugged on the thing touching the back of his head and it came free, and he looked down at it.

It was a black, wide-brimmed hat – soft, finely made, probably quite expensive.

Something occurred to Joe. His eyes slid up the floor and over to the bird cages, and the pile of feathers that had fallen to the floor.

“Celestia have mercy,” Joe breathed.

“What? What is it?” Saffron looked at the hat and glanced up at Joe’s rapturous expression.

“Saffron,” Joe said, striding over to the bird cages with purpose. “Do you have anything sticky in your saddlebags?”

Saffron blinked. “Um. I. Yes, I can try to mix something up. Why?”

Joe picked up a pair of feathers from the ground. Yes. Yes, these would do. Hopefully.

He shot Saffron a look that might be called a winning smile but mostly just looked desperate. “Looks like the plan just got convoluted.”

He flipped the black hat onto his head.





“D’you ever wonda if da Princess goes to the bathroom?”

Micky paused, pool cue pulled back, cue ball right in the centre of his vision. He’d had the perfect shot, or at least he thought he did, but then Johnny just had to go and open his big ol’ mouth again.

There had to be some kind of rule against asking stupid questions when your opponent was trying to take a shot. There probably was, for all that Micky knew, in some pool handbook on a shelf somewhere, but Micky didn’t know how to read, so whoop-de-doo for that idea.

“Johnny,” he muttered, “I swear on Celestia’s throne, I’mma punch you in dat stupid mouth of yours if you do that again.”

“Do what?” Johnny asked. He was making a show of chalking up his cue but he had a big, dumb smirk on his face. “Dunno whatcha talkin’ about, Mick. Ya gonna take your shot or what?”

Micky shot him a glare, then fell back down from where he was leaning over the table to roll his shoulders. He breathed, took in the battlefield. Micky had been winning handily from the get-go – five stripes potted to just one of Johnny’s spots – but now Johnny was doing that thing that Tim did literally every game to get Micky to slip up, and now he was beginning to catch up. Micky didn’t play with Tim anymore because of this, which was probably why Tim told Johnny about it. Johnny was fun but dumb and liked feeling superior, probably because he was the least competent of the three of them.

Micky shook his head. Focus on the game, Micky, he told himself. He pulled himself up onto his hind legs and leaned forward, shut an eye and lined up the shot. If he got the right angle, he could probably pot both of his balls in one clean–

“So d’you think that it’s actually made’a gold? The Princess’s potty, I mean.”

The shot slid out at a rough angle and the cue ball spun off to one side, ricocheted off one of the edges and hit Micky on the nose. He bit back a pained howl. Johnny guffawed, hoof pressed right up to his big, ugly muzzle.

“You’re a real piece a’work, you know that, Johnny?” Micky glowered at him, rubbing his nose. He stamped over to him and stamped him in his beefy chest, voice rising in volume slowly. “Timmy ain’t even here, thank Celestia, and yet you still gotta get on my nerves just like–”

A deep voice cut off Micky’s rant. “Hey, what’s the freakin’ ruckus in here?”

Johnny and Micky turned to look towards the source. A large stallion, not quite as chunky as Johnny but getting there, stood in the darkness of the study door. He was wearing a black tux and his face was obscured by the creeping shadows and a wide-brimmed hat. As the stallion stepped into the room, study door swinging shut behind him, Micky realised he had a thick, black moustache on his upper lip.

The stallion spoke again, in a thick Manehattan accent. “Oh, it’s you bozos. Was wonderin’ when you would get here. Where ya been?”

Johnny narrowed his eyes. “What’s it t’you, buddy? Whatchoo doin’ back there?”

The stallion brushed some crumbs off his lapel with a hoof, and smirked. “The boss wanted me to feed his lil’ birds. Got a problem with ‘at, wise guy?”

Micky flinched, shot Johnny a look over his shoulder and saw his own expression reflected back at him. Cuckoo Capone was infamously protective over his birds. Not just any of his boys were allowed to feed ‘em.

This guy didn’t just look like he meant business, it seems.

“H-Huh.” Micky swallowed, and tried for a smile. “Fair’s fair. You, uh, you play pool?”

“You betcha scrawny little flank I do.” The stallion glanced at the table, wandered around the darkest edge of the hallway. He walked with a confidence to his stride that made Micky feel like a chump. After a pause, he sat down at a table in the corner, and casually pointed a hoof at Micky. “What’s your name, bucko?”

“Name’s Micky, sir. Micky the Drink.”

The stallion turned his hoof towards Johnny. “And what’s yours, little guy?

Johnny’s bulbous form began to sweat. “I, uh, I’m Little John, boss. Just call me Johnny.”

The stallion smiled. “Fantastic. My name’s Big Jim, and you two are gonna go make me some coffee. Chop chop. Got all night, folks.”





Saffron almost didn’t notice whose room she had snuck into until it was too late.

In her defence, it looked almost exactly like all the other bedrooms she’d stumbled into on the second floor as she searched desperately for Cuckoo’s ledger – lofty ceiling, varnished wooden floor, a luxurious rug by the fireplace, four-poster bed covered in thick woollen blankets that nearly entirely obscured the form of the old pegasus sleeping in–

That was when Saffron’s eyes went wide and she froze in place, hoof rifling through Cuckoo’s sock drawer while the entirety of her attention focused on the stallion himself, sleeping soundly in his bed.

Cuckoo Capone was a very quiet sleeper, apparently.

Saffron breathed in, then out, working through the constant flow of adrenaline that had been coursing through her veins for the last… hour? Or had it been two? She didn’t know anymore. Time was passing by in a panicked blur.

After a long moment of staring, Saffron turned back to the drawer (Canterlotians wore socks? Strange ponies, indeed), decided it was, indeed, just full of socks, and closed it. Then, slowly, she circled around to the other side of the bed.

As Saffron had explored the manor, even through the malaise of adrenaline, a small part of her catalogued every expensive piece of art, every extra unnecessary room that was as needlessly well-furnished as the last, every sign of exorbitant luxury – even now, she noticed the glint of a golden watch on Cuckoo’s wrist.

And that small part of her bristled. It bristled with indignation, and anger, because that small part of her remembered the cold, tiny, windowless house that she had shared with her whole family back in her homeland. It remembered the days of her youth where hunger clutched at an unfed belly, for they had been trying times, and her country had not always been so fortunate as it was becoming in more recent years.

Despite it all, though, it became hard to reconcile any of it, either the injustice of Cuckoo’s wealth or his crimes against everypony in Canterlot, with the fragile old pony that lay sleeping softly in his bed.

Saffron let her eyes linger on Cuckoo for a second before turning her attention towards something surprisingly small and ramshackle, considering its grandiose surroundings – a writing desk, an old one, and a fraction of the size of the one in Cuckoo’s study.

She crept over to it, intrigued. The surface of the old wood was worn and weathered and chipped in places, and here and there Saffron could see pockmarks of black ink that occasionally resembled little drawings or letters, scratched in with a pen’s nib. It was like a foal’s school-desk, she realised.

The realisation was immediately overtaken by another one: much like a school-desk, the top looked like it could fold back.

Saffron’s horn lit up with purple sparks for a bare moment before she remembered her surroundings, and so instead she took a nervous step towards the old desk and – ever-so-gently – pushed up on the lid.

As expected, there was an immediate creak of a rusted old hinge and creaking wood that so very nearly made Saffron let go of the thing on reflex, if she hadn’t already experienced a near-desk-disaster downstairs. As it was, she pushed the lid back until it rested against the wall.

There was a noise from the bed. Saffron froze again.

“...Mmmm. Shhh, Coucal, go back to sleep…” Cuckoo mumbled in his creaky old voice, before turning over in his sleep and exhaling.

There was a long moment where Saffron did not move, heart jackhammering in her chest. Then, hooves shaking, she reached into the desk and withdrew a battered brown book.

It wasn’t the ledger. It took her a moment to realise this – Joe had said the ledger was red and gold, right? And this was also quite a small tome, really. The disappointment nearly made her audibly sigh, but she controlled herself. She stared at the book for a while, thinking about nothing, and in lieu of any other immediate goal she flipped it open.

The pages were rustled and creased and covered in ink – Saffron caught glimpses of messy, scattered mouthwriting in the earlier pages that slowly became more and more legible as it went. She flipped through and immediately noticed that there was a bookmark of some sort slipped inside.

It was a photograph, clipped to one of the middle pages with what looked like a hairpin (which had a little insignia of a bird on it). The photograph was quite old – Twenty years? Thirty? – and Saffron immediately recognised Cuckoo Capone, even in his youth. He was missing a lot of wrinkles and gray hairs, but it was certainly him. He wore a floppy black hat and a fancy looking dinner jacket with a cuckoo insignia on the lapel, all of which Saffron recognised from his study downstairs.

The ticking of a cuckoo clock on the wall hammered home the passing seconds. Saffron slid the book into her saddlebags – what was a little extra theft on top of the trespassing? – and returned to her quietly frantic search.

Not on the bookshelf. Not on the liquor cabinet. Knocked on the walls – no hidden cubbyholes as far as she could tell. Not in the vanity suite. Dared a peek under the bed – found nothing. Out of desperation, checked the sock drawer again.

Nothing.

Saffron breathed out through clenched teeth. The closest she’d gotten besides the odd little diary had been a golden pocket watch, the size of her hoof, that she’d found in a velvet-lined protective case.

What use did a pony have for two watches? Sanity fraying, Saffron glowered at Cuckoo’s sleeping form and muttered a curse under her breath.

Then stopped.

Cuckoo wasn’t wearing a watch.

Saffron stepped closer to the bed. Frustration rose up into brief ecstasy before plummeting into deep, deep despair.

In his hooves, cradled like a beloved teddy bear, Cuckoo was clutching a red-and-gold ledger.





Joe watched Micky the Drink and Little John eye each other across the green velvet pool table and tried not to let the tension crumble him like soggy pastry.

Before his arrival, the two gangsters had been bickering and snickering the whole house down. Now, with Joe looking on in with his bizarrely compelling presence, they felt they had something to prove.

Micky eyed John warily from beneath the brim of his hat. Without warning, he snapped his forearm forward, and the pool cue shot forward with tight precision. The white ball ricocheted once, twice, three times, nimbly skirted the edges of a clustered knot of the enemy stripes before colliding with its target. The spotted ball rolled, gently, across the centre of the table and plopped beautifully into a pocket, as if it belonged there.

Micky hadn’t broken eye contact with John for the length of the shot.

John glanced down at the pocket before snapping his eyes back up to stare at his opponent. He nodded, once, and said nothing.

Micky stepped back. John stepped forward, raising his cue, loading up the wooden revolver for another perfect shot. It was going to be a close game.

Joe could feel the sweat trickling down his upper lip. It tickled. He was suddenly all too aware of the strange, smelly, spicy, sticky stuff that Saffron had lathered around his snout for his disguise.

His feather-moustache twitched.

Don’t sneeze Joe, he thought to himself. You sneeze, you wheeze.

“Hey, boss.”

Joe twitched violently. John mirrored him with a flinch, fearfully. “What?” Joe snapped, voice cracking just a tiny bit.

“Uh, Mick and I were wondering if’n, uh,” John rubbed his leg awkwardly, “If you wanted to break?” He pointed at the table.

Joe followed his hoof, confused, and watched Micky as he dropped the pool balls into a wooden triangle and rolled it around.

Then the penny dropped. “Oh! Uh. Sure. I mean,” Joe shook his head and relaxed, tried for a cocky grin. “Nah, you boys can break for me. You can tell a lot about a stallion from how he breaks a…” Joe waved a hoof at the triangle thingy. “Yeah.”

Little John blinked. Shared a look with Mick. “Whoa,” he mumbled. “I never even thought’a it like that.”

Micky looked at Joe with something approaching awe. “You’re a wise man, Mr Big Jim sir.”

“Damn right I am, boys.”

Tonight somehow just kept getting stupider.

Joe should know. He had no idea how to play pool.





Saffron had never stolen a book from a sleeping pensioner before. She wondered if it was anything like taking candy from a baby. At a guess, it seemed pretty much the same – except, if you were too grabby, you got murdered by gangsters.

She stopped wondering about it, then, and got back to doing it.

The first obstacle she’d found: Cuckoo Capone was very rich, and as such he had a very big bed. It was lucky for Saffron, then, that she was a unicorn.

The book glowed with the soft purple of Saffron’s magic, and lightly tugged at Cuckoo’s grip. Saffron poked her tongue out of the side of her mouth as she concentrated – this ledger was heavy, intended to sit on a desk or in a drawer for the rest of its days. It was not intended to be carried around in a unicorn’s aura for an extended period of time.

Still. Beggars can’t be choosers.

Saffron would really appreciate it if Cuckoo would let go of the blasted thing, though.

Cuckoo squirmed a little bit in his sleep as he was pulled softly across the mattress by the glowing ledger. Saffron’s heart hammered in her chest with a combination of nervous energy and magical strain. As the book drew tantalisingly close, Saffron reached out with a hoof, leaned forward closer and closer until, just barely, she could touch it…

And then Cuckoo Capone, stirring gently, readjusted his grip and pulled Saffron partly onto the bed. He rubbed his head sleepily into Saffron’s arm and fell still.

Saffron sighed. A sigh is often understood as being a very dramatic exhale of breath. So Saffron very dramatically exhaled into Cuckoo’s face and woke him up.

Whoops.

“Who… Who are you?” Cuckoo mumbled, eyelids flickering sleepily.

“I’m. Uh.” Saffron thought but didn’t really have time to think so she just said, “I’m the book launderer. I’m here to launder your book.”

“What.”

“The book launderer. ”

“...A laundry of books?”

“Yes. They are sheets of paper after all, sir.”

Cuckoo’s tried to lift his head off of his pillow and failed. “Right, right…”

The weight pinning Saffron to the bed released just enough for her to stumble back, book in hoof. “Oof. Thank you, sir. Oh look, you’ve gotten ink all over it.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Have a nice day, sir, love the hat.”

Cuckoo mumbled something again but this time Saffron couldn’t hear it because it was very quiet and also because she was already out the door running really quickly because he was about to wake up and oh gods where the heck was J–





Pool cues were not intended to be used with pony hooves. Joe was coming to this conclusion only now, after he tried to pick up a pool cue and failed. Literally – he swiped at it, and it clattered to the ground, sharply, much like Joe’s self-esteem.

He’d stared at it for a few seconds, felt the other ponies in the room stare at him as he stared at it, and then he stomped on the thicker end – or the “butt”, or whatever it was supposed to be called – and it flew up into the crook of his arm, beautifully, as if it belonged there.

Mick and John cooed and stomped their hooves at him. Joe smirked.

Then he tried to play pool with the pool cue, and stopped smirking.

First he tried to stand up on his hind-legs, like he saw the gangsters doing, while also keeping a tenuous hold of the pool cue – which, really, is just a varnished wooden stick when you thought about it – with his armpit. He vaguely succeeded, in that he was stood on his back legs with his front legs on the table and the pool cue was just sort of leaning against his side while he tried hard to keep his balance. So, yeah, almost there.

Joe was really sweating now, though. If he was an earth pony like the others, he wouldn’t have his magic around to grab things off of high shelves, or whatever else it was that earth ponies got up on their hind-legs for, and so he would be much more in-shape. Being a unicorn was hard, too, in a privileged way.

Making incredibly fattening pastries for a job probably didn’t help much, though.

It was at this point that Joe remembered that, yes, he was a unicorn and that, yes, he could have probably just lifted the cue in his magic. But his brain had gone off on a tangent about unicorn privilege and he’d felt a bit too awkward about changing his tactics halfway through looking like an idiot and oh Celestia now he was just splayed out across the table with that dumb stick poking into his face and everyone is staring and–

Then Saffron ran down the stairs, into the hall, around the table, and out the door, ledger floating in her magic–

“JOOOOE RUUUUN AHHHHH–”

–acreaming the entire time.

Joe watched her go. He looked down at himself, saw the feathers glued to his face with curry fall off and twirl delicately to the ground. He looked back up at Micky the Drink and Little John, who both looked as if they’d seen a ghost.

Distantly, through an open door, he saw Cuckoo Capone lurch into frame, night-hat flapping across his beaky old face. He shrieked, “Stop playing pool and get that damn leeedgeeeer–”

So Pony Joe hit Little John over the head with his pool cue and ran away.
> Scammed an Old Man, and Then They Ran
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

The thing about selling pastries for a living, Joe thought, is that you don’t often have the time nor the inclination to work on your cardio. Maybe it was something he should look into after he’d finished running for his life.

“Get them!” shouted the mobsters behind him. “They’ve got the book!” Or at least they were shouting something to that effect. There were a lot of them shouting, and the sound was echoing off the walls of the alley they were sprinting through, so there was a lot of general shouty-sounding noise going on. It was pretty easy to figure out the gist of it all, though.

A trash can manifested out of thin air and Joe stumbled into it with a sharp crash! He yelled, his magic winking out and sending the ledger flying to the ground–

–Only to be caught in the fuchsia glow of Saffron’s magic. “Don’t stop, Joe!” She squealed as she scurried past him into the street. “They’re right behind you!”

Joe scrambled up into a loping gallop. “Already?!”

“Not the ponies!” Saffron looked back, terror in her eyes. “The birds!”

SQUAWK! 

Too late. Two birds landed on Pony Joe’s shoulders and pecked at his face with their birdy beaks.

“Ow!” SQUAWK! Peck. “Argh! Stop that!”

The two of them rounded the corner just as they began to hear the rumble of oncoming gangster hooves behind them. Saffron whipped her head back and forth as she looked for an escape route. Joe did the same when the birds tried to peck his eyeballs.

“Where do we go, Joe?! What is the plan?!”

“I don’t kn–” SQUAWK! Peck. “Ow! Why are they only biting me?!”

“I don’t know! Maybe it is because you smell like donuts!”

Oh, of course, blame it on the donuts. Typical. Joe wondered if Con Mane would have had trouble with bird attacks. Probably not – Con Mane smelled like cologne and classiness, not pastry and sugar.

Think, Joe. What would Con Mane do?

As if on cue, between the feathers flapping wildly about his head, Joe spotted a familiar door on the far side of the street.

“Saffron!” he shouted. “Through this – ow! – through this door!” And then he pumped his legs and barreled towards the door as fast as they could carry him.

“Joe, wait!” Saffron said, some ways behind him, “That’s not a door, that’s a win–”

And then she was cut off by the sound of exploding glass, and Joe’s world was consumed by a thousand stabbing beaks and needles.





It would have been a lot easier for Joe to just fall happily unconscious if it wasn’t for the shards of glass poking at his ribs. 

“Mmrghh,” Joe mmrghh’d. He twisted his hoof and planted it semi-firmly on the ground, which was a difficult task mostly because the ground was covered in broken glass. There was a tinkling sound of shards scattering across the cold stone floor. “I should really get a broom for that,” Joe said, or tried to say, because it came out as just another, longer ‘mmrghh’.

He felt along the floor in the inky dusk of the building’s interior. Something about it struck him as familiar – the smell? Something spicy – and then his hoof struck against a solid, stout, broom-like object.

Something else fluttered into Joe’s periphery – voices? Shouting? – and he yanked on the broom, mumbling a plaintive ‘broom?’.

“No,” said the broom. “Dragon.” Then Joe realised that his broom was covered in scales and that a sharp set of talons was poking him in the side.

“…Ginger?”

Ginger was hunched over him, burnished brass body barely visible in the gloom. Behind them, the outline of a kitchen countertop covered in carefully arranged ingredients was visible – or, well, smellable. 

“Joe,” they said. “Why are you covered in blood and on my floor at three o’clock in the morning.”

“Ginger!” Realisation hit Joe like a truck. He stumbled to his hooves. “Ginger, you have to help! There’s a–”

“DRAGON!” someone screamed.

“Dragon?” Ginger’s draconic pupils contracted to paper-cut slits in her head. “Where– Who…?”

Joe spun around. Behind him was the shattered remains of the window he’d just thrown himself through. Saffron had been clambering through before she’d seized up at the sight of Ginger’s enormous form. “Joe, you are friends with a serpent?!”

“…Serpent?” Ginger, all coiled claws and muscle, went slack for a second as they processed it.

“Okay, everyone please chill out for just a second.” Joe pulled Saffron through the window. “Saffron please don’t be racist to my dragon friend. Dragon friend, please help us not be killed by criminals.” He paused. “Also: Ginger, this is Saffron. Saffron, Ginger.”

“Charmed?” Ginger half-asked.

“Birds!” Saffron half-screamed.

“What?” Then Joe heard them shrieking as they regrouped. “Argh! Birds! Ginger, help!”

Ginger helped. They stepped over to a set of side-doors in the corner of the room and, in one heavy motion, yanked off the crossbar and shoved them both open. “Like this?” they said, still looking rather bemused.

There was a crash and the front doors to the restaurant, on the other side of a sea of dining tables, crashed open, three-or-four thickset gangsters tumbling through with a shout. Behind them, as if from the gates of Tartarus itself, came the flock of cuckoo birds, screeching as they scattered through the rafters.

Ginger huffed a puff of sparkling smoke. “And just what do you think you’re doing barging into my… restaurant…” Their tone fell from a smirking defiance to an aghast mumble.

Joe, who had been scurrying after Saffron towards the side-doors, glanced back as Ginger spoke, and faltered.

He watched, confused, as the mob of gangster-ponies navigated the restaurant floor towards them. Behind them, Cuckoo Capone followed. “Sorry about that, dragon. We’ll go ahead and get those vandals right out of your hair. Scales. Spikes? I’m not sure what those are– Whatever. Boys, seize ‘em.” The rest of the gang detached from his presence and headed straight towards Joe, who’d found himself frozen in place. 

“I’m sure there won’t be any problem with that, right? Wouldn’t want your daddy to get word of any of this, would we?” 

Then he laughed. It was a dark laugh – cruel, twisted by decades of bitter business and black market deals, years of deceitful manipulation and heartless machina–

Then a Ginger-sized bag of Ginger-grade ginger flew across the kitchen and exploded against his face, and the laughter sputtered into a hacking, wheezing cough. Ginger and the gangsters seized up in surprise. Then all of them darted over to help their boss get back on his feet.

Meanwhile, from the direction of the thrown spice-bag: “JOE!” screamed Saffron, jolting Joe back into action. “We need to go now!”

She didn’t need to tell him twice. Joe immediately turned and sprinted towards the doors, Saffron only a half-second ahead of him.

“GET – ” Hack “–MY–” Cough “–BOOK BACK, YOU–” Hacking “–IDIOTS,” Cuckoo shrieked. The rapid clacking of hooves followed soon after, along with what sounded like Ginger apologising anxiously.

Joe hoped he was imagining that last part, that he’d gotten confused between the sounds of cuckoos’ cawing and the stallion’s shouting. He ran off into the night, feeling Saffron’s wind-whipped tail tickling his face.

Just what in Tartarus had that been about?





For the record, Saffron didn’t think she’d been racist to Joe’s serpent. That was just what they were, weren’t they?

Besides, it’s not her fault that serpents fly around and breathe fire and eat ponies for breakfast. Maybe they’d have a better reputation if they just relaxed, changed their attitude, opened up a restaurant or something.

…Okay, so maybe she was just a tiny bit racist.

More importantly, though, the birds were back.

“ARRRRRRGH!” Joe screamed.

“SQUAWK!” squawk’d the birds.

They were further ahead in Restaurant Row, now, but that was all Saffron knew. She looked around, searched for a familiar face, a sign she recognised, a passing guard patrol, anything. The ginger had bought them a little time, but only a little, and now the ponies behind them were catching up once again.

It was only then that she noticed the cracked-open shutters, the doors ajar in their frames, the winking of mage-lights in the darkness – the glinting of curious eyes. They were drawing attention now.

Ahead of them, a door cracked open and spilled firelight and – to Saffron’s horror and delight – the familiar form of Cardamom into the street. Her brow, hunched with concern, flew back up into her hairline when she recognised the mare flying up the street towards her. “Saffron? What is going on?”

“Carda!” Saffron shouted, “Get back inside! We’re being chased by criminals!”

“ARRRRRGH–”

“And also birds!”

“I don’t under–” Cardamom began, faltering as Saffron ran right past. She galloped after her. "Cariño, what do you mean, criminals? What is that book?" Then she glanced back. "And what a–oh. Wow, that's a lot of birds. Why are they attacking Joe?"

"ARRGH! NOT THE EARS! NOT THE EARS!"

The birds moved to the eyes.

"OKAY, ON SECOND THOUGHT, GO BACK TO THE EARS!"

"CAW!"

"Oi!" Carda arn back and batted at the cuckoo birds flapping around. "Leave him alone! Nasty birds! Shoo!" 

The birds screeched at Carda, and were shocked as Carda shrieked back at them in return, with a voice of a mother that brooked no argument. The birds squawked and scattered into the night sky, leaving Joe standing there brushing his ragged, feather-flecked collar back into alignment. “I’mma need a – ow – tailor after this. Thank you, ma— Oof!”

He was cut off as Carda shoved him after Saffron, yelling, “Shoo! Get away! I will teach these pendejos a lesson for bothering my Saffron.” She marched off towards the oncoming voices. “Go!”

“Right! Thank you!” And Joe ran after Saffron, who had stopped in the street to watch the whole affair unfold. Along with, Saffron now realised, half of Restaurant Row, who were leaning over balcony rails and poking their heads out through open windows and doors.

The group of gangsters emerged, then, from the darkness, coats and hats flapping like the wings of vultures. Carda faltered in her warpath, stumbled, stopped.

Distantly, Saffron heard her speak: “I… Oh… I didn’t know it was…"

And the gangsters swarmed past her as if she wasn’t even there.

“SAFFRON!” Joe screamed, and it was both the sound of his voice and the feeling of him yanking the ledger from her flickering grip that jolted her back into motion.

The pair of them ran on. Ahead of them, they knew, lay Town Square.





Everyone saw them. Everyone was watching.

As the chase continued on down the length of Restaurant Row and spilled into Canterlot proper – ducking into abandoned alleyways, sprinting past homes and households, running through still-open restaurants while the late-shift looked on, eyes wide with recognition – the citizens awoke in their beds, listened at their doors, stumbled out into the night to watch them pass.

Many of them knew of Donut Joe, and even more of them knew of Saffron Masala. Many, curious, opened up their blinds to see who was following them. When they recognised the flock of gangsters in pitch-black suits in pursuit, many of them closed their binds and immediately began to mind their own business.

Some of them, even, recognised the ledger that bounced through the air in Pony Joe’s grip.

And so, as the chase headed towards Town Square, following behind them was a crowd of Canterlot citizens. Watching. Waiting.

The spider-web was closing in. Just how many had been caught?





“You know–” Huff “–I honestly preferred it–” Huff “–When the birds were–” Huff “–Attacking my face.” Huff.

Gasp “You–” Gasp “–You do?” Gasp “Why?”

“Because–” Huff “–I couldn’t–” Huff “–Hear them.”

The gangsters had caught up to them about a half-mile or so ago and had been slowly gaining on them ever since. Saffron was far from an athlete and Pony Joe made pastries for a living. Honestly, it had only ever been a matter of time.

Up ahead, Joe could see the silhouette of the statue of Princess Platinum that had stood in the centre of Canterlot’s city square for as long as anypony could remember. Joe wheezed and tried to think of where they could go from here.

The palace? Too far. They’d be caught before then.

His diner? The Tasty Treat? They’d probably had ponies waiting for them there before they’d even gotten to Ginger’s place.

Ginger. Joe shuddered. The guard barracks wasn’t too far. They might be able to help. But the memory of Ginger nervously helping Cuckoo to his feet, the way Mama Carda and the rest of the restaurant staff they’d encountered had bowed out as soon as they’d realised who was following them – all of it flooded through Pony Joe’s mind.

If he went to the guards, all Cuckoo Capone would have to do is point to the ledger and tell them exactly what had happened. And Joe knew in his gut that nopony else would have his back on this one. They were on their own.

“Joe?” Saffron asked, voice trembling from exhaustion. “Where do we go now, Joe?”

They were in the square, now; the statue loomed in the gloom, Princess Platinum’s face smiling obliviously into the night. Around them were four exits formed from two overlapping roads, heading from north to south and east to west, with blocks of houses squatting in the corners of the square.

“I don’t know, just keep running!” Joe circled the statue and headed north, towards the Castle. “I’ll think of some… thing…”

Three ponies stood on the road to the Castle, blocking their path. They wore wide-brimmed hats and matching suits, and they were stepping towards them.

“This way!” Saffron shouted, juking to the east. As if on cue, three more gangsters barreled out from a side-street in front of her, forming a living roadblock.

Over their shoulders, they could hear the rumbling wheels of an approaching carriage. They turned to look, but they already knew who they were going to see.

Cuckoo Capone’s carriage rolled up from the west, towed by two particularly burly gangsters. The wooden door was flung open with a bang, and Cuckoo Capone climbed out, head held high with a condescending sneer.

“Well. Well. Well.” Cuckoo Capone skulked towards them as he spoke, punctuating each syllable with the crack of his cane upon the paving stones of the square, “If it isn’t my favourite henchman and his mistake.” He looked between the two as he said this, his baleful glare landing on Saffron as he spat out the last word. “You’ve certainly taken us all on a wild goose chase, haven’t you?”

Joe levitated the ledger further into the air, face straining with the effort, as if it made any meaningful difference. “You’re not getting it back, you old fart. You’ve had me playing your game for long enough.” Saffron looked at Joe, then at Cuckoo, then back again, confusion seeping into her frightened face.

Cuckoo’s brow twitched at the insult, but he laughed it off. “Joe, my boy, you’ve always just been a pawn in a game of which you’re only just beginning to realise the scale. And, like any pawn, there’s only so many moves you can make.” Cuckoo sat down, resting his hooves on the top of his cane. “Think about it for a sec, with that big ol’ pastry-loving brain of yours. You’re cornered. There’s nothing you can do to me or the book that’ll meaningfully improve your circumstances. No-one’s going to call the guards, and if they did, they’d find themselves quite waylaid by all manner of distressed restaurant owners, whose places of employment have been so savagely vandalised by two thieving citizens.”

Saffron stared at Cuckoo. Joe looked past him, at the enclosing circle of gangsters. At the crowd of familiar and unfamiliar faces that had gathered at the edges of the square.

They had an audience. Many of them were ponies and creatures that Joe had known of, heard of, was even quite familiar with. Amongst them, trying to blend in and failing, was Ginger, their scales barely glinting in the moonlight.

“You cannot do that,” said Saffron, quietly. What should have been defiant was instead filled with a sea of sadness. “You should not push all these ponies around. It is not right. Mama Carda would not stand for this.” 

In his peripheral vision, Joe noticed Cardamom watching, half-hidden behind an abandoned fruit stand. Something jolted in his memory. 

He looked back at Cuckoo carefully. 

Waited.

Cuckoo tilted his head and hummed. His eyes strayed towards the ledger in the corner of his vision. “Cardamom…? Oh. Yes, I remember her. She–” He stopped and barked out a laugh, rough-edged and raspy. “Oh, so she hasn’t told you, then? What am I saying, of course she hasn’t. Oh, that is just too rich for my blood.” And then he sneered at her. “And, believe me, I am incredibly rich.”

Then, suddenly, Joe’s voice: “Cardamom? That’s you, right? Over by the fruit stand?”

Everyone fell silent. Cuckoo glanced at Joe. He was peering out into the crowd in Cardamom’s direction, hoof over his brow so he could see. The ledger was open in his magical grip.

Cuckoo’s eyes narrowed. “What are you–”

“Yes. I am Cardamom, Joe.” Carda stepped forward out of the crowd, smiling hesitantly. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Cuckoo glanced between them. “Hey, you,” he said, “Get back. Where did you all come from?” He only now seemed to notice the crowd, so absorbed was he in enjoying his triumph.

“Cardamom.” Joe was reading the ledger now. “I remember you. You’ve been around longer than I have. I bought the diner about a decade ago, back when I still worked out and this suit still fit me.” His voice was picking up speed now. Pieces began to fit. “It took off, to say the least. I needed employees to handle all of the new customers. I put out ads, sent out forms, called in friends.” Joe looked up from the book and stared straight at Cardamom, his eyes clouded and gray. “And you know what? No-one came. They avoided my place like the plague. I’d always wondered why.”

Cuckoo Capone shouted, “That’s enough! Boys, grab ‘em!”

“But it didn’t matter!” Joe was shouting now. “Because then the customers stopped coming! I kept hearing rumours, awful rumours, about how the kitchen stank and I’d insult the customers and I stole my doughnuts from the local store – Oof!” 

A gangster ran into him, shoving him forwards, but he kept moving, shouting all the while.

“And, did ya know, they started becoming true! Someone messed with the pipes, ponies would complain about my attitude, there were stolen doughnuts sitting on the porch in plain sight—” A scrum of gangsters had formed around Joe, fighting to tear the book from him. Joe, still shouting, tossed the wide-open book over to Saffron. “AND YOU KNOW WHO DID IT? IT WAS—”

“SILENCE!” Cuckoo Capone screamed. But it was Saffron who finished the sentence.

“Carda?!” Saffron looked up from the ledger, eyes wide, and spun it around so the crowd could see the evidence for themselves. “It was you?”

Everyone turned to look. Even Cuckoo couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Mama Carda, for her part, just wept. In the tense silence of the square, the crowd watched quiet tears trail down her cheeks. “Yes,” she said, “It was me. I said those things. You don’t appreciate, cariño, just how much my family and I needed those bits. And besides,” and she couldn’t help but smile, “You know I’ve always been a terrible gossip.”

The crowd gasped, as if they were watching a pantomime. A babble of voices struck up, some whispering, some shouting, but none of them could drown out Cardamom’s sudden cry. “But I would never sabotage another pony’s livelihood, not even for a princess’s ransom! It must have been those vandals and hoodlums we all keep hearing about!”

“Nope!” Joe piped up. He was tussling with the gangsters just enough to keep shouting. “Wanna know – oof – who’d sabotage – hurk – a pony’s livelihood?” More sounds of struggling.

“The serpent!” Saffron cried, flipping through the ledger to the correct page, even as a group of gangsters chased after her. “I mean, dragon! I mean, Ginger!”

The crowd went from unsettled to ballistic at the mention of Ginger’s name, and began to round on them angrily. Ginger largely ignored them and just stared straight at Joe. Their expression seemed to be a complex mix of indignance, fear, and relief.

“Yeah,” Ginger said, eventually. What was a normal speaking voice for them and their draconic voice could still easily be heard over the clamour of voices around them. “I did it. Cuckoo threatened to get my family involved, and it’s better for everyone that he hadn’t – they aren’t exactly followers of Dragonlord Ember’s lead, I’ll tell you that much. I hadn’t known Joe, then. I’m sorry. It wasn’t personal.”

Ginger paused. Scratched at the corner of their eye, where the tear ducts would be on a smaller, weaker, far less terrifying creature. 

“It is now, though,” they added.

“Wait!” came a voice from the crowd. A stallion pushed forward, clutching a battered chef’s hat to their breast. “My first restaurant, it had burned down in a fire some years back. Ponies tell me that the building had been cursed.” And then he threw his hat to the ground and jabbed a hoof at Ginger, face twisted up with rage. “Was it you? If you could sabotage one restaurant, who’s to say you wouldn’t just burn down another?!”

“Stop,” came another voice. This time, to everyone’s surprise, it was one of the gangsters who’d stepped out from the gathering crowd. They took off their hat, revealing the hard eyes and sharp jaw of a pegasus mare. Her frame was athletic and intense, but her eyes were soft with emotion. 

“I… Well, see. That wasn’t the dragon.” She rubbed at her face and sighed. “It was me. I hadn’t been in a good place then. I’d just been fired. ” She glanced around at the faces in the crowd, briefly. Then she grunted, gestured with her chin towards the group of gangsters that had finally subdued Joe. “They offered me a job at Cuckoo’s. New kitchen, more bits, new life. Just needed to do something for them first.”

Suddenly, she kicked out her back leg at a stone on the ground. It shattered with a loud CRACK. “Was only ever good with stormclouds, see.”

The gathered ponies had been quiet, until then. But now that one of the gangsters had confessed, it was as if a weight had been lifted from the crowd, and one after one they stepped forward.

One of them was a zebra. He’d poisoned the food, he said. His family restaurant had been failing. He’d have done anything to put a smile on their faces. So a friend of a friend introduced them to Cuckoo, told him they could have as many customers as they needed if he’d take a specific job listing and do Cuckoo a little favour while they were there. See, someone wasn’t towing the party line, and a little less competition never hurt anypony…

The voices spread. More ponies stepped forward. Some of them willingly, others only after the dots had been connected before their very eyes. Cuckoo had the book in his hooves now, was cradling it like a lost child, but by this point even his own gang members seemed uncertain.

Restaurant Row had been played against itself. Ponies turned against ponies, colleagues turned against colleagues. And at the centre of the web, the pony who’d been playing them all had been–

“This means nothing,” Cuckoo Capone shouted over the din, “Do you know who I am?! I’m Cuckoo Capone! I RUN THIS TOWN AND NOPONY CAN–”

But that was far as he got. The web had collapsed, and the crowd closed in around him.

Joe, beaten and exhausted, looked up as a hoof jabbed him in the side. He turned. It was Saffron. She was offering him her hoof.

He took it, and the two of them left Cuckoo to the crowd.





It took Joe a distressingly long time to realise they were heading towards the Tasty Treat. It felt as if he’d been awake for days, rather than…

Wait. Joe glanced up at the sky, at the position of Luna’s moon. What time had he gotten up this morning…?

Huh. So, almost a day. That certainly explained things – the time he’d spent running for his life, tussling with angry stallions, and getting pecked by Cuckoo’s cuckoos probably explained the rest.

Celestia, but he was tired.

“Joe?” Saffron grunted. She was pressed up against his side, keeping him steady.

“Mmm?” Joe mmm’d. Saffron was very warm, he realised, in the chill of the night air.

“Please do not fall asleep. You are very heavy.”

“Mmm.” Saffron smelled nice, too. Something sweet and exotic – sugar? Spice? What was that one word? 

Ah. He smiled. Of course. Saffron. Yes. Wonderful stuff.

Wonderful pony.

There was a long pause as the pair of them stumbled down the street towards the Tasty Treat. “Joe,” said Saffron, voice quavering, “I know you are tired, but I dearly wish to speak to you about once we get home.”

Joe worked through the sentence in his head. He hummed. “’Once we get home’?” he repeated. And then he stopped, and looked down at Saffron. 

He took in her eyes, bright with exhaustion and concern. Took in her mane, frayed at the edges, but perhaps even more beautiful in the starlight than it had been during the day. Took in how, even now that he’d found his footing, she kept a supportive hoof on his shoulder. He reached up and pressed his own against it.

The realisation had hit. He was free. Free? He must be, right? There was no way Cuckoo could walk the streets after this. They’d done it.

They were free. They were free.

And that was the exact moment when Joe realised that he loved her.

“Well,” Joe said, a smile pulling at his lips, “Why wait? I’d love to talk!” And he laughed, the waning hysteria still audible in his voice, and he felt relieved, like an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “Let’s talk! What do you wanna talk about?”

Silence. Joe watched Saffron’s expression shift from surprise, to concern, to sadness, and, finally, to resolution. Gently — but insistently — she tugged her hoof from underneath Joe’s and slipped it into the satchel at her side, and had it always been bulging out like that? What was she carrying? Joe’s smile withered on his lips.

Then Saffron pulled out the ledger, and Joe realised that that hadn’t been concern in her eyes. It’d been something a lot more wet and messy. 

“Oh.” The smile died. “You kept that.” Pause. “Of course you did.”

That was the exact moment when Joe realised that he was the worst pony in the world. 

“Why, Joe?” Saffron asked, and she flipped the book open in her magic, right to the end, where the ink was still fresh. His own name stared back at him, damned by the date and details. “I do not understand.”

“It wasn’t me! It–” Joe slapped a hoof over his stupid mouth and groaned. “No.” He took a deep breath. “I mean, I did do it. I wrecked your restaurant. But I was in the exact same position as everyone back there.” He nodded towards the square. “It was no different than what Ginger and Cardamom did to mine.”

But Saffron was shaking her head, looked at him almost pityingly – as if he was being a stupid kid. “That is not what I meant, Joe. You know that,” she insisted. “But you lied to me. Why did you not tell me you did it?” Her eyes widened with realistion. “Why did you not come to me, in fact, before the occasion?”

Joe looked at her, confused. “…What?”

“All you had to do was come and tell me what you needed to do to maintain your cover!”

Joe listened. Stopped. Processed the words. Tried not to collapse from the sheer force of the emotion that jolted through his system when he realised what was going on.

This is going to end very poorly, isn’t it Joe? Con Mane quipped in his head.

You don’t know the half of it, Donut Joe sighed in reply.

Saffron didn’t seem to notice that anything was amiss. She tapped her chin thoughtfully, letting her train of thought bounce around her head as she spoke. “And then I could have put all of my valuables someplace safe and helped you take apart the house. And then Father wouldn’t be furious when he gets back from Po—”

“SAFFRON!” came a voice louder than the rolling thunder on a distant plain. “SOMEPONY HAS DESTROYED THE TASTY TREAT!” An enormous, barrel-chested form charged through the darkness towards them. His eyes were red with angry tears, and the ground quaked with his passing.

“Father!” cried Saffron.

Uh oh, thought Pony Joe.





Saffron Masala had seen Coriander Cumin cry exactly twice in the entirety of her lifetime. And ever since then, the only pony whose shoulder she could cry on has been exactly, and exclusively, his.

So when, after over 36 hours of separation, they were finally reunited, she was only too happy to let him cry on hers.

“Shh, Father, it’s okay, don’t worry…” she soothed, rubbing his enormous back. “Didn’t you see the wonderful job we did in repairing it?” And then she glared at Joe, who looked like a rabbit caught between a rock and a hard place. (Was that the expression…?)

In any case, her intent was clear; he stepped back to give them some space, and Saffron returned to soothing her tearful father.

“Oh, of course I did!” Coriander whined, rubbing at his eyes with a stubby foreleg, “It was wonderful work! But did you not think your own Father would notice? The vases you made when you were a foal, the pictures from home, and, oh, the cushions! Torn!”

“I know,” said Saffron, trying to maintain an even tone. “But they are only things, Father. They can be replaced. The memories will endure.”

“I’ll find them,” said Coriander. He raised his head, and his red eyes had darkened into twin pits of flaming coals. “I’ll find the ones who did this. There were ponies heading towards the city square earlier — they had been the ones who told me what had happened to the poor Tasty Treat.” Coriander gently pushed Saffron in the direction of the restaurant, and then turned back towards the way they had came. “I am sure one of them can tell me who is respon—”

“Father, no!” Saffron ran in front of him and barred his way. “It wasn’t them, we already know that. Joe did it.”

“Wait, wha—”

Coriander Cumin’s head spun towards Joe, and — without breaking his stride — started marching towards him.

“I will break him,” he said, and Joe believed it.

“Whoa, hey, no, okay, I didn’t—” Joe was backing away, now. “I mean I did but I didn’t actually— Saffron please help meeee—”

“Daddy, stop!”

And Daddy stopped. 

Joe, who had been pressed up against the wall, stared up at Coriander’s looming form — which was terrifying, considering that Joe was at least a head taller than him — and tried not to breathe too hard and upset him. Eventually, slowly, he began to turn around. Joe let out a breath.

And immediately sucked it back in again when Coriander shouted, “WE WILL HAVE A TALK,” right into Joe’s face, and then he turned around to finally face his daughter.

Joe tried not to cry.

“Thank you, Father,” said Saffron, once he was a safe distance from poor Joe. “Joe was the one to destroy the Tasty Treat, it is true—” And this time she had to physically hold Coriander back, “—but none of this is his fault! A very nasty pony named Cuckoo Capone told him to do it!”

The name gave Coriander pause. “Cuckoo Capone?” He grunted. “I know this stallion. He came to me some weeks ago, behaved like a kindly old gentleman. He said he wished to give me things: a job, a house. A wife. As if he were a king, and I were still a peasant.” He spat. “He offered me gold. I offered to knock out his fillings and take them.”

Joe saw a chance here. He pushed himself to his hooves and offered Coriander a weak smile. “Um. Well, that explains why he waited for you to get out of town, then...” 

“Sit down and shut up.”

“Yes, sir.” Joe got back on the ground.

Saffron hugged her father. “You are a very brave stallion, Father.” She sighed, and buried her face in Coriander’s chest. “And I’m sorry that I failed you. And just after you decided I was old enough to look after myself.”

Joe perked up at that. The way Saffron’s voice warbled as she spoke stirred something in him. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t fair.

“Are you joking?” The two of them turned to look at Joe, who was staring at Saffron, incredulous. “You threw a bag of ginger at a pensioner’s head! You trespassed onto a pensioner’s property! You stole a book from between a pensioner’s sleeping, unresisting arms!” he cried. “And you did all that while looking after yourself and looking after me. You’re basically a hero!”

“I thought I told you to shut up.”

“Right, yes.”

“You pastry-peddling stallion.”

“Yes, sorry.”

“Father, please stop telling Joe to shut up.” Saffron stepped over to a very sheepish-looking Joe and pulled him onto all-fours. “He means well. And he is a superspy!”

Coriander said, “He is what?” at the precise second that Joe said, “Saffron, stop.” They looked at one another, then stared at Saffron.

Saffron looked between them, completely lost. “Joe… is a superspy?” she repeated, slower this time.

Even as she said it, Joe could see the lie unravelling. He could also see the open ledger stutter towards the ground as Saffron’s magic flickered, and reached out for it.

Coriander, however, was faster. “Whoa, girl, let me hold that for you.” A dull-yellow glow batted Joe’s weakened magic aside and pulled the book towards Cumin, who trotted over to Saffron’s side. “Now, I am afraid I must have misheard you, daughter dearest. What did you say Joe was?”

“…A superspy,” Saffron said. The conviction had almost entirely vanished from her tone by this point, and she was staring at him. “Just like those books and pictures we saw.”

“Hmm. I see.” Coriander rubbed his hairy chin with a hoof, and stared at the open pages of Cuckoo’s ledger. The same pages, Joe realised, that had his name printed on it. “And what is this book that you’ve been carrying, my dear daughter?”

Saffron angled her expression towards the book, but continued to stare at the Joe from the corners of her eyes. As if she were trying to stare a hole right through him. “It is Cuckoo Capone’s diary. All the ponies – ah, creatures – who had done his dirty work for him are written in it.”

Coriander flipped through the book. He read over each page for a few long seconds before he turned them. “There are many names,” Coriander observed gravely.

Saffron took her eyes off of Joe so she could see what her father was looking at. “On the last page, you can see Joe’s name written there. See?” Her voice grew more certain as she was explaining. Her father hummed in acknowledgement when she pointed to the page in question. “And he did that in order to maintain his cover as a superspy, because it is important that he is not discov—”

“Please stop,” Joe said, and Saffron stopped. “I know what you’re trying to do, Saffron, and I appreciate it, but you shouldn’t try to defend me like this.” He sighed and rubbed at his tired eyes with the matted fur on his dirty foreleg. “I just… Yeah. I’m not a superspy. I just sell donuts and trash restaurants and lie about stuff. Time-honoured tradition.”

He looked up at them. 

Coriander looked like he was ready to break him. 

Saffron looked heartbroken. 

“I was not saying that to defend you, Joe,” said Saffron. She suddenly seemed a few years younger than she had before, and Joe realised that the make-up she’d been wearing was running down her cheeks. “I just did not want to believe that you would lie to me about that.” She wiped her face. “I may not be very smart but at least I’m not…” And then she fell silent.

“I’m sorry,” Joe said, and this time he could feel the truth in his words, and it was a blessed relief. “I am so, so sorry, Saffron. I’d never meant to hurt you like this. I just wanted to…” And then he stopped, and remembered what Ginger had said.

It wasn’t personal.

“Your name shows up in this ledger more than once, pastry-peddler,” Coriander said, almost conversationally, as he stepped towards him, “Many times, in fact. You have been doing this for a long time.”

“I was scared,” said Joe, and this time he didn’t back away. “I had no-one. If I hadn’t taken the offer, I’d have nothing.”

“And so, instead you became a common criminal,” said Coriander, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

“I… Yeah.” Joe didn’t have any response to that. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

“What was the real reason that you wanted this ledger so badly, pastry-peddler?” Coriander held up the enormous ledger with one hoof. “My daughter seemed to believe that you had wanted to unravel all of this.”

Joe raised a hoof. “I–”

“But it was never about that, was it?” Coriander opened the book and riffled the pages, showing off over a decade of tiny names and dates and deeds. “You only desired the evidence. So badly that you would suck my lonely, naive, BELOVED daughter into your ridiculous scheme!” Coriander dropped the ledger and marched towards him, huffing hot air through his nostrils like an angry minotaur.

“That’s not true!” Joe shouted, “I just wanted to help, I just wanted to—”

“You are a lying SERPENT!” Coriander grabbed Joe by his tattered collar, all but tearing it in half. “You lied to us just so you could try to cover your trail! It was never about HELPING HER, WAS IT?!”

Anger flashed white hot in Joe’s gut like the surface of the Sun and he snapped. “IT WAS ONLY EVER ABOUT HELPING HER!”

“THEN WHY DID YOU INVOLVE HER? WHAT IF SHE’D GOTTEN HURT?!”

The two stallions were standing so close that Joe could feel Coriander’s hot breath on his face, shaking with emotion.

Coriander glared at Joe. Joe didn’t care anymore. He went slack in the older stallion’s grip, defeated.

Eventually, he began to speak again, voice trembling like a leaf. “I just wanted to help her y’know.” He sniffed. “She came into the diner and I realised that I’d been there, y’know, not too long ago. And I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t happy about anything. When it was just me doing stuff for the boss– for Cuckoo, it was like. Y’know. Easier not to think about it. Easier not to care.” 

Coriander let go of him. 

Joe slumped to the ground like a sack of flour. He didn’t try to stand up. He just kept on going. “You don’t just start out by wrecking ponies’ property. It’s a creeping thing. Starts off small. Erosion. Wears you down until you stop resisting it, and to be honest, I’m not sure I was even resisting it that much in the first place.”

He got back to his hooves, swayed for a moment, and avoided Coriander’s gaze while Saffron avoided his. “But I cared. I really did. And I’d never have let Saffron get hurt, Mr Cumin.” Only then did Joe meet his eyes.

Coriander looked at him like one would look at a piece of dirt. He tilted his head, considering. “I am a merciful stallion,” he said eventually. “My daughter is unharmed. You helped repair my restaurant. Intentionally or not, you helped to bring this Cuckoo Capone to justice. You have repaid your karmic debt, as it were. But, on a personal note…”

And then Saffron’s father leaned in close, and in a voice so quiet that Joe would hear it only in his nightmares, he muttered: “If you ever speak to my daughter again, I swear upon all the gods that I will destroy you like you destroyed our restaurant.”

Joe believed him.

“Now. Go home before you catch a cold.” As he said this, Coriander clutched Saffron to his side. He looked over her with concern. She just stared at nothing in particular, lost in her thoughts. “And we shall do the same.”

Joe turned and began to walk back home. Behind him, he heard two sets of hooves head off in the other direction. A cold wind blew, and he shivered, and realised only then that the suit he was wearing had been all but destroyed by the events of that very, very long day. Coriander hadn’t been kidding about the pneumonia, apparently.

Something stuck in his throat. No, this wasn’t right.

It hadn’t been personal.

It was now, though.

Joe spun on his heels and shouted, “Hey!”

Coriander and Saffron looked back over their shoulders at him.

“You were wrong,” said Joe. “I didn’t care what happened to me. I just wanted the book to stop Cuckoo. And I’d have risked everything for that even if Saffron hadn’t come too.” And then, despite everything, Joe smiled. “And I’d have failed. Because Saffron is braver than anyone I’ve ever met, and I never could have stopped him without her.”

And, for once, Joe was telling the absolute truth. And it was a blessed, blessed relief.
> Love's in Bloom, But You Gotta Make Room
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sunny Skies didn’t get to go to Donut Joe’s as often as she would like, so it was always a lovely morning when she did. And it was a lovely morning, at that – she was up as early as she always was, watching the Sun lift lazily into the sky and shine its light upon the fluted towers of Canterlot Castle, making them sparkle.

And the Castle wasn’t the only thing sparkling that morning, she realised. She opened the door to Joe’s Diner, listened to the delightful tinkle of the bell ringing in her arrival, and then stopped when she noticed the interior.

The tables were spotless. The glasses were clean. She could see through the windows. Even the photos of Joe receiving various awards on the far wall made him seem like he was happy to be there for once. A strange scratching sound caught Sunny’s ear, and she turned and saw that Joe was tinkering with the broken gramophone at the far end of the bar.

“Good morning, Joe!” Sunny Skies sang, bounding over to him and climbing onto one of the barstools. “Wow! You’ve really cleaned this place up, haven’t you?” She looked down at her hooves and realised that they hadn’t stuck to the floor once on the way in. “And you even got rid of the Pa–”

Joe flinched at the sound of Sunny’s voice, and he turned his head slowly to look at her. His face was coated with grime and sweat, and his eyes noticeably avoided staring at the spot on the floor where the Patch had once lived. “Please,” he said. “Don’t say its name.”

Sunny Skies stared at him. Then she said, “Never mind!” and followed it up with, “Can I have a coffee, please?”

Joe fell silent for a moment. And then he smiled, too. “Yeah, I can get you a coffee. How much sugar?”

Sunny Skies smiled a very big smile indeed. “All of it!”





It had been over a week since Cuckoo Capone had been wrangled into the courtroom at dawn by roughly an entire city block’s worth of Canterlot civilians. Normally the guards would have sent them all home, but they’d had an angry dragon with them so they’d chosen to let it slide this time for the sake of expediency.

The trial had been very irregular, to say the least, but Cuckoo’s guilt had never really been in question.

There had been heavy pushback, at first, to the verdict – first by the nobility and second by the various businesses that Cuckoo had maintained close ties with. If nothing else, the crook had been admirable in knowing precisely whose pockets to stuff.

But it hadn’t really mattered, in the end; when the entire population of Restaurant Row rose up and threw the book at somepony – and when that book was also a damning piece of evidence – the Sisters themselves had arrived to ensure that Cuckoo Capone’s days of tyranny were put to an end for good.

Last Joe had heard, Cuckoo had been put up in a nursing home, his wealth redistributed and his estate – at his request – to become a bird hospital. Strangely, the old coot had become even more beloved amongst the ponies of Canterlot as a result – probably because the Bearer of Kindness had been overjoyed at the idea, and made a point of going to visit him regularly so that he ‘wouldn’t feel lonely without his bird friends’.

Joe didn’t really care either way – although now he knew for certain that at least two, maybe three, of the Elements of Harmony were completely bonkers. But as long as he never had to look at another one of those damned birds again for the rest of his life, he was happy to let sleeping dogs lie.

The Diner was remarkably quiet the morning that Sunny came to visit. Immediately following the trial, ponies would come in just to speak to him, thank him, get angry at him. Normally Joe would have hated it, but they usually bought a coffee and a donut before they left, so it had been worth it in the end, after the novelty had worn off and they’d left him in peace.

Pony Joe had been called a lot of things in the last few days. But, if nothing else, he was damned good at being Donut Joe.

“So, is it for a special occasion or something?” Sunny asked. She was on her second cup of coffee by this point, and had already consumed enough sugar to make Joe genuinely anxious for her wellbeing. “I don’t see anypony else around, but you must have spent days cleaning everything!”

“Hm? Yeah, something like that.” Joe sipped from his own mug. He was taking his coffee hot, black, and bitter as a bit lip. “Place needed whipping into shape. I’ve been getting a bit lazy and it was starting to get a little….” Once again, he tried to avoid staring at that one particular spot on the floor. The Patch had not gone quietly. “...Powerful.” 

“Well, I think you’ve done a wonderful job.”

Joe looked at her and smiled. “Thanks, Sunny. It means a lot.”

“You’re so welcome!” Sunny sipped her coffee and looked over at the display case. “Hey, could I have a donut, please?”

“Uh.” Woops. He still had some of those left, right? He glanced into the display and breathed a sigh of relief. “Yeah, sure. What would you like?”

“Double-glazed chocolate with extra sprinkles, please!”

Joe picked up a regular chocolate-covered donut. It was a little bit stale. “Don’t have any of those left, I’m afraid. Take this one, on the house.”

“Yay!” Sunny took it in her hooves. “Thank you!”

“No problem. Thanks for coming in this early. It can get a bit boring on the morning shift.”

“Mmm.” Sunny nibbled on her donut thoughtfully. “I always thought that it must be difficult working here by yourself.”

“Eh, you’d think but, if I’m being honest--” Joe knocked back his coffee and banged the mug down on the countertop. “It’s kinda nice when you only have to worry about yourself.” He went over to the sink and began to rinse out his coffee mug.

Sunny blinked. “Oh.” Took another bite of donut. “You sound just like my sister.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. She stays up all night and goes on weird adventures and hates everyone.”

“Geez.” Joe inspected his mug and noticed that he’d chipped it when he’d slammed it on the counter earlier. Whoops. “That sounds familiar.”

“Also I’m pretty sure she just. Doesn’t sleep. Or something.”

“We’d probably get along like a house on fire.” Joe said, rummaging through the cupboards.

“I know, right? I should bring her along next time.” Sunny rested her head on her hoof and yawned. “It’d be nice to get her out and socialising again.”

“Next time, huh?” Joe trotted back, fresh mug in his magical grip. “I’ll probably be gone by then, honestly. I’m sure the new owner would appreciate the extra business though– Hurk!”

Sunny Skies had leaned right across the counter and grabbed Joe by the collar. Her face was shoved right into Joe’s, their noses touching. “What did you just say?”

“I said–” Joe pushed Sunny back into her chair and rubbed at his chafed neck. “Ow.”

Sunny sulked. “Sorry.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Okay.”

“I said that I’ll be gone by the time you come back next time. With any luck, at least.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“I’m selling the diner.”

“…”

“…”

“I don’t underst–”

“I’m leaving, Sunny.” Joe turned back towards the sink. “I’m sorry, but I don’t really think I want to be around here anymore.” He stood there for a moment, staring at the cups and cutlery that he hadn’t washed yet. Sighing, he turned on the tap and started washing up.

The diner was quiet for a moment.

“Is that why you…”

“Yeah. Wanted to make the place all spic-and-span, y’know. Make the old girl look good in the pictures.”

“So,” Sunny said slowly, “Where are you going to go? What are you going to do?”

Joe shrugged. “Dunno yet. Family’s from Manehattan but I think I’d rather go somewhere quiet. Get some fresh air. Ponyville, maybe.”

“No,” Sunny interjected, her tone deep and oddly ominous. “There is nothing quiet about Ponyville.”

Joe glanced at her over his shoulder, slightly worried. “Oh. O-Okay then. Somewhere that isn’t Ponyville, I guess.” He turned back to his pots and pans.

“Hmm.” Sunny scratched her chin with the tip of her wing, thoughtfully. “And there’s no way I can convince you to stay?”

“Probably not,” said Joe. He held up a mug and made a face when he realised that there’d still been coffee in it from the last time it was used. “And besides, it’s not like it’ll actually matter. I dunno what the buyer will want to do with this place after they buy it, but there’s plenty of other places that you can grab a coffee and a donut on a morning.”

“You’d think so,” said Sunny. Joe heard her barstool creak. “But you would be incorrect. Canterlot is a loud city, Joe, and it is often more beautiful for it – but on the mornings, sometimes, I look around at the flurry of servants and indignant nobles when I eat my breakfast and I realise I cannot hear myself even think above the din. And it follows me everywhere, Joe. I walk amongst you all and I seek out these places, cafes and coffee shops and the fanciest places of finery and dinery in all the realm, and, always, I am suffocated. Always, I find them wanting.”

Joe paused. “Uh. Huh. Guess I never thought about it like that. Yeah, my diner’s definitely comfortable, I have to admit. It’s got a nice atmosphere.”

“It is. And, yet, it is also so much greater than that.” Sunny sighed deeply. “There had been a place just like it, once, several centuries ago now. There was something magical, something heartwarming and comforting about that place. It reminded me of my dear sister. I had hoped to show it to her upon her return. "

Joe’s ears twitched. Was he going crazy, or was Sunny’s voice getting… deeper?

“But the owner had taken to his bed one night,” Sunny went on, “and then he did not wake up again. Your diner reminds me of that place, and so I find many excuses to come visit.”

There was a long, contemplative silence for a while. Joe, rubbing his coffee mug with a towel, slowly turned around to look at Sunny. “Hang on, did you say something about several centureeeee oh my Celestia you’re Celestia.”

It’s true. Princess Celestia was sitting right there, in a barstool that was nowhere near capable of withstanding an alicorn’s size. She looked like she’d realised that by this point, and so she daintily stepped off and watched it sproing back into place, noticeably more stunted than it had been pre-transformation. 

“Sorry,” said Princess Celestia, “I did not think this would have been necessary for another, oh, decade or so.” And then she sat down on her Sun-marked haunches and smiled right at Pony Joe, who didn’t really have enough tension in his slackened jaw to do the same. “I can replace it, if you’d like.”

“That’s. Uh. That’s okay,” Joe said. His tone stayed remarkably even. “I’m sure it’ll sort itself out. Are you Princess Celestia?”

“In the flesh,” said Princess Celestia. The smile on her face was the Celestia Smile, the one that any pony in Equestria could look at and say, definitively, that, ah yes, that is the Celestia Smile. “I’m rather a fan of yours. Could I possibly have another cup of coffee?”

The cup Joe had been holding fell to the floor and smashed.

“...Is that a no?”

“No!” Joe was quick on the reply. “No, I – wait. I mean. Yes! Yes, you can.”

“Wonderful!”

“Not that one, though. That one was cracked.”

“I noticed!” Celestia looked down. “...Would you like me to clean it up?”

“Haha, no, of course not, don’t worry, it’ll sort itself out.”

“Are you sure? It smashed on your hoof.”

“Did it? I hadn’t noticed!”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Yes. Quite a lot. Haha, what a funny thing not to notice, eh? Haha, hahaha, HAHA–”

So Princess Celestia fixed Joe, and then Joe fixed Princess Celestia a cup of coffee. 

He even gave her his favourite mug – the one that had 'Equestria’s Horniest Unicorn' written on it – which he didn’t think Celestia would notice. 

She did. “I would have been perfectly happy with any other mug, you realise, Joe, as sweet a gesture as it is.”

“Oh, I know,” said Joe, “but usually I just spit-polish the other ones.”

“Oh.” Celestia blinked. “Oh! Well. That’s good, then.”

Joe nodded, and continued to stare at her. He’d never seen her mane up close before – he’d always assumed there was some trick to it, or that it had always just been the wind blowing through it, but no – it really was just… moving on its own.

Celestia watched him over the rim of her coffee cup. “It’s really quite distracting, isn’t it?”

“You don’t even know the half of it.” Joe paused. “Well, I mean. You do know the half of it. You know all of it. So where did Sunny Skies go? Also, do you remember when you dropped in to visit after that whole Grand Galloping Gala fiasco?”

“I do. Thank you, again, for that.” Celestia tilted her head. “And I am Sunny Skies, Joe. You’re looking right at her.”

“No, but… Wait, so like, you’d disguised yourself as her, right?”

“I did indeed. A very useful polymorph spell that my colleague is rather fond of. Impressive, no?”

“Very. So how long have you been, y’know… doing that?”

Celestia blinked. Thought for a moment as she sipped her coffee. “You opened the Diner roughly nine years, seven months, and one week ago, correct? So it would have been four years and nine months after that, give or take a couple of weeks.” Celestia set down her mug and stared off into the middle-distance. “The texture. The moistness. The chocolate. Melted in one’s mouth like a dream. Yes. I remember it well.”

Joe continued to stare at her. “You’re drooling, your highness.”

“Oh, whoopsie.” The moisture on her chin evaporated into steam. “Sorry about that. But, yes, I’ve been coming here, oh, every week or so. Whenever I can get away from the castle on a morning, or a weekend afternoon. Much more often now that my sister has taken up her responsibilities once again.”

“And you’ve been Sunny Skies every time?”

“Well. Not every time.” Celestia fluffed her wings thoughtfully. “Sometimes I just wanted to sit on my own and drink too much caffeine. But I like talking to ponies when it isn’t me doing the talking, and so I’d usually come as Sunny and have a nice chat about. Well, you know. The things we usually talk about.”

“…Your sister?”

“Hm? Well. Sometimes.”

“You talk about your sister a lot,” Joe pointed out.

Celestia gave him a patient smile. “Well, she is my dearest sister, after–”

“Complained about her constantly, honestly. And I’m talking real personal stuff here.” Joe sat back and wondered aloud for a moment. “I mean, there was even that time when you drank too much coffee and came in rambling how she would come into your room covered in hummus and say–”

Celestia immediately slurped her coffee extremely loudly. “So, Joe,” she said, “have you figured out how you’re going to talk to your marefriend without being broken in half by her very intimidating father figure?”

A long silence. Then: “So I guess you know about all that, then.”

“In my position, dear Joe,” said Celestia, “it is incredibly difficult not to know all about these things. Do you have a plan in mind yet?”

“Do I have a–” Joe rubbed his temples with his hooves. “There is no plan. The plan is to go away and stop thinking about it.” Joe leaned back and looked out a nearby window wistfully. “‘Sides, was getting a little tired of the whole Diner thing anyway. It’ll be nice to be able to work on my other hobbies, like, y’know…” 

He trailed off. 

Celestia dropped a cube of sugar into her cup and watched him think. 

“Like…” Joe frowned, squinted, and finally ventured: “...Sleeping?”

“Hmm. Well, sleeping is all well and good,” said Celestia, “but I’m afraid I have to insist that you reconsider.”

“Wait.” Joe looked at Celestia, then took a step back. “Was that a threat? Are you threatening me right now?” He glanced around at the corners of the Diner, as if some assassin was going to step out and attack him. “Because I’ll have you know, my bones are very fragile, and I’ll probably scream extremely loudly.”

“…What? What are you– Oh, for the love of…” For a moment, Joe thought Celestia had rolled her eyes at him, which was such a weird idea that he immediately pretended he hadn’t thought of it. “No, Joe. I’m fond of you.”

“O-Oh.” Joe felt a blush warm his cheeks. “Really?”

“If you moved away then we’d never get to talk, or I’d have to find an excuse to come visit. Or I’d just arrest you.”

“…You can do that?”

“I’m Princess Celestia. Of course I could arrest you. I command armies.” She paused. “That was a joke, by the way.”

“Of course.”

“But honestly, though.” Celestia got up from her seat on the floor and began to pace, gracefully, back and forth. “Joe, are you really telling me that you have yet to think of any way to resolve things with Saffron and her father? In a week?”

“Hey, your Highness, with all due respect–” And Joe shrugged helplessly. “–I just make donuts for a living. Of course I have a plan, but it’s awful. Do you have anything better?”

“Maybe,” said Celestia, “but I want to hear your idea first.”

“Mmm. Ehh.” Joe glanced around. Tried not to feel too embarrassed. “Okay, but I’m gonna have to whisper it to you.”

Celestia raised an eyebrow at him. Considered him. Lowered it. “Alright. Tell me.”

Joe told her. The two of them looked at each other for a long moment.

“Hm.” Celestia tapped her chin. “Intriguing.”

“Do you…” Joe was sitting on his haunches and tapping his hooves together, trying not to look as anxious as he felt. “Do you think it’ll work?”

“It’s certainly worth a try.” Celestia stood up off the floor and dusted herself off. Then her horn lit up with a soft glow, and Joe watched as her form began to shift before his very eyes – her legs shortening, her mane deflating, her horn somehow retreating back into her skull.

Sunny Skies opened her eyes and smiled at him. She nodded towards the door. “Shall we?” she said, in a familiar sing-song voice.

“Was that as painful as it looked?”

“Only a little bit!”

Joe shuddered. “Oh, geez. I’d forgotten that your voice sounded like... that. I have to ask: was that on purpose, or does the voice come with the body?”

Sunny looked hurt for a second. Then she closed her eyes, and Joe felt the hum of magic in his horn even if he couldn’t see what was casting it. Sunny opened her eyes again and coughed. “Is this better?” she said, and this time her voice sounded much closer to Celestia’s own.

“Oh, wow, much better, yes. Now it doesn’t feel like my ears are bleeding anymore.”

“I chose that voice myself.”

“Oh. Well.” Joe felt sweat going down his face. “Your, uh, your normal voice is so elegant, I suppose it’s just a shame not to use it?”

Sunny arched an eyebrow.

Joe gulped.

And then Sunny smiled. “You’re quick on your hooves. I like that. You’ll go far.”

“Oh, phew.” Joe smiled back at Sunny. “You know, I was just thinking about that whole debacle with the Elements and that play you were going to star in.”

“Oh?” Sunny looked at him curiously while the pair of them stepped out the door.

“Yeah.” Joe closed the doors and locked them, then turned back to face Sunny, a smile on his face. “Everypony kept talking about how terrible at it you were. But you’ve been pretending to be Sunny Skies of all ponies for the last, I dunno, three years?” Joe laughed, and began to trot towards the Tasty Treat. “By Celestia, can you even imagine? All that singing and squealing and stuff? We were wrong, you’re the best actor in Equestria!”

“Ah. Yes,” said Sunny, very diplomatically. “Acting.”





Saffron didn’t hear the knock at the door at first. There were a couple of reasons for this.

The first reason was the fact that the influx of customers to the Tasty Treat had spiked massively after the Cuckoo Capone story had been broken, just like it had after the Zesty Gourmand debacle – they’d even had to hire on a few extra hooves as staff, mainly from among the many unfortunate, newly-unemployed victims of the implosion of Cuckoo’s criminal underworld. Some of them were capable in the kitchen, many were not; so, while Saffron greatly appreciated the custom, her work in the kitchen had turned from a practical hobby into a industrial maelstrom.

And the second reason was the fact that they’d been knocking on the back door, which nopony would ever knock on if they hadn’t been one of precisely three different ponies.

So when she realised what the source of noise actually was, she’d looked up from her crowded oven to see her father march to the offending door, yank it open, and shout, “BEGONE.” into Pony Joe’s terrified face. “Oh. It is you. Begone.” And then he went to shut the door in his face.

“Oh!” came a voice from behind the door that Saffron didn’t recognise, “Sorry to bother you, sir, but my friend Joe here would like to–”

“I do not want him. Remove him from my doorstep, if you would be so kind.”

“No, wait, but I–” Joe wedged his hoof in the door. “Ow! I just want to talk to Saffron, Cumin!”

“That is what I was afraid of.” Coriander cracked his neck. “Now, I am afraid I must break y–”

“Father, no!” Saffron left her pots and pans on the boil and hurried over to his side and peeked through the gap in the door. “Joe, why did you come back here?” Then she paused, because she wasn’t looking at Joe – a mare she had never met before was peeking through from the other side of the door. “Excuse my impoliteness, but who are you?”

“Oh!” said the mare. “No, I’m afraid I must apologise for my impoliteness here. I didn’t think this would become so heated so suddenly, you understand.”

“Oh! It is no bother, really! What is your name, if I might be so rude as to ask?”

“Oh! My name is Sunny Skies. I am a friend of Joe’s. It’s wonderful to meet you!”

“Oh! It is a pleasure to meet you as w–!”

“You can stop – oof – ‘oh’-ing at one another at – ow – any time, you know.” The sturdy oak of the door muffled Joe’s voice. “Hi, Saffron. Your dad’s slammed your door on my hoof.”

“Joe?” Saffron craned her neck around the edge of the door, but she still couldn’t see him. “So you did come back, then?”

“Of course I did. You can’t get rid of me that easy. Haha. Seriously, though, the door please? I’m in agony.”

Saffron looked down at where his hoof was being crushed against the doorframe. “Oh, right.” She gave Coriander a look. “Father, could you please let go of the door?”

Coriander squinted his eyes at her. Scratched his hoof for a moment. Hummed to himself in thought. Then he looked right into his beautiful daughter’s eyes, and he said: “No.”

“Father!”

“Fine.” Coriander pulled the door open and watched Joe stumble backwards with a yelp as he was freed. “There. Now you may leave in peace. Goodbye once again.”

Sunny cleared her throat. “We are happy to leave if you insist, sir, but–”

“I do. I do insist.”

“--okay, you’re supposed to let me finish first.”

“Why have you not left yet?”

“Because there is somethingI would like to say first. Something rather important.”

And then Sunny Skies began to glow with an inner light and – with the lengthening of limbs and the unfurling of white wings and the flow of a mane in an impossible wind – she transformed.

Princess Celestia stood before them, now. Coriander stepped back, his expression rapturous. Saffron bowed her head and whispered a quiet prayer to a forgotten deity. Joe looked very smug.

Celestia smiled upon them all. And then she raised a hoof to her throat, cleared her voice, and sang a singular verse in the language of Saffron’s homeland, and it was beautiful.





“Please don’t break Joe in half,” Celestia said, “for he is very apologetic, and his bones very brittle.” And then she beamed at them.

There was a long moment of silence. Saffron and Coriander looked at one another. Then they looked at Celestia, who looked very pleased with herself. Then they looked at Joe, who was still looking smug. It took about fifteen seconds of staring before he started to become nervous.

Then the two proprietors of the Tasty Treat held a conversation entirely through their eyebrows. A pair of arches. A tight frown. A tilt of the head and a puppydog expression. A single, questioning raise of the left brow. A glance to the side and a tiny shrug. A blank gaze.

Then they returned to staring at a very anxious-looking Pony Joe and the completely oblivious Ruler of Equestria.

“Look,” said Joe, “if it’s any consolation, she just wanted to send you a letter.”

Celestia frowned. “Now, what was wrong with that idea?” she mumbled, slightly hurt. “Everypony enjoys a nicely worded letter. I think. Do they not?”

Coriander stepped aside. “Five minutes.”

Joe stopped and looked at him, dumbfounded. “Whuh?”

“Starting now.”

“Wait, that worked?”

Coriander stroked his moustache. “No. Not really. I am rather offended, actually.” He squinted at Celestia. “I was debating whether or not to simply slam the door on you, but I will allow it considering that you are, technically, the leader of my religion.”

Celestia clapped her hooves. “Hurray!”

“Also, because threatening you with violence does not seem to be working, which means that Joe might have finally grown a backbone.” He looked at his wrist. “Four minutes. Now, if you will excuse me, I am going to go back to doing my job.” And then he turned around and returned to doing exactly that.

Saffron watched him go. Turned back to Joe, expression kept carefully neutral. “So. Five minutes.”

Joe stepped inside. He didn’t take his eyes off of Cumin’s retreating behind. “Four minutes. Three-and-a-half now, I guess. Your father is absolutely terrifying.”

Saffron smiled. “He is very protective, as I am sure you are aware by now. I would not pay him too much mind. I think he likes you, deep down.”

“No,” Joe interrupted, “I really, really think he hates me.”

“He does. But he still likes you. He is a complicated pony.” Saffron sighed, and wandered back over to the oven. “So, go on then. Say what you wished to say.”

“Oh, right. Yeah. Okay. I just–” Joe stopped. Took a deep breath. Started over. “Look, I just wanted to come here to say that I’m sorry, and that I want to be friends with you.”

Saffron stared at him, and then looked past him at the towering, alabaster alicorn standing by the door, who was looking around the kitchen curiously. Then back at him, strangely sad. “Did you really need to bring her along just so you could say that? To put on that whole display?”

“I honestly didn’t bring her along just to show off, I swear,” said Joe, sitting back on his haunches. He rubbed the back of his head with a hoof. “It turned out that like… A pony I thought I knew had really just been her, putting on a costume for me. Pretending to be someone else just so that I would chat with them.” 

“I thought you said you were not coming here to brag about your friend being a literal goddess.”

“Right, no, yeah, sorry. What I’m getting at is…” Joe frowned, tried to find the right words. “Well, the pony that I knew as Sunny Skies is just gone, all of a sudden, and now there’s somepony else in her place. She could come back tomorrow, looking and acting exactly like Sunny always had, but it’s not like I’m not gonna be aware that it’s just Princess Celestia underneath all that. I can’t look at her the same way anymore.” Joe looked away. “And then I kinda realised how you must be feeling right now.”

Saffron said nothing.

“So, then.” Joe turned back, smiling nervously. “Let me introduce myself. Hi. My name’s Pony Joe. I make donuts for a living. I have a friend named Ginger, who’s a dragon, and another friend who’s secretly Princess Celestia. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, and I’d like to make up for them. I own a diner down the street. I was wondering if you’d like to come and drop by? Whenever you’ve got a spare moment or two?”

The pair of them stared at one another. Then, slowly, she began to smile. “Do you have any tea?”

“I have Earl Grey.”

“Earl Grey’s tea is disgusting.”

“Oh,” said Joe. “Darn. I happen to agree. Got anything better?”

“Maybe. I have been experimenting with my own, home-made blends.”

“Wait, really?”

“My father tried it once. Before then, he had been unable to grow a moustache in over twenty years.”

“Sounds terrifying. Bring a whole pot.”
> Sugar and Spice, and Everything's Nice
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Saffron went to Donut Joe’s Diner that night, the stars were alive again.

The first time she’d seen them move, it hadn’t been much more than a trick of the light – tiny shifts in the stars and the constellations. This time, though, the Princess of the Night was demonstrating exactly how she’d earned her station.

Constellations spun and sparkled and reshaped themselves on a whim. One moment, they were ponies, uniting together to battle a sky-swallowing darkness. Next, they were galaxy-spanning dragons, countless light-years from their teeth to the tips of their tails. They flew across the sky, shifting and shrinking until what once were dragons were now an army of gryphons, marching to war.

As Saffron turned the corner and spotted the warm glow of the Diner, she noticed that somepony was sitting on a deckchair on the sidewalk outside. They’d set up a small camping table, too, where a pair of coffee mugs sat amongst a selection of biscuits and pastries and, of course, donuts.

Pony Joe spared Saffron a glance as she approached, then returned to staring, starstruck, into the aether. “Pretty, huh?” he said. He waved a hoof at the empty chair next to him. “If you angle it just right, you can sorta see a face over there.” He pointed a hoof towards a spot on the horizon.

Saffron curled up on the chair, tail wrapping around herself, and looked where Joe was pointing. “Can you?”

“Well. I think I can, anyway. Maybe it’s just a cloud that some lazy pegasus left behind.”

“Perhaps.” Saffron shrugged. “It is beautiful all the same. Though, I wonder what is the occasion?”

“Probably something to do with that school Princess Twilight opened up a while back. Friendship among all the creatures of the world, or something.” Joe looked at Saffron – watched, for a moment, the movements of the stars reflected in her eyes. “Thanks for coming.” He gave her an easy smile.

Saffron looked back at him, caught his eye for a moment. Looked down, suddenly, at the pastries on the table between them. “No. Thank you for inviting me. Truthfully, this is the first time I have left the Tasty Treat since…” She gestured vaguely with a hoof. “You understand.”

“Yeah,” said Joe. He went back to watching the stars. “Yeah, I get whatcha mean.”

A brisk wind blew by them, suddenly. Joe shifted in his seat. Saffron shivered, just a little bit.

“Geez,” said Joe. “Hey, did you bring that tea?”

Saffron perked up. “Oh! Yes, of course.” She lit her horn and, very carefully, lifted a corked drinking flask from her saddlebags. “Now, this,” said Saffron, grinning, “will put an end to the tea-tyranny of this ‘Earl of Grey’.” And she shook the flask for good measure.

“Careful,” Joe warned, pushing his mug across the table towards her. “That stuff sounds flammable.”

Saffron giggled and stuck her tongue out at him. “Now, I did alter the ratio of ingredients just a little bit since the last time I tried it,” she explained as she poured the steaming liquid into Joe’s cup. “So the likelihood of potential growth of body hair in uncertain places should be less of a worry, yes?”

“Honestly? I could go for a little extra on the ol’ muzzle here.” Joe massaged the crop of wispy-looking hairs on his lower lip. “Something a little more ‘Caballeron’ and a little less… I dunno. ‘Me’, I guess.”

“Hmm…” Saffron looked him up and down for a moment. Thought about it. Then waved a hoof at him dismissively. “Don’t be silly. I think you look presentable just as you are.”

“Well, yeah, but, like.” Joe crossed his arms and sulked. “How am I supposed to stand up to Cumin when he’s running the full macho monte and all I’ve got are these.” Joe made a face and fiddled with his facial hair again. “It’s embarrassing.”

Saffron studied Joe for a moment. She stared at his upper lip, and imagined him with a bushy moustache like her father’s.

She put down her donut. “I think I may have just lost my appetite.”

Joe cackled and lifted his mug of Saffron’s tea. “Well, too bad! ‘Cause once I drink this, I’ll be king of Canterlot.” He paused. “I mean, assuming I don’t explode first.” Joe lifted his mug to his muzzle and gave it an experimental sniff. His eyes widened. “Whoa.” He leaned his head back a bit, stared into the reddish-brown surface of the drink. “This smells… good.”

Saffron rolled her eyes. “I thought that we had already spoken about your dishonesty, Donut Joe.”

“No, no!” Joe took another, deeper sniff, and let out a pleasant sigh. “I wasn’t like, just being polite; this smells amazing.”

“O-Oh.” Saffron lifted her neckerchief to cover the blush on her cheeks. “Well. Thank you for the kind words.” And then she poured some tea for herself, and took a deep inhale of her own. “Perhaps we should do a toast?”

“Huh. Sure. A toast to what, though? Or who, I guess.” Joe thought for a moment. “Uh. To freedom?”

Saffron pondered. “Hm. Rather vague, is it not?”

“I thought that was the point of toasts. Being vague and self-congratulatory is, like, Canterlot’s national pasttime.”

Saffron frowned at him. “Are you telling me that you have never performed a proper toast before?”

“I… guess not? I get the feeling I’ve opened a real can of worms here.”

Saffron sat up on her chair and raised her mug. “The purpose of a true toast,” she intoned, raising a hoof like a university professor, “is to pay tribute to that which you owe a debt of gratitude. It might be a pony. It might be a place. Or it might be something entirely different.” Saffron grinned. “Like your dragon friend!”

“Whoa, hey, I thought we talked about the racism. That’s not cool, Saff.”

“No, no, no. That was a joke. Because I do not actually think that, now, see?”

“Such a shame,” Joe said, shaking his head. “And on the same day that we’re supposed to be celebrating peace-among-species, too. If only your father could see how far you’ve fallen.”

“Urrrrgh.” Saffron threw her hooves up in mock-frustration. “You are insufferable. I should have just let my father punch you in the face this morning.”

“Oh, yeah, speak of the devil. Didn’t he call me a serpent that one time? Like, what was up with that?” Joe sniffed haughtily and looked at her askance. “Perhaps the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree?”

“Oh, do be quiet. You should drink your tea before it gets cold, by the way.”

Joe rolled his eyes and chuckled. “Fine, fine. If it doesn’t give me a moustache, though, I want my money back.” Joe looked down at his drink, considered the smile on his reflection’s face for a moment, and then took a sip.

The taste was bitter, at first, but far from unpleasant as far as Joe was concerned. He licked his lips and let the taste settle on his tongue, then swallowed. A pleasant, peppery heat began to emanate all the way down his throat, but it never once became uncomfortably spicy – only ever a pleasant, exotic warmth.

“Whoa.”

Saffron stared at him, anxiety written into the lines on her face. “’Whoa’? Does that mean that you like it?”

Joe stared at her, eyes wide. “I love it,” he said, before taking another sip. “What’s in it? How did you make it?”

“Umm. Lapsang Souchong mixed with long-grained pepper, dried ginger, some flakes of red pepper, and cumin.” Saffron sipped from her own cup. “Not much to it, really. The trick is to savour the smells and mix them together just right. But it is very pleasant, no?”

“Very much so.” By the time she had finished speaking, Joe had already practically finished his cup. He sat back in his chair and stared at the stars while he considered. “I can’t help but feel like it’s missing… something, though. Something to go with the bitterness…”

They sat in a contemplative silence for a while.

“Oh!” Joe leapt to his hooves, a huge grin on his face. “I know what this needs!” And then he scurried back through the door of the Diner, pausing just long enough to say: “Hey, do you wanna come inside? It’s starting to get a little chilly out.”

Saffron didn’t answer for a while. She was watching the stars as they formed into the shape of a face.

“Okay,” said Saffron, and then she got up and followed Joe inside.





Seeing Saffron Masala sitting in his diner in the dusky hours of the night was very strange for Pony Joe. He found it hard to concentrate on digging through the shelves when, occasionally, he would glance back at her and just see the tears that had streaked her face the night after he had almost ruined her life.

But then, whenever she laughed at some stupid joke he made, he could only remember the look of happiness on her face when he had offered to help her fix his mistake.

He had been so busy remembering it, in fact, that he banged his head on the shelf when he wasn’t paying attention.

“Ow!” He reeled back and rubbed his head. “Wow, that stings. I think a bird must have bit me there or something.”

“You know, it is funny,” came Saffron’s voice from behind him. “That noise you made sounded just like a cuckoo clock going off.”

Joe turned around and glowered at her. “Har de har. Remind me to tell the murder-birds to attack you next time.”

“It is not my fault that birds hate you, Joe.” Saffron grinned. “Or perhaps they just find you irresistible. Like a donut!”

“Har de har. Again. You’re on a roll..” 

“Thank you!”

Joe turned back to the row of shelves. “Now, how about you actually try and help me this time. I swore it left it right over… Oh.” Joe looked down at where the jar had been thrown to the floor after he’d knocked his head. “Never mind then.”

Saffron giggled. “I was wondering when you would notice.”

“You’re a cruel mare, Saffron Masala.” Joe smiled and shook his head, lifting the jar up from the floor. “Could you pour me another cup of tea, please?”

“’Twould be a pleasure!” The aroma of the tea wafted up from the cup and began to fill the diner with a pleasant, spicy scent. “What is in that jar of yours, then?”

Joe unscrewed the lid and scooped up a spoonful of an orange-brown powder. “Cinnamon sugar! I put it on donuts sometimes. I was wondering what might go nicely with your tea and I think this might, like, y’know. Kick it up a notch.” He mixed the cinnamon sugar into the tea, tapped the spoon on the edge of the cup, and then lifted it to his lips. “Cheers!” And then he drank.

Saffron watched his expression shift as he tasted it. He went from curious, to surprise, to deep contemplation, to eventually just a look of genuine bliss. “Well?”

Joe just smiled. “Yep. Cinnamon sugar. Just what it needed.” He sat back in his seat and sighed happily. “Boy, I’m good.”

“...Boy?” Saffron blinked, looked around in confusion. “But I am not a boy. Who are you talking t–?”

“No, no, I mean–” Joe paused. “You know, instead of getting into the semantics, why don’t you just try this?” He pushed the jar towards her.

Saffron eyed it. “It does sound rather nice.”

“Go on! See for yourself.” Joe paused. “Or, taste it, I suppose.”

Saffron sighed, but she couldn’t stop herself from smiling. “Fine.” She tugged the jar of sugar towards her. “You have piqued my curiosity, Pony Joe. But this better be good!”

Joe idly watched her mix in the sugar for a moment, before something in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He stood up. “Hang on just a sec, there’s something else I wanted to show you, actually…” He wandered over to the record player in the corner.

Saffron tapped her spoon on the edge of her teacup, watched the grains of sugar as they dissolved. Then she lifted the cup to her lips and took a drink.





Joe was right. The tea was delicious.

Saffron smiled.





And in the lamplit gloom of Donut Joe’s Diner, an old record player burst into life for the first time in years. It was silent for a few moments, save for the odd crackle and pop as the record started to turn. Then, eventually, the sounds of a saxophone crooned out from the speaker.

Joe wiped the sweat off his brow and stepped back to admire his handiwork. “Tea,” he mused. “Record players. Honestly, is there anything Pony Joe can’t fix?” He wandered back behind the counter. “Geez, I haven’t listened to this song in… years.” He dropped back into his seat and yawned. “My dad’s favourite song, I think. So? Nice song, huh?” And he gave Saffron a wry grin.

Then he froze. Saffron was gazing down into the teacup in her hooves, silent and still. Her golden hairband sat on the table next to her, and her flowing fuchsia mane had settled around her face.

“Hey, uh, Saffron. You okay?” A painful memory stung Joe like a needle, and he leaned across the bar to look at her, concern and anxiety flooding into his chest. “Did I say something wr–”

And then Saffron leaned forward and kissed him.





Oh, Joe thought.

Well. That’s probably a good sign.





Eventually, after a few long, tender moments, Saffron broke off the kiss and slowly leaned back.

Joe stared at her, dumbfounded.

“Has anyone ever told you how sweet you are, Pony Joe?” Saffron gave him a half-lidded smile.

“N-No, ma’am.”

“Well. I think you are, anyway.”

They gazed into one another’s eyes for a long, long moment, without saying a word.

Joe reached up with a hoof and brushed it through Saffron’s beautiful mane, and smiled. “I’m not going to say it, y’know.”

“…I am sorry?”

“I am not going to call you spicy. That’s what you’re expecting, right? Like, that’s where this is going? ‘Cause I ain’t doing it.”

“But it would be so nice!”

“No.

“Come on! It is romantic!”

“It is not.”

“And it would be a lovely compliment! I like spices. They are good.”

“Uh-uh.”

“Hmmmpf!”

And Saffron kissed him again. And when she pulled away this time, all that Joe could see was the lamplight dancing in her eyes. “Okay. But now you have to dance with me.”

And Pony Joe smiled a winning smile. “That, I can do.”





Far, far above the beautiful city of Canterlot, the stars were alive. They were swaying, and they were shifting, and they were sparkling.

And some ponies thought they were dancing.

It was the best night of Pony Joe’s life.
> Epilogue: A Bit Defensive, 'Cause That's Kind of Offensive
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I still fail to understand,” Saffron Masala was saying for the third time that evening, “how calling a dragon a serpent is ‘racist’.” She made heavy air-quotes with her hooves, and somehow managed to bump her floating coffee cup when she did, spilling it onto the Diner’s countertop. “Oop. Whoopsie.”

Pony Joe gave her an unamused look. “I really shouldn’t have let you drink so much coffee.” Then he sighed, shook his head, and grabbed a dishcloth. “Also, it is absolutely racist.”

Saffron huffed. “Well, it was not so where I come from.” And then she drank some more coffee. It was her third cup, and it had already been two cups too many.

“And we understand that, Saffron dearest.” Sunny Skies wrapped a wing around Saffron’s shoulders in camaraderie. “But it is rather a crude thing to say, no? It would be like saying that a changeling is the same as, say, a cockroach. Or calling a gryphon a pigeon.”

“Or calling a pony a donkey!” suggested the indigo mare on Sunny’s other side. She had been watching the three ponies bicker back-and-forth from beneath her waves of winter-white hair, spooning up ice cream from a decadent sundae twice the size of her head.

“Okay,” said Joe, “now that was racist.”

Saffron frowned. “So the serpent one was not, then?” she whispered.

“It really was,” Sunny Skies whispered back.

“Oh. Whoopsy.”

Comet Trail tilted her head at Joe. “But they are demonstrably dissimilar, are they not? Ponies and donkeys?”

“Well. Yeah, but, like. Context.”

Comet frowned. “Well, it was perfectly fine when I was born.”

Sunny let out a long-suffering sigh. “Sister, we had slaves when we were born.”

“So? That was also fine!”

“Well, yes, but – perhaps you shouldn’t base your moral compass on a time when we still thought soap was made out of demons? Maybe?”

“Hm.” Comet slurped her sundae. “Point.”

It was a very lovely afternoon. Ponies of all shapes and sizes (all two of them) trickled in and out of Donut Joe’s Diner, whether they were families buying cakes and sweets for their delighted children, or simply strangers dropping by for a coffee and a snack before they went home for the day. Jazzy show-tunes cranked out of the newly repaired gramophone in the corner. 

Shame, then, thought Joe, how his three favourite customers were drowning it all out with a very loud and controversy-riddled conversation in the middle of the room. 

“I agree with Ms Masala, for the record,” Comet Trail continued. “Really, if it were not for the wings – and noticeable un-flamboyance – dragons would be near-indistinguishable from serpents.”

Sunny stared at her. “Sister, no. Sister, that’s–”

And Joe couldn’t stop smiling.

“Thank you, Comet!” Saffron beamed at her. “At least somepony is on my side.” And she shot a glare at Joe, who was rolling his eyes, and at Sunny, who was hitting her head on the table.

Sunny lifted her head, put her hooves on her hips, and fixed her sister with a scowl. “Now, this is just getting–” She paused, flustered. “Silly. I’ll have you both know that there is a very lovely sea serpent who lives in the Everfree Forest, and I am very glad that he isn’t here right now to hear you two–”

“River serpent.”

“–To hear you two saying… W-What?”

“He would be a river serpent,” Comet pointed out, jabbing her spoon at Sunny. “There are two main subspecies of serpent that still exist after the star serpents went missing about two thousand years ago. The Everfree is fed by the River Canter. Your friend would most surely be a river serpent.”

Sunny flapped a hoof at her. “Whatever. Same difference.”

“Oh, but that is okay to say.”

“Aha! Yes!” Saffron leaned forward and poked Sunny in the ribs. “You have been outwitted! Bamboozled! Like a silly serpen–”

“’Sup, weirdos,” came a deep voice from the door.

“Hey Ginger,” said Joe.

Sunny spun around and grinned at Ginger, very innocently. “Oh! Hello, Ginger! How lovely to see you, on this jolly evening!” 

Saffron blinked, then turned her head and blanched when she saw the enormous dragon squeezing through the door behind them. “Ginger?!” She paused. Then she, too, smiled, also very innocently. “I mean, Ginger! How are you doing, today?”

Comet continued to eat her sundae in silence.

Ginger just looked at them askance. “…Fine? It’s going fine.”

Joe turned around so nobody could see him smirking. “Coffee, G?” He opened a cupboard and pulled out a fresh carafe.

“Please.” Ginger turned back to the three mares and found themself staring at Comet’s enormous sundae, dripping with sugary syrup of all the colours of the rainbow. “Wow, that thing is huge. Not going to lie, I thought you were Princess Celestia for a second, when I looked in through the window.”

All three of the mares sitting at the counter jolted to attention. “What?” They asked in unison.

Ginger blinked at them. “What ‘what’? It looks just like her. Tall, white, rainbows on top. Probably just as saccharine, too, bless her heart.”

Sunny frowned, opened her mouth to say something, and then Joe immediately cut in with an explanation: “It’s something new I’m trying out for the menu!” He gave his sugary monstrosity a proud, fatherly smile. “Summer Sun Celebration is in a couple weeks, after all. Lots of tourists and kids running around… A-And adults, too,” he appended, when he saw the dirty look Comet gave him.

“It smells disgusting.” Ginger blanched. 

“Aren’t you biologically predisposed to hate ice cream?”

“Yeah, but I’m sure it smells disgusting anyway.”

“Oh?” Saffron asked. “Are you intolerant to lactose?”

“Nah.” Ginger puffed up a plume of smoke. “It’s just too cold. Upsets my stomach. Y’know, because my insides are made of lava.” 

“Oh.” 

“Because I’m a dragon.”

“Of course.”

Joe gave them a look, and handed Ginger the entire carafe of coffee, the surface bubbling and black like hot tar. “Here you go, G.”

“Cheers.” Ginger took it, daintily, between their enormous talons. “I didn’t mean to offend, by the way. I’m sure it’s delicious for all you pony weirdos.”

Joe tried not to burst out laughing at the look on his customers’ faces when Ginger said the word ‘offend’. “Hey, actually, Comet,” he said, shooting her a glance. “What d’you think of the sundae? Good, huh?”

Comet gave him a look of grave seriousness. “It is divine, Joseph of Donuts. Your confectionary creativity should be on display in our– in Princess Luna’s gallery of the greatest artistic triumphs.” She paused. “Although, I cannot say I am as much a fan of the name of your masterpiece.”

Sunny frowned. “Wait, what’s wrong with the name? I think it’s wonderful.”

Joe shrugged. “I mean, hey, it’s a sundae for children – and adults. Not for an art gallery. Besides, I think it’s sweet.”

Ginger stared at the menu. “’Celestia’s Funday Sunday Summer Sundae Celebration.’” Ginger knocked back their carafe of molten black, bitter-as-Hell coffee and shuddered. “Wow, I needed that. That is sickly sweet, Joe. If this is gonna be just like that whole Donutopia thing again, I swear to the gods–”

Saffron perked up. “Oh, you have those?”

“Saffron!” Joe and Sunny stared at her, aghast.

“What? What did I–” Saffron looked around at them, eyes wide, with a hoof over her mouth. “No, wait, I did not mean to– I was just curious! Really!”

Ginger emptied the last dregs of their coffee into their gullet, belched out a wreath of bright orange flame, and chuckled. “You ponies are so weird.” They handed the carafe back to Joe and turned to leave. “See ya, Joe. You should bring your friends over to my place after the Summer Sun Celebration. It’ll be a hoot.” 

Joe watched Ginger’s tail disappear around the corner. He shook his head. “Wow.”

Saffron buried her head in her hooves. “I really should not have drank so much of this coffee that you all seem to enjoy so much.”

“Probably,” the rest of them said in unison.

“Do you think they are going to be angry at me, Joe?” Saffron looked at him with big, tearful eyes. “Because I am so sorry if I have ruined your friendsh–”

“Pffft.” Joe waved aside her worries and gave her a gentle smile. “Honestly, don’t worry about it. You should hear some of the stuff Ginger says when they’ve had a few too many down at the bar. Yeesh.” He winced and tugged on the collar of his apron. “Not for polite company, that. Anyway, they’d probably just think you were cute, more than anything. Hard to really care that much when you’re, you know, a giant fire-breathing apex predator.”

“If you say so,” Saffron mumbled, pushing her half-empty coffee cup across the counter. “I am afraid I must leave you all, now, in any case.” And she gave Joe a kiss on the cheek. “You have the day off tomorrow, yes?” she asked innocently, the stars twinkling in her eyes just so. “And truthfully, this time.”

Joe blushed, looked down at the bar with a bashful smile. “You know it. Wanna swing by Carda’s place for lunch?”

Saffron gasped and clapped her hooves. “Oooh, that would be delightful!” She stepped down from her stool, took a step, and then slapped her head in realisation. “Oh! And it was so very lovely to meet you, too, Ms Trail!” And she offered her a hoofbump.

Comet stared at the outstretched hoof, for a moment, and blinked. “Hmm. Oh! Um.” And she shook it timidly. “And I you, Saffron Masala. May the star serpents find you in your dreams.”

And Saffron left, smiling all the while.

Comet turned back to her sundae. She spooned another lump of ice cream into her mouth, mulled over it as she ate. Then she swallowed. “I enjoy her. Greatly,” she decided. And then she fixed Joe with a Look, and Joe could feel the capital-L burning into his retinas. “You will refrain from hurting her again in future.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Joe swallowed.

“Otherwise,” Comet continued, casually dropping her spoon into the now-empty glass, “You will go the same way as the star serpents, as it were.”

“Sister, stop threatening the mortal. I’m rather fond of him.” Sunny smiled at him. “And I think he’s learned his lesson, anyway.”

“You can both stop being terrifying at any time.” Joe dropped Saffron’s mug and Ginger’s carafe into the sink. 

“Some day, perhaps.” Comet made a face at him, and then glanced at the clock. “And I do think my sister and I should be heading home ourselves.”

“Yes!” said Sunny Skies, with a big toothy grin. “We have to head home for that special–” And she winked at him. Hard. “–Thing–” Wink wink. “–That we must do. Come, sister!” And another wink for good measure, before dropping onto the floor and skipping towards the door.

Comet Trail let out a long-suffering sigh. “Always the subtle one, aren’t you, sister dearest?” And she went to follow her.

…But not before sliding a tiny pouch across the counter towards Joe. “For the sundae,” she said, and then she winked, and it was so subtle that Joe doubted he had ever saw it, and yet so meaningful that he did not once doubt the meaning of it. It was the most beautiful wink that Joe had ever seen.

And then Comet Trail turned and marched out the door like a tiny empress. Joe watched her go, dumbstruck.

“Weirdos,” he muttered under his breath.





He waited until all the customers left first, and then another hour or so past that just to be sure – until Celestia’s Sun began to set and Luna’s Moon began to rise, on opposing sides of the sky. Until the purple-orange light of the dusk faded into an absolute darkness, and the stars began to roam once again.

Even then, Pony Joe did not open the pouch. Instead, he went back into the kitchen, stepped over to a small and uninteresting door in the corner that only led to a small and uninteresting broom closet.

Joe opened the door and looked inside. Then he looked back and forth, to ensure that nobody else could possibly be watching. Only then did he open the pouch, reach inside, and pull out a pinch of soft, soft sand.

And, with a delicate puff, he blew the sand into the closet, and the mops and brooms vanished as if they weren’t even there. As the illusory walls faded, there remained only a stairwell, heading down into a soft, inviting darkness.

Joe descended, his hooves making no sound as they hit against the stone steps.

At the bottom of the stairs, the basement opened out into a large, empty chamber, pitch-black. Joe glanced around, eyes wide with wonder. It all looked familiar to him. 

He had seen it in his dreams.

And, just like in his dream, he opened the pouch of sand a second time, looked inside it, and lit his horn. The incantation came to him, then, and he whispered it into the darkness.

“Agent Con Mane, reporting in.”

And a torrent of sand flew forth from the pouch – more sand than it seemed possible to contain in such a small vessel – and swirled throughout the chamber. Magelights activated at its touch, revealing the ornate, freshly-cut stone architecture of the chamber. Brickwork shifted aside at its passing, twisting into new patterns, and unveiling a enormous crystal ball, milky mist moving beneath its surface. And, eventually, the sandstorm died down, slowed down, and shrank down into a tiny, gentle dust-devil attendant.

Surrounding the orb in the centre of the room, there was a large rectangular table, and a single high-backed chair. Joe sat down, and smirked at the martini glass standing on the table in front of him.

The susurrus of the sandstorm had faded to the gentle whisper of the dust-devil shifting about the room, then ducking into a wardrobe in the corner. Joe glanced around the room, stunned.

There was a long silence, for a moment, as he contemplated the orb. “Uhhh,” he uhhh’d. “…Are either of you listening, or–”

Suddenly, the mist contained beneath the surface of the orb shifted and swirled into the shape of a familiar face. Princess Celestia stared out at him. “Joe? Are you there? I mean, Agent Con Mane.” Celestia smiled. “Oh, now this is jolly good fun, isn’t it?”

“Sis-teeer!” came a second voice that Joe just about recognised. “You’re ruining the atmosphere!”

“Oh!” Celestia looked ‘off-screen’ at somepony. “My apologies. Look, I’ll just start this–” And then her face winked out.

Total darkness for two or three minutes. Joe sipped his Martini. It was good.

"Hm." He looked at the monitors, still black. "Equestria is so doomed."

Silence followed. And then Celestia’s face appeared in the sphere once again. This time, she had schooled her expression into a serious-looking scowl. Even through the haze of the scrying spell, however, Joe could see the twinkle in her eyes. 

“Agent Con Mane.” Celestia nodded. “Welcome to the Department of Investigation into Nasty and Evil Rogues.” 

Joe frowned. “The… D.I.N.E.R.?”

“Yes.” Pause. “We probably should have workshopped that one a little more, now that I’m hearing it in real life. Dream-communication is very convenient but really confusing, honestly.”

“I still like it!” Luna lobbied from somewhere off-scry. Celestia shushed her.

"Won't that be confusing, though?" said Joe. "Like, do you mean the Diner or the D.I.N.E.R.? Do we have to spell it out? And if we do, why don't we just–"

“We will consider your proposal for further workshopping of your department’s title, Agent Con Mane.” Then Celestia smiled. “But, before then, I think we have our first mission for you. Are you ready and willing?”

Joe heard the flapping of fabric, and turned to see the dust-devil was floating by his side. Suspended in its grasp was a brand new, very expensive, properly fitted tuxedo.

Pony Joe kicked back in his chair, smiled, and sipped his martini. “Ready whenever you are, your Highness,” he said.

And Con Mane the Superspy gave her a winning smile.