“So did you finish analyzing that trademark application from Turnip Seed Holdings yet?”

    Slate grumbled at the voice of his boss. Of course he’d finished the application. In full, on time, and correct. He always did. And yet, Comma Dash was going to bother him about it, rather than checking his inbox for it.

    “Yes, it’s in your box,” said Slate, not even bothering to look up from his desk. He hated Comma Dash almost as much as he hated his job. While there was a certain satisfaction in examining the various patent, trademark and copyright applications that flowed to his desk, and an intellectual challenge in determining if something was truly unique or merely derivative, the challenge was invariably subsumed by politics. He was constantly being overruled in order to favor some well-connected pony, or asked to “massage” some of the numbers or marks in order to expedite the process. When he refused, he was invariably criticized for being a “career bureaucrat” who “drowned new ideas in red tape.” This, and worse, from co-workers who had never gone to Engineering School, and yet were being allowed to rule on the inventiveness of new train engines or appliance designs.

    It didn’t help that he was an earth pony - and a fat, clumsy, drab-colored one at that - in a career dominated by unicorns. While he had to carefully hold his pencils in his teeth, they effortlessly manipulated quills using their magic. While he had gray fur, a black mane and dark green eyes, his co-workers were all the colors of the rainbow. It was like being a moth in a flock of butterflies - even though he did exactly what they did, and just as well, his different-ness meant that he was derided and excluded. Why else would he process more applications than the next two most productive evaluators in his office, and yet be denied promotions and bonuses for five years straight?

    “Slate, get in here,” said Comma Dash, the slim, tall unicorn using his magic to point his quill at Slate accusingly. “I’ve got a special request for you.”

    “Pilkunnussija,” grumbled Slate, using one of the few words he remembered from his Northern Languages class in college. Comma Dash was always giving Slate “special requests,” generally instances where Slate did Comma’s work for him. What would it be today? Reading papers Comma was supposed to be evaluating? Or maybe it would be expediting the applications of some new product or company that Comma was investing in? Slate’s sole comfort in this job was that, in all likelihood, he would one day have the opportunity to testify in court against his boss.

    Slate went into Comma’s office, slamming the door behind him. He winced as it shut, realizing only too late that he’d kicked it a bit harder than necessary, the resulting impact making the numerous framed diplomas (all from diploma mills and correspondence courses, of course) that hung from Comma’s walls. Comma scowled at slate, who of course scowled back. “We’ll talk about your attitude later,” said Comma. “But for now, I need you to take the 8 AM train to Ponyville for an on-site trademark evaluation.”

    “Ponyville?” said Slate, startled. Ponyville was a small, relatively remote hamlet, a full day’s train ride from Fillydelphia, where the Pony Mark Registration Office was located. It was also not exactly a hotbed of scientific and intellectual achievement - indeed; it didn’t even have a college or a major business headquarters. Slate wouldn’t even know about it at all, but for the fact that it was a stop on the route to Canterlot, the wellspring of all paperwork in the Equestrian bureaucracy. “Why Ponyville?”

    “It appears a local bakery there has hit on a fascinating new style of cake, called the ‘Marzipan Mascarpone Meringue Madness’, which they wish to have trademarked,” said Comma. “As you might imagine, transporting baked goods such a long distance is difficult at best, especially when issues of staleness need to be considered. Apparently the prototype was destroyed when they attempted to enter it in the National Dessert Competition last year and they’ve put in a special request to have us come to them instead of vice-versa. Normally I wouldn’t honor such a request, but Princess Twilight insisted.” Slate huffed. Princess Twilight? The young upstart had come from nowhere about a year ago, and now she was part of the Equestrian Royal Family. To Slate, she symbolized, more than any other pony, the inherent unfairness of life.

    “Okay, fine,” said Slate. This was good news, really. Most of his co-workers hated being pulled away from friends and family for days or weeks at a time on such assignments, but Slate, having none of either, enjoyed the opportunity to get away from his hated co-workers and bosses. Maybe he could even find a few excuses to stay late, and get some reading done. Ponyville had a library, he knew, and if it was as disused as libraries in such remote towns tended to be, he might find a quiet place to sit down and finish Charger the Brave and the Red Nails.

    “You’ll need to pay for your own ticket and seek reimbursement on your return,” said Comma, grinning slightly. Slate withheld his anger. This unnecessary pay-first-and-reimburse-later policy might make sense in terms of the monthly budget, but it was a hassle to employees and generally waived. Waived for everyone but Slate, of course. From where he stood, it was as if Comma took pride in the fact that he could pick on Slate with impunity, keeping the stallion’s rage boiling without simmering over into violence. Slate knew he was being toyed with, but felt helpless - Fillydelphia, despite its sprawling population, was not exactly an economic powerhouse, and Slate, due to his absence of wings or magic, was hardly qualified for most jobs not involving farm work or manual labor. Comma had Slate over a barrel, and like a cat toying with a doomed mouse, he took perverse pleasure in seeing how long he could string Slate along before the game finally ended.

    “Fine. I’ll stop by the station on the way home and get the necessary tickets and papers,” said Slate. “I won’t be reporting for work for the next few days, but I’ll have reports mailed to you as usual.” Considering most of his reports were placed in the “round file” and subsequently sent, unread, to the recycling center, he knew he could probably get away with not filing them. But still. It would prevent Comma from accusing Slate of laziness, which was a regular problem.

    “Good. And try to improve that attitude of yours,” said Comma. Slate cursed under his breath and made his way out of the office, closing the door much more gently this time. It would be easier to improve his attitude if Comma and the other ponies quit giving him such a hard time. But it was easier for them to put the blame on his bad attitude rather than their bad behavior. And so they did.

***

    “So did you catch the game last night, Blank Slate?” said Chalkboard. Chalkboard was one of the few Earth Ponies employed alongside Slate, and for this reason alone, he had decided that he was Slate’s friend. Hence the unwelcome nickname “Blank,” referring to the fact that his slate-board cutie mark had nothing written on it, and also the term “blank slate,” implying that he was either full of possibilities, or full of nothing. It was a nickname that everyone thought they had invented, but that had in fact plagued him since elementary school.

    “You know that I’m not into sports,” said Slate, not even turning around at his seat. What was it with ponies and coming into his cubicle to make small talk? Did he need to put up a “GO AWAY” sign or something?

    “Oh, right. Well, what did you do last night?” said Chalkboard. “After the game, I went home with this sweet mare...” As Chalkboard continued to talk, Slate continued to ignore him, trying desperately to get ahead in his work so he wouldn’t find his desk drowning in applications whenever he got back from Ponyville. Chalkboard’s persistent friendliness, and apparently blindness to the fact that Slate wanted to be left alone, was maddening. He knew other ponies found Chalkboard endearing - a cheerful, friendly, helpful creature who never said a bad word about anypony. But to Slate, he was just another annoyance in a day full of them. Why couldn’t they understand that he just wished to be left alone to do his job? He didn’t want to go to the office holiday party, he didn’t want to celebrate his birthday, he didn’t want to make friends - he just wanted to work and get paid, and didn’t understand why everypony else seemed to be different. Or rather, really, why he was so much different from everypony he’d ever met.

    As he continued to dive through the applications, Chalkboard droning on in the background like he hadn’t noticed Slate was ignoring him, the issue of his different-ness drifted repeatedly to the forefront of his mind. He didn’t think like other ponies. He didn’t feel like other ponies. In a world of brightness and color, he was drab and gray. In a world of friendship and magic, he was just a horse - and a horse who couldn’t get along with anyone at that. Whether it was his tendency to blurt out the truth (accidentally revealing his prior boss’s marital infidelities had been the whole reason he ended up where he was in the first place) or to not realize he was hurting someone else’s feelings (he considered a “successful” date to be one which did not end in crying) he just couldn’t get along. He couldn’t even remember and identify faces reliably - were it not for cutie marks, he’d never even be able to tell who he was talking to. The rush of bad memories and terrible experiences sideswiped him despite his attempts to concentrate, and he suddenly found himself very depressed.

    “Are you okay?” said Chalkboard, the stallion setting down his coffee. Slate buried his face in his hooves, trying his best to hide from Chalkboard. He knew he was going to cry, and that his other co-workers would no doubt mock him for it. Little colts cried. Proud fathers cried. Slate was not supposed to cry. Even though he had so much to cry about.

    “Yeah, I’ve just got a bit of a headache,” said Slate. “I’ve got this assignment in Ponyville starting tomorrow, and I’m just really overworked, trying to get everything in before I grab the train tomorrow.” Slate could feel tears on his cheeks, but with his voice kept carefully level and his eyes buried in the crook of his front leg, they would be invisible for now.

    “I’ll go get you some aspirin,” said Chalkboard, who slowly trotted off to the employee lounge.

    “Thanks,” said Slate, quickly wiping his eyes clean once he knew Chalkboard was out of sight. If pressed, he would call Chalkboard a “friend,” although he knew that Chalkboard treated him no differently than anyone else - indeed, that was the biggest reason Slate considered him to be more than just “somepony I know.” But still, Slate couldn’t bring himself to trust the stallion. He couldn’t admit to Chalkboard how lonely he felt, or how hard it was for him to come home to a dark, empty apartment every evening. He knew that such revelations would frighten, disturb, depress or otherwise drive away Chalkboard, just as they had so many other ponies in his life. That did not mean he didn’t desperately want to talk about them, though.

    “Here’s that aspirin,” said Chalkboard, presenting it to slate with a smile and a glass of water. Slate put on his best attempt at a plastic grin and downed them both in an instant. “So do you need any help or anything?” Slate shook his head, looking over his shoulder at the papers on his desk. The less he made eye contact, the less awkward and terrifying a conversation was.

    “Nah, I think I should be good,” said Slate. “I’ve got enough finished to hit quota for the week, the only problem will be if I’m not back by next Monday.”

    “Jeez, it’s only Tuesday, and you already hit quota?” said Chalkboard, chuckling and leaning on the side of Slate’s cubicle. “I rarely manage to make it before noon on Friday - and even then I usually have to scramble in a few things before Friday.”

    “You could be done by Monday most weeks if you didn’t spend all your time hauling that coffee cup around and making small talk,” thought Slate. He bit his lip, the best way he knew to keep from blurting out such true-but-unwelcome information.

    “So how come you haven’t been promoted yet, huh?” said Chalkboard, retrieving his coffee cup and backing up back towards the hallway.

    “Because Comma hates me, you know that,” said Slate. He felt cornered now, forced to talk about things he’d rather not.

    “He’s not as bad as you seem to think,” said Chalkboard. “I mean, he’s a bit rough around the edges, but I don’t get why you and him don’t get along. It’s probably just to do with that attitude problem of yours. I bet if you smiled more - “

    “It’s because I know he’s embezzling,” said Slate. Instantly he cursed himself for admitting such a thing aloud. Chalkboard blanched, his coffee cup tumbling onto the carpet.

    “Slate, don’t even joke about things like that!” said Chalkboard, hurrying to avail himself of Slate’s paper towels and clean up the spilled coffee before it made a stain.

    “Chalk, even you know he’s doing it,” said Slate, now indignant. He’d let the genie out of the bottle, and now he might as well go with it. “Everypony here does. They’re just afraid to do anything about it, because he’d fire anyone who tried.” Chalkboard was getting increasingly frightened, and as difficult as it usually was for Slate to figure out what somepony else was feeling, even he could tell that lines had been crossed.

    “Well, look at the time, it’s almost five,” said Chalkboard, his nervousness now so blatant even Slate could see it. “Guess I should go make sure everything’s ready before I head out.”

    “Yeah, I’ll see you when I see you,” said Slate, turning around. He hated himself for saying such things. But they were true, dammit. Why did telling the truth always turn everyone against him? Everyone praised the value of truth and honesty, but nobody actually wanted it in their lives. “I’m going to stay late a bit, try and get a few more applications done before I leave.”

***

    Slate slowly turned the key in his apartment door, hesitating as he did so. As much as he hated being out in the world all day, he dreaded coming home. He had no angry wife or disagreeable pets to deal with, but he had something that was, to him, much worse - nothing. Or rather, not just that there was nothing in his apartment, but that he could painfully feel the absence of things it felt like everypony else had. Every other pony had something to come home to, but what did he have? A sofa, a record player, and a perennially empty fridge. This was the biggest reason he worked late, even on Friday - he feared the rush of sadness that fell on him every time he closed his door.

    Nonetheless, he walked into his apartment and locked the door behind him, moving first one, then two, then three bolts into place. While he was certainly in the low-rent district, one could hardly call his neighborhood “unsafe” - indeed, other than regular bouts of vandalism from young fillies and colts who had too little to do, crime was almost unheard of in his area. But still, he needed to keep ponies out. Loneliness had its own dark comforts, and the thought of others seeing his pain and laughing at him for it, as they had done when he was a colt, was worse than the agony of being absolutely alone.

    Desperate to break the silence, Slate quickly moved over to his record player, deftly flipping a record onto the spindle. His collection was modest and eclectic - an assortment of albums he’d obtained over the years, neatly organized and kept in good condition despite their heavy play. Soon his small apartment was filled with the voices and tones of singing ponies, and though their music was unerringly sorrowful (Slate couldn’t stand happy songs - they always seemed so disingenuous to him) and, despite the poor lighting, it felt less empty and alone. Not filled, to be sure, but lacking emptiness to the point where Slate could avoid obsessing over how empty it was.

    Continuing his efforts to distract himself, he went to the fridge, helping himself to a beer - one of the few things actually stocked in his otherwise surprisingly empty and unused fridge. Having no skill at cooking, he had simply gotten used to spending too much on eating out, and what with everyone always making a joke of his weight, he’d given up trying to eat less and bring home leftovers. There seemed no point to it anyway - when he starved himself and worked out, he was fat and miserable, and when he ate what he wanted, he was fat and miserable. Eating more had the advantage of being less work, and busy as he always was, less work was appealing.

    He looked at the clock. It was eight. That meant he had at least two hours to kill before he should make an effort to go to bed. If he went to bed now, he’d wake up at three or four in the morning, and find himself with nothing to do - at least, nothing he could do without waking up his upstairs neighbor, who would respond by incessantly pounding on the floor with her hooves until he quit. A light sleeper, she seemed to blame every noise she heard on Slate, and one time he came home to the sound of her pounding away like a jackhammer, even though he hadn’t been home for three days. What she thought she heard he’d never know, but if he wanted to avoid the obnoxious trampling, he’d need to find something to do for the next few hours.

    While deciding what to do, he made his way over to his coffee table and helped himself to a cigarette. Though he knew they were bad for him - indeed, deadly - he needed the focus they provided. It wasn’t easy operating a lighter with hooves, but years of practice had gotten him to where he could do it reliably, and once he got the first one lit, he could just light the next one with the butt anyway. He couldn’t smoke at work, of course, and he certainly missed the sensation for those nine to ten hours each day. But in the quiet privacy of his home, he was free to smoke like a chimney, the buzz and focus of the nicotine helping him to keep his mind off of the thoughts he was trying to avoid.

    Going over to his desk, he began searching around. His desk, and the shelves around them, were cluttered with model ships, trains, buildings and other objects he’d assembled and painted over the years. He told people it was his hobby, but really it was more of a way of keeping his hooves busy. Without magic to steady the brush and glue, his works always came out slightly off, with dabs of glue, material or paint seeming to appear in the wrong place even without his awareness of such mistakes. At first they had been maddening, but over time, he had learned to ignore them. Most of his models ultimately just went into the trash anyway, so who cared that one of the horses had eyes pointing in opposite directions, or that a train’s wheels weren’t perfectly straight? It wasn’t the finished product but the construction process that mattered, and during the process of creation, Slate’s mind could briefly relax. Other than this, all he had was books, and he wanted to save those for tomorrow’s train ride.

    Finding a model of the Cloudsdale Coliseum unopened; he tore into the packaging and got to work. Just by looking at the picture he already knew where everything went - the assembly was never the hard part for Slate, it was the painting that led him to failure and despair. His hooves and muzzle moving quickly, he glued and placed the pieces together at a rapid pace, barely giving the glue time to dry before new pieces were applied. Deep down he knew it was this impatience that resulted in his models appearing “off” at best, but if he slowed down, his mind would wander, and the results there were much worse than screwing up the construction of a model he had no interest in keeping anyway.

    By ten o’clock, he’d managed to get the model most of the way finished, and after the quick application of a few final strokes of paint, it was certainly “done” enough for him to quit working on it. Yes, the brush-strokes were still visible, and one of the columns was listing in a way that only a failure to properly shave and balance the plastic pieces could cause. But it didn’t matter - he’d made it to bedtime without letting his mind wander, and it had only cost him the price of the model, three bottles of beer, and yet another pack of cigarettes. And with nothing else to spend his money on, those were bits well spent.

    Momentarily satisfied, Slate moved towards the sofa, still smiling at his creation for a bit. It wasn’t even all that ugly - a bit childish, to be sure, but the smooth lines and high columns inherent in all Cloudsdale buildings were there. He could imagine seeing the pegusai racing around inside the hippodrome, just like he’d seen as a colt - from the ground, of course, but it was still an amazing thing to see. Such speed! Such power! Such grace! Nothing filled his heart with wonder and delight quite like the sight of a pegasus performing stunts of speed and agility.

    Slowly, however, his fond memories of seeing pegusai performing gave way to the real need for sleep. Slate dreaded sleep. Though he longed for the rest that it brought, he feared the nightmares that went with it. Invariably, even when he went to bed with the best thoughts on his mind, he’d find himself up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, terrified by some monster that he only just now realized wasn’t real. The dreams were always the same - he was a colt again, and something - or some pony - was out to get him, and invariably they succeeded, again and again, until he escaped by waking himself up. It was exhausting, and every morning he woke up feeling almost as tired as he had when he went to sleep. But staying up all night was even worse - he would invariably pass out at an inopportune moment and wake up to find himself screaming into the kitchen tiles, or worse, with a lit cigarette threatening to immolate his furniture. Better to hunker down and prepare, so that at least he could slide in and out of nightmares until sunrise.

    Every evening was a ritual, the comfort and structure of habit helping Slate to steel himself against what he was about to face. Teeth were brushed, hair was combed, sleeping pills were ingested, and the sheets on the sofa were carefully arranged just-so. The whole process was like the application of armor to slate - not intended to provide protection, but instead to try and reassure him and give him confidence. Nonetheless, he buried his face in a pillow, leaving only a small channel for him to breathe between the cushions of the sofa, and then stuffed his hooves between the cushions that remained. No need to risk waking the neighbors up again if he started screaming, or fell out of bed because he began to run in his sleep.

Next Chapter: Chapter 2: Pinkie Problems Estimated time remaining: 1 Hour, 54 Minutes