“How’s the ear?”

“Better now, thank you.”

“Fluttershy did a good job, huh?”

“I cannot hear right, but there is no pain. She told me that that is the best she can do. Apparently, the hearing mechanism is too complicated for her to heal properly.”

“Oh no. Is it, like, totally deaf?”

“I can hear a little. It is muffled.”

“Sorry, sis.”

“There is nothing to apologize for.”

A long silence, punctuated by the far-off rumble of thunder over Draught Castle, far behind.

“I never thanked you for what you did on the angel, and I feel that I should.”

“Come again?”

“I apologize if I am overstepping any bounds, but Whooves told me about you and him. I am truly grateful for what you did.”

“Uh… huh. What did he tell you?”

“Not very much. Just that you were able to talk to him, to calm him down during a difficult time. He was considering jumping.”

“Oh.” Pinkie thought for a time. “Yep. Well… I guess it’s all part of the job.”

“You are a better pony than I.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It is true.” Another moment of thought. “I admire you.”

Midnight on the second day for the north-flying airship, still wary after the fight with Discord, sailing back to Canterlot. They could only trust that it was right.

In startled anger, Discord commanded Vanilla to his side and flew down to Moondrop, too exhausted to teleport the distance and too distrusting to tell Vanilla to do it. They flew at a blinding one hundred seventy miles per hour to reach the struggling town just as dawn was creeping up, and Discord, still too incensed to concede corporeal weakness, did not rest, but worked at his torturous opus. Under Vanilla Cream’s impersonal direction, he lured ponies out of the town and down to the crater, rimmed with small stone obelisks etched with complicated, magical designs, and with no relish or glee, imprisoned them. Inside the stones, they were free to live out reflections of their own strongest thoughts. For some, the snares were endless fantasies; for others, living hells. It depended on the pony.

When six o’ clock came and Discord had only trapped five unfortunate souls, he finally settled for a sit-down against the largest stone, positioned in the crater’s bottom and reserved for someone very special. Vanilla regarded him with undisguised venom.

Several hundred miles west, in Roan, the Mansel Family had converted their entire business office into a bunker of sorts, where they could hide and cautiously give orders to those who the crown hadn’t yet uprooted. Their city was still cut off from all but the nearest neighbor, Applewood, a source of other problems, and political connections were thin. Many of the family members were only one or two pieces of bad news away from full panic, but grimly kept silent and pretended ignorance when questioned. And there were questions.

Luna’s accountant did not take long to dig up enough evidence to involve the local police and media, and, though most investigations stopped only days or weeks after first starting, the accountant did not. Unlike the other officials, she could not be bought or threatened. She was backed by the goddess of the night, one of the only ponies who could pay her more than an entire corporation, who could guarantee safety from even across a continent. Worse for the Mansels, she knew it; when the empty threats appeared, she didn’t blink. Luna almost came when her car was found demolished out in the desert, but the impulsive Mansel and her goon were found shortly thereafter in little better condition, and the threat of a visit by the princess faded.

So Mr. and Mrs. Mansel had little choice but to comply while they scoured their contacts for solutions. Of their trusted hatchet ponies, only Peaceful Meadows was still free on the surface, but she was watched, and busy dealing with those who dealt with the impatient clients. Neither of the company owners were officially implicated in anything, nor their progeny, but it was known. As Vinyl Scratch had warned the Elements of Harmony, the Mansels were not crossed lightly, even when scrutinized. Those who did not take caution when attempting encroachment onto the family business still found their ways to the middle of nowhere, in time.

The illegally enchanted tools and trinkets that they possessed had to go into a giant landfill ten miles outside the city, a project that their hot headed son, Campari Mansel, oversaw and was nearly arrested for. At the same time, Mrs. Mansel’s plan to sell them off in Canterlot was poised to just begin, their new ambassador, Whippoorwill, set to arrive. He would do so assuming an endless stream of contraband was heading his way; in reality, Mrs. Mansel had only been able to send off one shipment. Moreover, they had no way to contact him, as their communication sigils had been charged with monitoring enchantments. Whippoorwill, it appeared, was to be lost, a final shot into the world that closed its jaws tighter around the family.

Then, from the north, a different set of problems streamed in from Applewood, where once they had controlled the lion’s share of all drug-related transactions. Their manufacturers and dealers had been cut loose by the flood and loss of their money launderer, and the ruined city had reverted to anarchy. The residential areas still clung to order, but The Bright Road had been transformed. Some hotels had been destroyed, some turned into headquarters for ad hoc drug operations or pleasure dens. A loose cartel was forming between the conflicting drug lords, once partners under the Mansels’ umbrella. Keeping the proceedings dissociated from their Roan bank chain was growing more and more difficult as more important pieces of the Mansel machine turned up dead or incarcerated. There were talks to send Peaceful Meadows up to Applewood with her best ponies to smother the mess once and for all.

Even farther north, The Mountian Zone was all but empty. Gold Ribbon had been in his office when the Mansel contractors found him, and there he remained, head turned the other way and eyes covered with sticky notes, the word “traitor” written neatly on both. Without him, the Water Loop fell apart, and all the effort the Elements had taken to help the poor citizens move out to the dam’s artificial lake seemed for naught. Rain kept falling, and there was no one left to stop or divide it. Many went back to the ruin of Trottingham, the rest stayed at the dam. Where once it had generated electricity artificially, some of the unicorns were learning to harness the lightning that unfailingly struck it when a storm passed over.

Second Look, Whippoorwill’s one-time memory therapist, was one of the ponies to remain by the dam. She had no use for her police experience there, so she fell into a group of tinkerers who wanted to devise a way to explore the village that the dam had submerged. They tested a primitive diving helmet and bellows in ten feet of water off the shore, and another youngster, Saturday Sun, splashed up after just a second and laughed loudly with masked disappointment.

“Wow, that didn’t work at all!”

The third night of the Elements’ flight to the capital, and the inexperienced divers went back home, discouraged but determined.

But then, farther north still, all seemed well in Canterlot. Over cocktails and crudités, Dr. Whooves regaled some of the most beautiful ponies he’d seen with stories from his adventures with the Elements. He lounged on a second story patio with a dirty martini at one hoof and a ramekin of pearl onions at the other. Traffic crawled below, reflecting light up to him and his new friends, who he had encountered only three days ago.

Violet Astra had remembered him immediately, and his role in helping them recover their crow in Hoofington. She sat opposite Whooves, to her right a pitch-black unicorn who, in his tailored tuxedo, reminded him of a chess piece that had suddenly come alive and developed a taste for expensive scotch. To her left, a bespectacled, gray green unicorn swirled her tall drink until the grenadine float had turned the whole glass to a blushing rose color. Onyx Astra and Laurel Astra, her financier and magical technician: Violet, meanwhile, was the family representative, the only Astra in town with veto power on matters concerning their new crow.

“It’s been through a lot these past months,” she explained to Whooves, who was eager to reminisce about their magical machine. “And who knows what’s to come? Discord’s still out there.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Laurel said. “We’ve just recently come up with a design we can all agree on.”

It was not, however, the new design that brought the four ponies out for cocktails on a balmy Canterlot Thursday. They were celebrating Violet’s engagement, the groom none other than the queer museum curator, Lumb. He was doing well, she said; they had held a second masquerade the week after she accepted his proposal.

Whooves sighed contentedly. “Ah, life. It has its ups and downs, but who wouldn’t trade in everything she owned for a chance to take that ultimate ride? Why, surrounded by good friends, good food and good drink? To me, it just enhances the experience.” He sipped his martini, secretly disliking it.

“Here here,” Onyx Astra said, lifting his tumbler. “Canterlot bounced back quite well, wouldn’t you say?”

“Splendidly,” Whooves said, nodding and gesturing grandly over the railing. “Not a blotch on our fair city’s wondrous face! The fields and rivers outside might be a smidge ruffled, but that just gives the view more charm, does it not? Nothing beats the bonny Canterlot vistas, and now less so with these variations in topographical mien. Lends credibility to the old idea, hm? Each place has a face, a personality.”

“You were there for it, weren’t you?” Laurel Astra asked.

“Why, little ol’ me?” he asked playfully. “Mm, perhaps.”

“Oh, do tell, doctor,” Violet said, her subdued voice and intent expression coaxing a wider smile from his thin simper.

“Hm, hm, well, I suppose I could tell a tale or two.” He made a show of thinking before throwing a hoof up. “Ah, no! ‘Tis not my place, fair ponies.”

“Not even a little one?” Onyx asked, grinning hungrily.

Whooves laughed and drank more martini, chasing it with a pearl onion. “Oh, what the hey? Hmmm, but what to divulge? Why, you Astras might not know it, but yours is not the only great mechanized beastie that traverses the sky.”

“You were on an airship?” Violet asked skeptically. “You?”

“You wound me, my dear. I’ll have you all know that I was in the eminent company of fair Octavia and her charming sister, Pinkie, aboard our very own angel.”

“Angel?” Laurel asked.

“Why, that big, hexi-winged block of masonry with the floodlight eyes, of course.”

“That was you?”

“They said it was one of Discord’s ponies that defected at the last second,” Violet said.

Whooves nodded. “Yes, yes, that washes away any questions quite well. But alas, it is not so. I was there, I rode the ghastly thing, all the way from Roan. A longer trip I’d not want to make!”

“You crashed by the river,” Onyx said. “I saw it on the news, it was quite the spectacle.”

“Were you three okay?” Violet asked.

“In a manner of speaking. You know—or perhaps you don’t—Miss Octavia is hard to hurt.” He finished his martini quickly, suppressing a shudder. Next, he would try the scotch. Cost was no concern of his; he was loving life on the Astras’ bit. A mischievous twinkle lit in his eyes. “But she has some hurt in her, she does. I wouldn’t want to get on her bad side.”

“We’ve heard she’s coming into her own out there with the Elements,” Violet said. “No details, unfortunately.”

“Hmmmm.” He flagged down the waitress and asked for the scotch menu.

“You spent a lot of time with them?” Laurel asked.

“Some,” he said. “Forgive me, I’m not so well versed in these matters. Which tipple might go best for someone of my sensibilities? I tend to prefer my oak and ceder flavors, but this vanilla cognac is catching my eye.”

“Don’t exclude us, now,” Violet gently admonished. “What are they like?”

“Who?”

She laughed and poked him with a soft spell. “You know!”

“Why, they’re the most scintillating company you could ever ask for! It pained me to leave them, but the call of the city can only be denied for so long, so I’ve always said. Fluttershy is my favorite, but Applejack has some vim to her you’ll not see matched save for the most garrulous souls on The Bright Road. Whoo, what fun, Applewood. I must return some day.”

“How is Rarity? She seemed… off, when we last met,” Violet said.

Whooves smiled and watched his scotch come closer, but, inside, he sobered. He remembered the theft of Applejack’s body, the dizzying scene of her casket materializing in their hotel room, his fear that they were followed. He had watched Twilight operate on Applejack for a few minutes before running off to the other room, and had known then that his time with them was limited.

“She’s good,” he said, bringing the smoky, brown liquor to his lips. “Graces, but this is wonderful, hm?” He forced a laugh.

“Were they able to take care of their difficulties in Roan? Princess Luna told us you had a scare.” She raised her eyebrows significantly, and Whooves wondered for a second just how much she knew.

“Oh, for the most part. You know, Twilight knows so much magic, she was able to bring Applejack back quite easily. She’s a quick study, that one.”

“Bring her back?” Onyx repeated.

“Oop! Perhaps discretion should be the better part of valor here, hm? I fear I may have said too much.”

“I’ll explain later,” Violet said, patting his foreleg.

“Apologies.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” Laurel Astra said. “How was Roan? I hear it’s lovely this time of year.”

“Lovely, yes, that word does encapsulate it, I wot. If only the reception were more clement than the weather.”

Laurel’s eyebrow quirked upwards, and Violet arrested her drink as it rose to her lips.

“Some not-so-nice sorts live in that town, we discovered.” He took a sip. “This is marvelous, by the way.”

“Who did you run into?” Violet asked.

“Hm? Oh, uh, nothing important. I’m free of them now.”

“Who, though?”

Whooves made a show of thought, as if unsure whether he would announce who they had encountered. In the quiet that precipitated his response, he was trying to arrange his words around a growing block of intoxication. He wished he hadn’t finished his martini so quickly. “I shall tell you. Why, it was only the most dastardly criminal family in all of Equestria. My lips tremble but to utter their dreaded appellation! The cursed family, the greatest and most despicable creatures known to be dredged up from the sulfurous pits of Tartarus itself, the devils lurking in every belfry and the wicked voices perched upon every milquetoast wither. I speak of none other of…” He lowered his voice dramatically. “The Mansels.”

“We know them,” Onyx said calmly. “We know quite a lot of them.”

Whooves thought. “Yes, you know, I think I recall hearing something of it. Your two families are at odds, is that not so?”

“You might say that,” Violet said, imitating his imitated accent.

“But they are of no concern now, not to blushing bride nor charmed guests. They shall rot in Roan the live-long day, their distance becalming all who live in the great capital.” He mused. “Rot and deliquesce and suck away to earth, the lot of them!” He took a larger drink of his scotch, and almost gagged.

“Don’t be so bold, doctor,” Onyx said, giving him a friendly pat on the back to help the alcohol go down.

“They have friends everywhere,” Laurel said. “Yes, even Canterlot.”

“Oh?” Whooves munched another pearl onion blithely.

“Come, come, must we discuss those ponies on a night like this?” Violet asked. “We have all day tomorrow to worry about them.”

“Must you worry?” Whooves asked.

“Always,” Onyx said. He was the most sober of the four, despite his choice of drink. “I’m sure they know we’re here.”

“Perhaps,” Whooves said, nodding. “But perhaps not? They are, after all, rather distracted right now. At least, I’d assume so.”

“How’s that?” Laurel asked.

“Why, didn’t you hear?”

“Doctor,” Violet said.

“Okay, okay, okay, maybe you didn’t. Maybe they keep this under wraps, hm? ‘Twould be the wise thing to do, I suppose.” The Astras waited for him to proceed, and he smiled for a second, fondly remembering the Elements’ impatience with his rambling tendency. “They’ve lost something of a rather integral piece to their mad machinery of business, those monsters.”

All three leaned in. “Not so loud,” Laurel said. “But what happened?”

“You’re familiar, I trust, with the sorrowful fate of Applewood?”

“Of course.”

“A tragedy,” Violet said.

“With the loss of the dam, there was too a loss of something else, something the Mansels held in quite high regard. Prepare yourselves. The pony who ran that dam, the hydroelectric CEO himself, the top banana, the paramount pony, the—”

“Come on, what happened?”

“He’s no longer with us,” Whooves said simply, leaning back to release the tension that had so quickly coiled around them.

Laurel sighed and sipped at the dregs of her drink. “What does that have to do with them?”

“Who was this character to them?” Violet asked.

“Oh, so you didn’t know! Why, this should be juicy for you then. That CEO, in so high a position in the legal sphere of our world, was also his own counterpart in the illegal side, for he was their main money launderer.”

“How do you know this?” Onyx asked sharply. “How? Tell me.”

“You’re sure?” Violet asked, no tease in her voice.

“I have it on good authority,” Whooves said.

“Whose?”

He almost said “Vanilla Cream,” but stopped himself. He didn’t want to explain to the Astras, the complicated relationship they had with Discord’s envoy. Instead, he said, “Discord himself. Taunting us, as he oftentimes would, he let that piece of information slip.”

Violet thought for a second before breaking into a laugh. “Oh, doctor, you really are a rube.”

“I? A rube, Miss Astra?” His cheeks aflame, he sipped his scotch again. Since leaving his friends by the river, he had quickly made friends with numerous ponies of high regard, his experience with the Elements proving invaluable for garden parties and parlor talk. That one of the most important ponies of all might think him a rube was enough to freeze his unsteady thoughts.

“You don’t take anything Discord says seriously,” Onyx said. “He misguides all the time.”

Whooves thought. It was true that Discord might, but he was not sure about Vanilla. If told to, he supposed the white stallion would. He’d not considered that it may have been the case.

“No,” Whooves eventually said. “Because the Mansels were later known to take great interest in what we knew, we being the Elements of Harmony and,” he gestured affectionately at himself, “yours truly. Their other friends too.” He laughed.

“What sort of interest?” Violet asked.

“Not any strong interest, we can know that,” Laurel said.

“Pray tell, why can we know that?” Whooves asked, though he thought he knew.

Violet dragged an invisible blade across her throat, and Whooves nodded. “That’s if you draw their attention in the wrong way.”

“Well, I did exit town posthaste after that. I didn’t give them much time for such… displays of inquiry.”

“But they did inquire?”

“Quite strongly, from what I’m told. I hadn’t the pleasure of sitting in on that particular conference, though I would have a more personal one not long after, with one of their, er, friends.”

“Who?” Laurel asked.

Whooves shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t recall her name. Charming mare, though, minus the dead look in her eyes. A true harbinger of ill-will, she, but so fair for the eyes. She punched me. I remember that part pretty well.”

“If he’s right, and they lost their money launderer,” Onyx began.

“Up-pup-pup, let’s save that conversation for later,” Violet said. “We’ll get Mama and Papa Astra’s opinions before we do anything.”

“Is there a thing to be done?” Whooves asked.

They all shared a very quick, worried look. “Yes, there is. We must order another round of drinks.”

Laurel cheered, then Onyx, then Whooves, loudest of them all. His voice bounced down to the streets and off the opposing building, with it all concerns of the Mansels and their ubiquitous friends.

The fourth day of the Elements’ flight to Canterlot, crossing the great stretch of swampland and battling a day-long wind storm.

While Wings and Jet were out for a rowdy Friday night, Flitter stayed in and waited for someone to knock on their door. When that knock came, the two convened in the dining room, a small, glass table in a nook just by the kitchen, too clean to have been used recently.

The dark purple mare sat down without invitation and dropped her saddlebag heavily on the floor and spread a small stack of papers across the table’s surface, and Flitter sat opposite.

“Alone?” she asked.

“Yeah, for a few hours still, at least,” Flitter said. “They said they’d be out for the better part of the night.”
“This place isn’t watched?”

Flitter frowned. “I’ve only spent a few days here, I don’t think so. Hey, I haven’t been trained in surveillance yet. If you’re really my new commander, you should know that already.”

The pony nodded absentmindedly. “Yes, I’m sure it was mentioned in your report.”

“What’s your name?”

“Mm? Ink Pearl. Sorry.” She extended a hoof, and they shook. “I have like five other ponies to visit tonight.”

“Then let’s get to it,” Flitter said.

“These,” Ink said, drawing an invisible circle around a map of Canterlot, tracing her hoof through a rough loop of dots, freckles on the bare landscape just outside, “are the watchpoints. All of them are deactivated and abandoned right now; we can’t have anyone knowing where they are right now, accidentally finding them. Discord might have ponies around still, or worse.”

“Windy Weathervane told me something like that.”

“Yes, he did.” She brought up a smaller paper and put it on the map. “His recommendation carries some weight. You should be proud.”

Flitter blushed, but didn’t want to show. The mare in front of her was cool, the coolest Flitter had seen. They had not even met eyes, but far from feeling affronted, Flitter was awed. In Ink Pearl, she could see the quiet, coiled readiness that had also been present, in much smaller quantities, in Windy Weathervane and Foxglove back in Ponyville. Her eyes had taken in the house swiftly before entering, and Flitter was sure that Ink had marked and memorized all the exits already. Her ears stood up, not relaxed like her face and voice. Flitter wanted to be cool as well.

“Just doing my job,” she said.

“Mm. I need you to work on sweeping the city for any remaining informants or sleeper aggressors. Ponies can be enchanted or glamoured to wait for certain times or triggers, and we need to make sure there aren’t any ponies in the city like that. We can’t activate our watchpoints until we know we’re secure, so this is very important.”

“Understood. It’s not just me, is it?”

“No, but you won’t have any direct contact with other Daturas for this job, except me. You’ll be working with blind ponies.”

“Blind?”

“Meaning they won’t know you’re a Datura.”

“…Okay.” Questions sprang into her mind, but she held back.

“This is a copy of The Equine Sun.” She slid a thin magazine over to Flitter. “I suggest you get acquainted with the way it’s laid out and written, because you’re interning there now.”

“Uh?”

“Before you ask, I’m not singling you out. Most of us get notice like this for jobs. It’s just something you need to get used to. Your first day’ll be on Monday.”

“Wait, wait, I don’t know anything about magazines.”

Ink Pearl rolled her eyes. “You’re not actually interning. You’re just posing.”

“How’s that work?”

“Please don’t interrupt me. I’ll explain at the end.”

“Okay. Sorry.”

“Hm. There are twenty-five reporters working there.” She floated a piece of notebook paper to Flitter, who saw twenty-five names, and then twenty-five addresses, phone numbers, and lists of friends and family members. The need to ask burned on the tip of her tongue.

“These ponies are legitimate reporters who know nothing of the Datura. All they know is that they’ve been assigned to produce various pieces on the battle, ranging in reliability from public opinion to scholarly articles. There’s room for both types of news in the Sun.”

“Okay, with you so far. I guess.”

“Your job is to scan each story for any indications of deviant opinion or seditious intent. The reporters are instructed to be quite specific and personal, where appropriate, when speaking to sources.” She slid over a second piece of notebook paper with a dozen questions scrawled on it, from each question branching several others. “I’m running these through the editor-in-chief tonight, and the reporters will be properly instructed by the time you start. If you find anything suspicious, mark the names down, along with any other information you can get. The reporters are supposed to get some basic things, like age and occupation. You’ll record that information and report it to…” Ink Pearl gave Flitter the final piece of paper with just a phone number and name on it. “This pony.”

“And who is this?”

Ink looked at her. “Bobby Pin runs a PI firm that we use sometimes. She’ll have her ponies chasing after other characters of interest besides the ones you dig up. Investigation only, nothing more. If they find anything strange, you’ll hear back. Oh, they’re blind too. There’s no Datura influence inside the firm.”

“Okay.” Her brows knit. “How do we know they’re safe to use?”

“I checked them out personally. They’re safe.”

“And how do I know you’re safe?” she wondered, but didn’t ask. It would not be in the best taste, she thought.

“What questions do you have?”

“What do I do when they get back to me on someone?”

“You mean someone who does appear to be influenced by Discord.”

“Yeah. You don’t want me to… deal with them, do you?”

“Only if it can’t wait. You’ll probably give those names to me. I have someone set aside for that.”

“Okay. What about this PI firm? Won’t they notice if they keep getting requests to check out random ponies for the same, you know, basic set of reasons?”

“They won’t. Your coworkers are looking for different things. There will be variation in the targets, as well as the ponies investigating them. Bobby Pin is simply yours; the others will be using others. Some of them, anyway.”

“Interesting. So you’ve got… a lot more out there, than me.”

“I’m setting it up tonight.”

“And we’re supposed to start on Monday?” She blurted. “Sorry.”

“You’ve made yourself quite clear in the past how you feel about what you consider to be inadequate preparation time, Flitter.”

“Uhh.”

“Trust me, I know what I’m doing, and so do my logistics managers. Any other questions?”

“Well… what about my job? Am I just reading all day long? And why do I need the personal information on all these girls?”

“Just in case,” Ink said.

“In case of what?” Immediately, the thought came to her, and she pursed her lips. “Geez, really?”

“My pony will take care of them too, if need be, but I hope it doesn’t come to that. Random ponies vanishing can be explained, but reporters are harder.” She looked into Flitter’s eyes for the first time, but then looked away with disinterest a second later. “You’re going to maintain professional distance throughout, since you’re new. As for your job, you’ll be doing more than reading. That is only your primary duty; you’ll find plenty to do in keeping this position.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re already set up to go there. No one will question you when you show up on Monday, no one will wonder where you came from or why you’re there. There are other interns too, not Daturas, real interns. I suggest you get close to them and copy them. Just because you’re set up initially doesn’t mean you’ll be unimpeachable.”

“They might let me go if I don’t do whatever it is I’m supposed to be doing. Is that right?”

“That’s right. You and the editor-in-chief are friends. She knows to agree to it if asked, I already saw to that, but you should only use that once. What we must avoid at all costs, Flitter, is these ponies investigating you.”

“They are reporters, after all,” Flitter said. “So you set it up so that they’ll accept me, but I have to be able to play ball after that, to keep myself in their good graces.”

“Correct.” She reached into her saddlebag and pulled out a badge, a mock college transcript, a pair of journalism textbooks. “These are yours. I tried to keep your transcript faithful to your actual education.”

“Statistics?”

“You majored in finance, did you not?”

“Yeah, but… okay, maybe I put off math until the last semester. Sure.”

“The address of their headquarters is written on the back of the transcript.”

Flitter looked at the address and shrugged. “Can I have a map?”

Ink frowned. “I’ll mail you one before Monday.”

“Okay, thanks.” She shuffled the papers together, difficult with just hooves. “Am I paid or unpaid?”

“Unpaid. No paper trail that way.”

“Good thinking.” She thought again. As with her assignment on the caravan, she was only just beginning to grasp her task. “How do I get out? You know, when I need to get out?”

“You’ll quit, like anypony else. Why?”

“I dunno, I thought there might be a special protocol, or something.”

Ink shook her head, lips pursed, eyes wide in a strange, inscrutable expression that at once suggested empathy and disbelief. “No. Special protocols are for internal Datura matters only. Working with blind ponies, you want to bring as little attention to yourself as possible.”

“Just wondering.” She glanced at the magazine again. “Will I need to write anything?”

“I have no way of knowing.”

“I hope not.”

Ink just looked at her and made to get up.

“Well, thanks, ma’am. I… guess I’ll see you around, then. I’ll keep you informed. Oh, phone number?”

“On your list of names. The first is for regular contact, the second is for emergencies. I might not be the one who picks up if you call that number, but it’ll be one of us.”

“What counts as an emergency?”

“Discovery.”

“Only that? What if I’m threatened?”

“You do know how to take care of yourself? In your report, you’re supposed to be good at improvising.”

“I… guess. I did it once.”

“Weekly reports, please,” Ink said, looping the saddlebag’s strap around her neck and down her back. “Even if there’s nothing interesting to report, I want you to tell me that. Same if you have to contact me before the week’s out.” She tapped the table. “I need those reports every week. Okay?”

“You got it.”

“Good. I’ll be in touch, but not a lot.”

“Sure.” She watched Ink let herself out, not feeling right about following her to the door. Ink did not look back at her, and had hardly looked at her at the table. When the house was again filled with silence, she sat on the couch and started reading her new textbook, the other materials in a pile beside.

Then, in a flurry of wings and drunken laughter, her cousin and friend came home, several chapters on the basics of intermediate-level reporting later. Flitter’s eyes were glazed over, and she was happy to throw her book down when her roommates reappeared out of the night. They both talked without pause, their voices blending with laughter and lightning-quick in-jokes that Flitter could only watch impassively, a spectacle that slowly made its way to the couch and relaxed into its two discrete conversers, Wings and Jet.

“So tonight was interesting, cuz,” Wings said, affecting nonchalance while Jet played with her tail.

“A real barn-burner!”

“Ooh, poor taste, Jet.”

“Phooey.”

“What happened?” Flitter asked. Better to establish her voice early in the conversation, she had learned, otherwise she could get steamrolled.

“Drinks and good times, of course,” Jet said. “All good times flow from the city, little buddy.”

“Forgive her, she had about three too many Frozen Apples,” Wings said.

“Heck!”

“Come on, come on, let’s go,” Flitter said.

“You tell her, J, you’re better at this sort of thing,” Wings said.

“Well, Flitterbug, here’s what happened. Lemme set the scene. Wings and me are just fresh off the daily grind, ready to cause some trouble and mess up some cocktails. Typical Friday night stuff, you know.”

“I’m familiar,” Flitter said, thinking ruefully of her textbook. “Friday night, indeed.”

“So we hit the town, and we’re still kinda new to this place, so we don’t know all the best places. We hop in a cab and I’m all ‘where’s a good place for a pegasus to have a drink?’ And the cabby—”

“Real nice fella,” Wings said.

“Real nice, real nice. Smelled like licorice. Anyway, the cabby takes us… I guess you’d call it downtown? Or is this whole, like, thing downtown?”

“There’s certain districts that are more ‘downtown-y’ than others, I think,” Flitter said.

“Well, anyway, not important. So we get dropped off outside some club, and we’re like ‘yeah, sure, let’s give it a try’.”

“Manehattan does it better,” Wings said.

“Way better. Fifteen bits at the door, two drink minimum, and the music was so loud we couldn’t hear each other.” She leaned over to nudge Flitter. “And as you know, we can’t stand not to hear each other.”

“I know it,” Flitter said.

“Sometimes I wonder why ponies think we’re a couple, but not tonight, no ma’am,” Jet continued. “My Luna above, how we get on. I swear, back in high school—anyway, I’m getting off topic, sorry. Uhh…”

“The club,” Wings said.

“The club. So the club sucked, basically. We got our drinks, Wings twirled around on the dance floor a little bit, and that was it. Well, so, not ones to let something like that defeat us, we just went walking down the sidewalk.”

“Must’ve taken a bad turn somewhere along the line.”

“Bad indeed, but you wouldn’t know it to be with us.”

“We just followed the noise.”

“And the crowds.”

“Lots of ponies, Flitter, lots.”

“And lots of clubs,” Jet said, nodding. “We walked ‘til the crowd was a little thinner.”

“A lot thinner.”

“Until we were at the butt end of the neighborhood, just us and some real flashy gals and guys flying around.”

“We figured it was a special occasion, like a neon theme or something.”

“Everyone had neon in their hair. Lots of reds and blues, some purple, some green, some… yeah, you get the picture.”

“Neo-goth?” Flitter asked. A style of dress and accessorizing characterized by its emphasis on contrasting color and extravagant mane styles. She and Cloudchaser had gone through a brief phase of it in college.

“Yeah, neo-goth, that’s it,” Jet said. “Another thing your city has that Manehattan doesn’t. Least, not the parts of Manehattan I ever saw.”

“It was enough to make your eyes bleed, cuz,” Wings said.

“But not enough to make us turn back.”

“‘Why, maybe they have a station or something where we can get colored up too, if that’s the deal,’ we thought. So heck, we went for it.”

“Great club.”

“Great building, you mean.”

“Yeah, great building.”

“Awful club.”

“Really awful.”

“Okay, okay,” Flitter said, holding up a hoof to pause them. “What happened, though? This sounds like a regular night out.”

“Flitter,” Wings said, relaxing only a little against the back of the couch, “do you know about Pegasus Advocates?”

“I’ve never met one, but I’m aware of them, yes.”

“This bar was full of them,” Jet said, flapping her wings. “All of ‘em with their big, shocking manes and their neon jewelry and their ribbons, decked out like a flippin’ parade.”

“It was like some kind of messed up cartoon,” Wings said. “One of those weirdo, ultra-dark cartoons you see at like four a.m.”

“And all of them with their big, black X.” She jabbed herself in the forehead. “Right here, big as life.”

“I’ve never seen a bar go quiet so fast in all my life.”

“It was like someone turned a switch. Everypony just stopped.” Jet’s eyes were wide, her wings tight against her back, her one hoof moving animatedly while the other kept her sitting up.

“They all looked at us, even the bartender stopped and stared,” Wings said.

“Oh my Celestia,” Flitter said. “What happened?”

“We went in,” Jet said, and Wings covered her face with a quiet groan.

“What?”

“We went in,” Wings repeated, muffled.

“Sat right at the bar and ordered ourselves a couple beers,” Jet said. “This bartender, she gave us the nastiest look, just total contempt, like we were dirt. Poured our beers and put ‘em in front of us without saying a dang thing.”

“No one’s talking still while this is happening, remember,” Wings put in. “We were just there, at the bar.”

“I was trying not to look at the X on her head, but—”

“It’s hard not too, I was trying not to myself.”

“So then what happened?” Flitter asked. “I guess you’re okay, but…”

“We got one very tense sip into our drinks, and someone finally pipes up, ‘get outta here.’ Just like that, real abrupt. ‘Hey, get outta here’.”

“The pegasus we were sitting next to, he turns on us then,” Jet said. “He says, uh…”

“‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ he asked. Emphasis on the F-word.”

“Not friendly.”

“I’ll be honest, I was hoping Jet here had a good answer, ‘cause I was lost.”

Jet laughed. “You and me both.”

“So we just kinda look at him, you know, deer in the headlights, and he repeats himself. You can tell he’s getting pretty mad, and some of the other pegasi are edging in closer now, some of ‘em murmuring, some of ‘em just quiet.”

Flitter’s mouth hung open.

“We get up, nice and slow.”

“Tell her how you got in and had a last sip of beer,” Jet said, chuckling.

“Oh, come on, really?” Flitter asked.

“Yeah, yeah, I got a last sip of beer, okay. Hey, that wasn’t the trouble, if you’d believe it,” Wings said.

“Yeah, so we were backing away, and we, uh, well I guess she was a bouncer or something,” Jet said.

“She’s blocking the exit, this humongous pegasus, right in our way. I’m trying to be real nice, you know, ‘scuse me, thank you,’ and so on, and she’s not moving an inch.”

“Meanwhile, they’re just all behind us.”

“We forgot to pay for the drinks, you see,” Wings said. “I had to go back and toss a couple bits on the counter.”

“And we figured that would be it, you know, like they’d let us out. I was trying to apologize or whatever, but this big freaking bouncer still won’t budge.”

“And then someone else shouts something, then someone else, then… well, we were able to shove our way out of there.”

“I’ve never flown so fast in my life,” Jet said.

“Thank Celestia no one chased us.”

“We would’ve been fine, there were plenty of witnesses. Once we were out of there, we were okay.”

“Sure didn’t feel that way,” Wings said.

“Geez, did this just happen?” Flitter asked.

“A couple hours ago. No, we found a nicer lounge and calmed down a little.”

“A lot,” Jet said.

“In her case, a lot. In mine, only a little.”

“I can understand why,” Flitter said.

“It’s weird too, ‘cause we’re pegasi,” Jet said. “Like, what did we do wrong? Was it just that they didn’t know us? Could we have stayed in there if we just said like ‘death to all unicorns’ or something?”

“I think it was the color thing,” Wings said. “We were clearly not the usual crowd.”

“Some lady called us T-word lovers as we were leaving.”

“Yikes,” Flitter said.

“Velocity,” Wings said. “That’s the club. So just in case you go out, do not go there. Super Pegasus Advocacy vibe.”

“Guess so. Geez, I’m glad you’re okay. I had no idea there was a PA club so nearby.”

“Not that nearby, but yeah,” Jet said, brushing Wings’ wing. “Rest of the night was great, though.”

“We were just in time for three-bit cocktails at The Rotten Melon.”

“They’ve got a pretty crazy menu, too, lots of stuff I’d never heard of.”

“And these really good fries, with oil and feta on ‘em, a little rosemary.”

“Those were some damn good fries, Flitter.”

“Seriously good,” Wings said.

They both sighed in unison, a quirk that made Flitter crack a smile.

“So how was your night, homebody?”

“Well…” Flitter thought about her meeting with Ink Pearl, and realized that she had not hidden her books and papers. “I think I got a job.”

The sixth night for the Elements on their airship, stargazing and relaxing as well as they were able over the waning north edge of the swamps, and Flitter concocting a fictional job for herself to her drunken cousin and friend.

Colgate ate less and watched TV more, and the counselors were taking notice.

“We’re losing her again,” Nugget said. A lance of sun through the window caught her facial scar just right, and Drift Dive had to make himself not stare at it.

“I was beginning to feel good about it,” Almond Butter said, and sighed. “Back to the drawing board, I guess.”

“What do you think, Drift? You look like you’ve got something,” Cyclone said.

“I don’t know,” Drift Dive said.

“Well, what’s she been telling you? Where’s she at right now?”

“She might be still reeling from revealing so much in group,” Soft Spirit said.

“I don’t think it’s that,” Drift Dive said.

“No?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you know?” Almond Butter asked. “Sorry, I mean, what’s the problem? ‘Cause something you’re doing isn’t working.” She snorted a hollow laugh. “That’s clear, something isn’t working.”

“I can’t get her to talk any more,” Drift Dive said. “I used to, but something changed, and I don’t… I don’t know, like I said.”

“Did you offend her somehow?” Nugget asked. “Hair trigger like her, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“We can dispense with the pejoratives. She hasn’t gone off on anybody in a while now.”

“Hasn’t shown any emotion in a while now,” Soft Spirit said.

“She might be getting ready to burst,” Cyclone said. “Ka-blooie. Oh goddess, not another one of those, puh-lease.”

“Drift? What do you think?” Almond Butter asked.

“She’s hard to read,” Drift Dive said, rubbing his upper lip. “I don’t think I see an explosion in her, though. She doesn’t seem like the kind.”

“Uh, you’re aware that she tried to burn down her old house, right?”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Gold Splatter told me. I think she told him to try to rile him up.”

“Not hard to do,” Nugget said.

“She never told me that,” Drift Dive said. “But…” He had to think. His last few times with Colgate, he had done most of the talking. “That’s not going to happen here. There’s no way.”

“But the fact that she’s capable of that at all worries me,” Cyclone said. “What kind of pony are we dealing with who can be pliable one minute and a total torch-bug the next?”

“It might not be him at all,” Almond Butter said. “She might be upset about one of the other patients.”

“She stays in her room all day,” Nugget said. “Who’s getting to her?”

“She needs to socialize more,” Soft Spirit said. “What are you doing to try to get her to open up, Drift?”

“You know, all the usual stuff. She used to respond to small talk that hinted at the main point,” Drift Dive said.

“She doesn’t like direct questions, we know that,” Cyclone said.

“Too many questions freaks her out. I tried complimenting her on her bravery, sharing during group, but that fell on flat ears too.”

“I wonder if she just doesn’t trust you any more,” Nugget said. “Some patients are like that.”

“Yeah, you could have done something tiny that just got to her somehow,” Almond Butter said. “Celestia knows, that happens often enough, you say one thing, they take it another, and then there goes your whole counseling topic right there.”

“Was there any sort of turning point in her behavior?” Soft Spirit asked, tilting her head. “Anything at all you might have noticed?”

“Only when I noticed that it had changed, but that was after the fact,” Drift Dive said, shaking his head and silently praying thanks again for his natural red coat to hide his blush. Since their first kiss, he had stolen two more, shorter and more chaste than the first, but no less invigorating, and no less frightening. Of course she was having trouble processing his behavior; she was, he knew, a mare not accustomed to adoration, or even friendliness. That someone might feel for her as he did was clearly a shock. He hoped a good one, but could not be sure.

“Drift,” Cyclone said. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to put you on the spot, but I’m not sure I’m following along. I’ve talked to this pony too, and she’s not that complicated. You’ve been spending a ton of time with her.”

“When she is talking, she’s usually talking about herself,” Soft Spirit said.

“That’s just it, she hasn’t been talking,” Drift Dive said. “I’m not a miracle worker, I can’t make someone talk when they don’t want to. I think we should just leave her for now and let her come to her own conclusions. She has to help herself too, right?”

“Yyyyes,” Cyclone said. “At a certain point, but I’m not sure she’s at that point.”

“You still have to tell her to come out and eat sometimes,” Almond Butter said. “Trust me, I’ve been here a lot longer than you, and this mare is not in a spot, mentally, where she can help herself.”

“Have you brought up trying a behavior contract to get her to eat regularly?” Nugget asked.

“Oh, that’ll go well,” Drift Dive said. “She hates being coerced into anything.”

“This isn’t coercion, it’s—”

“That’s how she’ll see it.”

Nugget scoffed.

“So you do know how she’ll react to certain things,” Almond Butter said. “But you can’t dial in on a good way to communicate with her?”

“She probably doesn’t have a consistent way of doing it,” Soft Spirit said.

“She’s being consistently quiet,” Cyclone said.

“Drift, maybe you should take a break for a while.” She smiled her gleaming smile at him, partially melting the block of frightened ice that was freezing around his heart. “She did great in my session, let me take a try.”

“I like that idea,” Almond Butter said. “Maybe familiarity is the enemy here. Maybe she’s getting too comfortable. I mean, I hate to say it, but this is a rehab facility, not a hotel.”

“If we’re not helping her, then we should dismiss her,” Nugget said.

“It’s way too early to be talking about that,” Drift Dive said.

“Now, yes, but not for long.”

“I bet Soft Spirit can get her talking in a couple days,” Cyclone said.

“Can I have your notes?” Soft Spirit asked. “I know she’s touchy, but not all the specifics. I don’t want to lose any ground to her.”

“Also easy to do,” Nugget said, nodding.

“I’ve got them in my office, I’ll have to find them,” Drift Dive said.

Soft Spirit’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing, and they moved on to other things.

Colgate, meanwhile, stared into the TV screen. She had muted it for the commercials and never put the sound back on, so the animated family of bunnies hopped and spoke absent the keening voice actresses’ dialogue. She was aware that she needed to use the bathroom, but didn’t move. The toilet was a distance she could not bring herself to complete.

Hoofsteps coursed up and down the halls just outside, a kind of static that served to complete the walls of her isolation, as though she were surrounded by a thick mist. She was alone in her room, and the room was alone in its world, she its sole occupant and only one able to appreciate the empty vastness all around. The others were specters that occasionally drifted into view to perform their minor rites before vanishing back into the interstices of the mist.

She was hungry, too. She thought she was hungry.

Drift Dive had stopped knocking. He simply entered, closed the door gently shut behind him, and sat down beside her bed, his large eyes brimming with youth and un-spilled secrets, all significant in his mind, as if the novelty of her being was inducement enough to overcome the shyness he often bespoke and spill his treasures into her lap. She could only watch his face move with animated speech from the corner of her eye. Her neck did not move; it felt to her that it had ossified in the hour she spent with the TV, and only came alive when his red hoof came up to turn her face to his.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. “Really. How are you? You look better.”

She blinked at him.

“They want me to stop seeing you,” he continued in his quiet, confidential voice. Before, her ears would perk up courteously, but even that was not possible anymore.

He described the meeting, their impressions of her, his impressions of them. He did so at length, often breaking off to add his own insights to their thoughts.

For a moment, a thought shivered and tried to uncurl in Colgate’s mind, a simple thought. She could ram her hoof through the window, climb out, and extinguish herself in the lake. If she were fast enough, she might get too deep to be fished out in time.

That thought was gone in a flash, just like all the others, muted. Drift Dive talked on.

“—that of course they won’t give me any credit for that, it’s just all what’s not happening, what I’m not doing. Like I don’t know what I’m doing, like I’m still wet behind the ears or something. Well, okay, maybe I am a little, but—”

He was going to kiss her again. She could tell from the way his eyes were dilated, from the nervous pace of his speech. He was not used to it yet.

“I don’t know, Colgate. I might have to do it, but I really hope not. Come on, tell me something, hm? Share one thing?”

She looked at him, the red ghost in her world.

“Please, Colgate, I need this,” he whispered. “I need this right now.” He leaned in, glanced over his shoulder, and kissed her quietly. “Please,” he breathed.

She looked back at the TV. “I always pretended not to notice when someone stole my pens, but I knew every time, even when they put them back. They never put them back in the same position.”

Drift Dive nodded. “That’s… very interesting. When was this?”

She thought again that she had to pee.

“Colgate? Honey?”

Then, she did. Seven days out from Draught Castle, Cloudsdale in sight, and one counselor quietly submitting to the situation and slouching off to find a bundle of rags and new sheets.

The Canterlot ponies had a taste for extravagance in dress that Whippoorwill found off-putting at first, but then engaging. He had stowed enough money to buy himself the beginnings of a new wardrobe and rent a cheap apartment in the suburbs, near the foot of the mountain, not far from a grimy park that formed a second shadow to a stately cathedral. He could see its steeples tapering into the sunrise every morning like the fangs of some dark beast.

Lacking the money for a new automobile, he was forced to walk and teleport, limiting his mobility, but it was of little immediate concern. He enjoyed the fresh air, and did not have very far to go to do what he needed.

Days after his arrival, he had gone to the airship lot and helped receive a shipment of enchanted Mansel contraband, mostly pieces of magical jewelry or accessories. He helped the quiet crew move crate after crate into an unmarked truck, in which he rode to a warehouse where they were let in with a curt conversation with the owner. The driver assured Whippoorwill that the owner was trustworthy: a dependable, tight-lipped friend of the Mansel family. Their reach was long indeed.

The warehouse key jingled next to his apartment key on the small, silver ring he wore against his breast inside the ice blue suit jacket, its color complemented by a cool, light gray polo and a simple, white pocket square. Little horseshoe cuff links gleamed from all four sleeves, small golden pieces that echoed his yellow flower boutonniere, which naturally drew the eye upwards to be ensnared by his beret, a frantic salmon color which, with his pink and orange mane, made it appear at first glance as if the top of his head had been shorn away. Sometimes he hated his contrasting fur, but the attention it brought him was a nectar he took in greedily as he strolled down the drizzling Canterlot sidewalk to his destination, sandy shield up in place of an umbrella.

He was to meet his old friend at a small breakfast spot called The Broken Ground. An allusion to fresh coffee beans, or a cruel pun on the state of the country, he wondered. He didn’t mind; it did great business, a safe haven for readers and writers of all skill sets, its dark coffee enlivening dilettantes and professionals alike. When he arrived, his contact was already seated in the back.

“Wow,” he whispered despite himself. In the city’s lower districts, he had seen fashions aplenty, most to his distaste. Ponies flaunted themselves in all the wrong ways, he thought, often letting their natural colors get the better of what they chose to wear, resulting in a dull blend of greens and blues and reds, those being the most common coat colors in his little section of the world.

He was not the only one whose attention had been commandeered by the creamy orange pegasus in the corner booth. From across the room, a single, older earth pony stared from over the top of his book, and no one stopped Whippoorwill as he advanced. He sat down and shook hooves.

The specimen before him was not what he would call attractive. Her cantaloupe coat was cut short, almost bald, leaving a lot of negative space behind a black vest that she wore tight across her chest, its accentuations a black choker, thin and perforated to allow tufts of fur through, and black boots that ran halfway up her legs, fanged with tiny buckles and strips of polyester. Heavy purple eye shadow formed a nearly contiguous monocle across her face, rimmed with crimson, the red coronas broken only by dual eyebrow piercings that hid under flamboyant, two-tone bangs of neon orange and green. A pair of blood red ribbons ran through her voluminous mane, keeping it in a tight bundle that moved as a piece when she moved her head in a curt, greeting nod. Feathered tips of gray and black made her mane resemble a fern as it graduated from the top of her skull to well past her ears.

“How you’ve changed,” Whippoorwill said, seating himself and taking a moment to order a cup of decaf.

“Age changes us,” the mare said. Her voice was husky and deep, not quiet but not loud. She wore tangerine lipstick.

“So true. Ah remember you from high school. A bit more subdued back then.”

“I was scared of a lot of things,” she said, giving him a smile that, for a second, reverted her severe face to the one of his memories, the pale, curious moon face of his first good friend. They had met in study hall and grown close, never romantically, and then apart when life called them elsewhere. Her name had been Peach Cream back then; he didn’t know whether she went by it anymore.

“How’ve you been?”

The pony waited for the waitress to pass them by and for the older stallion to put his eyes back to his book. “I sincerely hope you reached out to me for more than this.”

Whippoorwill kept his face composed, but, inside, he felt a stab of anger—which, after a sip of coffee, softened into hurt.

“I’m a busy mare,” she continued. “Nothing against you personally, I know who you are.”

“You think.”

“I did hurt you.” She looked down for a second. “I’m sorry. If it is just a social call, there’s something about me you need to know.”

“No—Ah mean, don’t bother. Ah can get to the point.”

“Okay.”

He took a deep breath, steadying his nerves, unexpectedly rattled from her brusque retort.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Last I heard, you had been sent to Trottingham.”

“Fer a while, Ah was. Let’s say that that part of the country ain’t exactly friendly for me anymore, and leave it at that? Do you still go by Peach?”

“White Wine now,” she said, and he thought he caught a hint of wistfulness in her voice. “I haven’t heard that name in a long time.”

“You don’t miss it?”

“I don’t.” She smiled at the waitress who refilled her cup.

“Right. Well, Ah’m told you’ve got some connections that Ah might find useful.”

“Me specifically? That’s very strange.”

“My employers tell me so. They say you’ve got a part in some of the, er, local hoodlums, let’s call it.”

“Local hoodlums?” she asked, eyebrows raised sardonically. “Whippoorwill, your employers are feeding you some funny lines.”

“They weren’t specific on the whos and the whats, but they said you could be.”

“And what am I supposed to say?”

“Let’s start with who you are. Sure as sugar, Ah can see y’ain’t who you once were.” His hurt was not quite hardened, and he noted the flash of regret in her disguised eyes with bitter satisfaction. He lit his horn to feel for his pulse crystal, a habit from carrying one around in The Mountain Zone, something he could not do as frequently in Canterlot.

“Don’t do that,” White Wine said.

“What?”

“Your horn. Don’t.”

He looked her in the eye.

“Do not.”

He frowned, but kept his voice even. “Okay, fine. No worries, Wine. No magic.”

Her eyes lingered on his flank, where his magic had glowed, recognition in her expression. “I don’t know what you would want to know about who I am,” she said at length. “I’m an average pony making a living in Lower Canterlot. I own a few clubs nearby, but that’s it.”

Whippoorwill whistled. “They definitely failed to mention that little tidbit.”

“It’s not as glamorous as you think. I’ve had to scrub the toilets right there with my employees.”

“Point taken, madam,” he said. “But who are you? That’s what you do, not who you are.”

She rolled her eyes with a sigh. “Okay, I’m a grown-up version of the little filly you knew back in high school. I’ve got a life and money, and I earned it the hard way. I’m going to keep earning it the hard way. Is that good? Now what about you? You must be some sort of tough guy, checking for your sidearm like that.”

He frowned and almost lit his horn again, but stopped himself. “Ah’ve earned a few things myself. Perhaps we can talk about that on a different day.”

“So it’s your employers who want me, not you. Right?”

“Hardly,” he said, genuinely hurt. “Ah woulda come lookin’ fer ya either way. Just so happens, Ah come bearing gifts.”

She leaned forward. “And what gifts are these?”

“The kind that can make a pony a lot of money,” he replied, leaning to meet her in the middle of the table. “If that pony were inclined to work fer it.”

“I have money.”

“Numbers?”

Just as quickly, she sat back and brushed her hair out of her face. “Not for you.”

“Fair enough. How ‘bout this? You sit back, and Ah paint you a picture.”

“I’m much obliged,” she said drily.

“Ah guarantee, you’ll find it appealin’.” He sipped his coffee, which he’d let get cold. “A young mare owns a passel of clubs for the hip, young ponies much like herself.” He gestured at her ridiculous getup, and she smirked. “These clubs provide her a steady stream of income, but she’s got a second source, something a little further from home, that involves the sale of certain… consumables, which are in high demand among many other young, hip ponies.” White Wine gave no indication that he was correct, but he continued. “Then, one day, a young, dashing colt comes into town with an offer. He says to her, he says ‘why, missy, Ah’ve got me a whole warehouse full of other useful items that can be sold to certain qualified buyers, and at pretty much any price you should name.’ She’s naturally skeptical.” He flashed a grin, and she rolled her eyes again.

“These items, so to speak, have a certain magical property, and can be quite useful for anyone with the bits to pay for them,” he said, nearly whispering.

“Did you get these from your employers as well?” she asked.

“Them, and thousands more, at my beck and call.”

“Then perhaps I should know who these employers of yours are,” White Wine said. “Ponies with enough imagination to pin me as whatever it is you’re suggesting. I don’t think I like that.”

“You familiar with Roan?”

She shook her head. “My interests don’t go far outside Canterlot.”

“Point well taken, White Wine. You may have heard of my ponies anyway, though.” He winked, the gesture lost on her nonplussed face. “The Mansel family, those are my ponies.”

“I’m not familiar with them.”

“No?”

“I’ve never been farther south than Ponyville,” White Wine said, rising. “Let’s go outside. These abstractions are giving me a migraine.”

Whippoorwill stood up and let her pay. “Ah choose where we go.”

“Am I a threat to you, Whippoorwill?” she asked, smiling sweetly.

“That’s fer you to answer, Miss Wine. Ah don’t like the way you’ve been lookin’ at me fer this little meet an’ greet.”

“If I can promise you I mean you no harm, can I choose where we go?” she asked. “It’s for both our safety. I have friends who would be unhappy to see us together.”

“Jealous coltfriend?”

They paused at the door, and White Wine brought up a hoof to raise her bangs out of the way. On her forehead, black as ash, was a thick, blotchy X. He had seen its feet when he sat down, and thought nothing of it, concealed under the loud mane.

On the sidewalk, he walked a little in front of her, and they turned into an alleyway. “Okay, Ah understand why you didn’t like it when Ah used my horn back there.”

“I’m no fool, Whippoorwill, I know the way of the world. I know to get ahead, you sometimes have to work with those you might not like. This,” she pointed to her forehead, “does not blind me to what you’re proposing, or our history. I still think of you as a friend, of sorts. My other ponies, though, will not see it that way. You’d be torn apart, and so would I for even talking to you.”

Whippoorwill swallowed. He had been told White Wine was a leader of a local gang, and that, if he could persuade her to use her connections, he could set down his own roots in the inner city. He had not expected a Pegasus Advocate.

“Reconsidering?”

“No, just thinking.” He smoothed his mane under his hat. “Ah’m willin’ to look past that little detail of yers, if yer willin’ to look past this here horn of mine.”

“Tell me your business proposal.” She leaned against the brick wall and pulled out a colorful cigarette from somewhere in her vest, using her wings—dyed the same as her mane and tail—to manipulate the tiny object out of its box and into her lips. He was silently impressed at the dexterity.

“Ah’ve got a warehouse full of enchanted objects that are worth at least two or three hundred bits on the street, each, and more behind me, shippin’ in straight from Roan. Nothin’ serious, basic stuff, like weak forcefields, increased virility, resistance to disease, and so on. We’re runnin’ the same operation back there.”

“Then why bring them out here?”

“Ah don’t know, an’ it ain’t my job to. Alls Ah know is Ah could sorely use yer connections with these other… ah, fine flying folk.”

She blew a slender stream of smoke into the air. “So, assuming that I even have these connections, what’s in it for me? Sounds like I’m taking a lot of risk for you to do it, what with all the ponies I’d have to put on street corners.”

“Again, assumin’ you could do that.”

“Of course, always assuming. This is all purely hypothetical, as I’m sure you know.”

“Ah’m aware, quite acutely.”

“So it would seem a bad deal to me, and for less than half I might make if I were to try selling these… what? What is it I’m selling, exactly, Whippoorwill?”

“Various narcotics, ‘swhat I’m told.”

“As good a description as any.” She smiled. “What’s the benefit in teaming up with you if I already have a successful side operation, on top of my legitimate businesses?”

“You’ll have my full cooperation and protection, if you want it, to ensure this new business don’t die on the vine. So there’s that. Maybe a little extra work, but that money is basically free.”

“I assume you’d want a partnership?”

“Sixty-forty? Ah’ll take the forty, as a show of good faith, if you’ll have me.”

“Not so fast, stud. I haven’t even seen your product yet.”

“It’s not far. We could walk there.”

“Which direction?”

“West.”

“You lead, I follow. How’s that?”

He sighed. “Fine, if you gotta. Ah hope yer not usually this jumpy.”

She scoffed. “You twinklers are all the same. Let me follow you and we can get this over with.”

He smiled. “Haven’t been called that in a while, Miss Wine.”

“Go, get moving,” she said, shoving him out of the alley. “No setups, no surprises, just two ponies looking at some product. Okay?”

He nodded slowly, putting his back to her and moving in the direction of the warehouse. It was five blocks away, and he only caught sight of her once on his way over. His mind was racing. The promise of free money had been his ultimate enticement for White Wine, and she had hardly seemed fazed. He quietly cursed Mrs. Mansel for setting him up with someone who was already wealthy, but thought better of his anger; after all, she probably didn’t know any more than he did.

The population of Canterlot seemed at least sixty percent unicorns. How could someone like White Wine, let alone an entire gang of Pegasus Advocates, survive in such a place, he wondered. They must either be very strong or very quiet. Based on the way his connection chose to dress, he was inclined to decide the former. “How much does she trust me?” he wondered. “At least enough to meet. That must say something.”

Outside the warehouse, he exchanged brief words with the guard and went back to his secluded storage unit, where he waited for White Wine to catch up.

“Let’s see it, then. If I don’t like it, I’m out,” she said. Her bright getup was sagging from the rain outside, and some of her makeup ran. She reminded him of a melting birthday cake.

“Like Ah said,” he said, lifting the corrugated door, “most of it’s small stuff. Here, you can try if you like.” He opened a crate and pulled out a watch. “These sharpen your reflexes by some small percent, Ah don’t remember off the top of my head. This puppy,” he grabbed a scarf and draped it around his neck, “protects you from sickness.”

“These are just objects,” White Wine said. “How do I know they work?”

“Test ‘em yourself, then. Here.” He grabbed a plastic bag off the top of a crate. “Take some home, play with ‘em, and you let me know later if you wanna go into business. What say?”

She was silent.

“There’s always the Astras,” he said, holding his aloof, calm expression tight like a second suit, despite only thinking of it a couple minutes before she caught up.

“What about them?” the acid in her voice was not put on.

“If you can sell these fer us, Ah can help you put it on them.” He gave her a cordial smile. “How’s that fer a sweet deal? You can ruin those unicorns’ good name and make some money on the side, an’ all you gotta do is put up with my company.”

“How would you put it on them?”

“Ah’ve got friends in town too, Miss Wine, all it takes is a little bit of information in the right ears to get the whole town talkin’. Do you have any clientele on the mountaintop?”

“Some,” she said guardedly.

“Those ponies talk,” Whippoorwill said. “They share sources with each other, an’ if one of their sources happens to be the well-loved Astras.” He raised his eyebrow and grinned at her. “Ah can see us both benefitin’ from it, that’s all.”

White Wine thought for a long time. Her brow wrinkled slightly, crinkling her black X. “Okay, I’ll try ‘em out. But!” She rushed up to him, putting their faces inches apart. Whippoorwill did not back down, nor did she expect him to. “Only because I know you. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” Whippoorwill said, tipping his hat and taking a polite step away from her. “Take as much time as you need to get acquainted with my product, and let the thought of taking down the Astras sink in while you do it. Ah’ll be around.”

“Give me your information. I will set up the next meeting.”

He smiled. “Ah’ve got my information on a slip of paper in my breast pocket. You all right if Ah use my horn to grab it?”

She tossed her head jerkily. “If you must.” Her eyes never left his horn as he reached in and produced the piece of paper. Extending it to her, she edged away. “Hoof it to me.”

He did, and she tucked it away somewhere in her vest. For a moment, they simply stood there, two damp ponies, looking at each other.

“Ah have to ask,” he finally said. “What happened? You weren’t like this before.”

She held him in a cool gaze. “I changed. That simple.”

Eight days away from the castle, one day from Canterlot, and the Elements angling down toward Ponyville for a reminder of what they were fighting for while, forty miles north, two warring families made their quiet, deadly plans.