On a drizzling morning in Ponyville, Butterscotch walked out of her house with a face sending out beam after beam of vitamin D-providing happiness with her life.

“Can I talk to the cameraponies to explain what I’m doing?” she said.

“Transcriber #3’ll read your mind,” camerapony #1 said.

“Don’t be all sarcastic, whichever camerapony you are.”

“Seriously, she’s a unicorn and she’ll read your mind. It’s kinda her job.”

“Prove it.”

“You’re going to an employment agency, partially because you want a job, and partly because you want to get away from your excessively rude older sister Arserscotch,” transcriber #3 said.

“Huh.”

“You know, you seem awfully sane compared to last time around,” camerapony #1 took back the conversation slot that was rightfully his.

“Well, you can be an obsessive fangirl and still be a normal pony.”

“Yeah, but you’re an RL stalker. That’s different.”

“As long as Big Mac doesn’t come up, I’m a normal pony.”

“We’ll see.”

And so some walking. The employment agency was, like everything else on its street, made on a budget, with bricks of modelling clay held together with glue. This one, at least, had some class, with grey clay consistently being used and opposed to the random mix of whatever brightly coloured clay they could find, sometimes within the same brick, that most of the buildings had.

Butterscotch entered into a room with perfectly smooth white walls, rounded corners you could comfortably put all four hooves on, and perfect cleanliness, the place clearly possessing some kind of terrible secret. The other side of the building had a door that presumably led out back, judging by the size of the room, which took up the entire floor and had no support pillars. The only features in the room were an equally clean, but pointed, staircase leading upwards, and a desk to someone entering the building’s right attended by a white pegasus with a laptop.

“Hi,” Butterscotch said.

“Hi,” Bleachy said. “I assume you’re looking for a job?”

She didn’t know that “95940935” would make Bleachy lower the centre of the floor, leading to a club that was mostly for sex but also board games. “Yeah.”

“Do you have any job-worthy talents?”

“I can calm down a crowd of crazy fangirls.”

Bleachy typed some stuff on her laptop. “It looks like there’s a job at an employment agency across town.”

“Where?”

“Oh, wait, no, it’s not across town....”

“What?”

“It’s right in this neighbourhood, actually. The address is 55 Rode Street.”

“Okay, thanks!”

“Yep.”

This was strange, Butterscotch thought; were there really two employment agencies on the same street? One seemed like the only correct number for the reasonability/having a plot balance. She looked at the number by the door of the place she just went out of, and as she thought she saw, it was a 55. She went back inside.

“Hi,” she said. “I heard there was a job being offered here?”

Bleachy pushed her laptop aside. “Yes, there’s a shift from midnight to four if you want it.”

“How much does it pay?”

“It’s two bits an hour.”

“I’m not sure if I want to be up that late for that.”

“Well, it’s the only offer we have.”

“I demand three bits an hour.”

“I’ll get the manager.”

Bleachy went up the staircase behind her and came back with a black (very dark grey, but basically black) stallion.

“This filly here wants three bits an hour for the 00–04 shift.”

“Do you have any previous experience in finding ponies jobs or assigning them to things?” the manager said.

“I can get a crazed pack of fangirls to obey my orders.”

“Not good enough. It’s two bits or you can’t have the job.”

“Fine. Then I won’t take it.”

“I’m sorry we couldn’t work out an agreement.” He turned around and headed back to the mysterious floor of management.

“Good riddance,” Butterscotch said to Bleachy. “In fact, not even good riddance. Bad riddance to you, whatever your name is.”

“It’s Bleachy.”

“Well, bad riddance to you, Miss Bleachy.”

“I’m married.”

“Badbye.”

And so Butterscotch stormed out and wondered what she should do. The only non-residential building in the Vitany area, she realised, was that employment agency, and it seemed like the only stupid easy job they had was for themselves. Why was it even there? Was she just unlucky? Why did she feel like she was enjoying the rain? Why did she feel like drinking directly collected rainwater? Whether it originated that way wasn’t the point, it needed to be straight from rain into a piece of drinkware. It wasn’t even sexual, she just really wanted it. She didn’t even know why. She would have to do that the next time it rained heavily....

Next Chapter: Chapter 113: Igloo Collapse Estimated time remaining: 10 Hours, 15 Minutes