Hannah Hawes, Shop Assistant

by Admiral Biscuit

First published 30th of April, 2018

You work for a minotaur named Jim Jam at a general store in Manehattan. It's an okay job; more importantly, the schedule is open enough for you to pursue your true passion: exploring ancient ruins.

You work as a shop assistant at a general store in Manehattan, stocking shelves and running the cash register and doing whatever else Jim Jam, your minotaur boss, needs you to do.

He's a pretty decent boss, and you get a discount on anything you buy in the shop. More importantly, the schedule is flexible, allowing you time to pursue your weekend passion: exploring ruins in search of ancient artifacts.

---

Written for Rare Story Prompts Contest #1

Prologue

Hannah Hawes, Shop Assistant
Prologue
Admiral Biscuit

Jim Jam's General Store is packed to the brim with stuff. Stuff that you're intimately familiar with, since you're his sole employee.

It's not a bad job, really. It's much like working retail back on Earth, except that customers are generally more polite. Unlike your experiences working human retail, ponies are rarely insufferable bastards who think that the world owes them something.

Jim Jam has interesting ideas about business, little tidbits he picked up here and there back when he was a young calf making his way in the wide wide world of Equestria with just a cart full of trade goods that he towed from one town to the next.

His first important lesson—trains were faster than a minotaur pulling a cart. There was no use in carrying anything that could be cheaply mail-ordered, a philosophy he’d carried forward in his general store.

Since you'd spent your formative years on Earth and were well-versed in the wonders of Amazon, you had to agree with that point.

He also thought that if ponies had to work for things, they'd want them more, which was why he liked to put the items he considered the most valuable and appealing on shelves that were far above a normal pony's reach. He thought that when you were called upon to get them down for ponies who wanted them, you could spend the time extolling the virtues of that particular item, which would practically guarantee a sale.

There were two problems with that idea of his. First, two thirds of the ponies who came in could either use magic or simply fly up to get what they wanted. The other third sometimes didn't even notice things that were on shelves high above their heads; if they did, they usually asked some other pony to get it down, rather than a salesgirl.

Your reach had gotten you the job.

Not only were your hands useful for working the monstrous Tauran cash register, but you could easily reach most of the shelves. For those few shelves which were too tall, there was a stepstool. Like most things that had been built for minotaurs, it was incredibly heavy but also incredibly stable.

You’d already put two boxes of snow globes up on the shelf, all neatly faced. They were clever little clockwork units that had a music box built into the base, and the mechanism also ran a tiny pump that shot the faux snowflakes into the air.

You glance down the aisle to make sure that there weren't any customers looking, and then reached inside your shirt to adjust your bra strap. It was ponymade, because Earth imports were stupidly expensive, and it liked to slide off your shoulders. Other than that, it was pretty comfortable.

“Hey, Hannah?”

“Yeah?” You grab at the last box and by the time Jim Jam comes around the corner, you're carefully arranging the last of the snowglobes.

“When you're done with those, put the boxes away in the back room and then tidy up some in there, okay? There's some candy I couldn't sell that we should probably get rid of before mice move in.”

“Candy, got it.” You give the shelf a last look and decide that everything's in order. Sometimes you like to crouch down a little bit and get a pony-eye view, just to make sure that the display looks attractive from a pony perspective.

This time you don't bother. You take the boxes to the back room and stack them with all the other boxes, then go back to the aisle for the stepstool.

The stockroom smells of dust and very faintly of fish. It used to be part of the fish market until the dock area gentrified—that's apparently something that pony cities do, too. Jim Jam had bought the building at just the right time, when its value was as low as it would ever get.

He lived upstairs, where he could always keep an eye on his store.

Your first weeks in the stockroom were overwhelming. He'd ask you to get something and you'd have to ask him where it was. There was no rhyme or reason to the arrangements, and the few boxes that were labeled were in dozens of different languages, most of which you didn’t know.

You're no better at Anadolu or Galician or Manipuri than you were when you got to Manehattan, but at least you know where to look for things now.

It doesn't take you too long to find the candy. It's mostly weird Equestrian stuff that you've never heard of before, and oddly enough a few clones of human candy that apparently weren't well-received. There's a dozen bags of faux m&ms—they’ve got horseshoes printed on them instead of ms. They're all various shades of green, and claim to have alfalfa centers. You're not willing to bite into one to find out.

You've taken a couple of trips to the garbage cans out back when you hit paydirt—there's a bag of Jolly Ranchers in there. Assorted flavors, and the packaging is intact. You're pretty sure that Jolly Ranchers never go bad, and it'll be a nice taste of home . . . assuming that there aren't any weird pony flavors in there.

A quick look at the package indicates that they're the normal flavors that you know and love, so you set them off to the side—maybe he'll let you have them.

The Mission

Hannah Hawes, Shop Assistant
The Mission
Admiral Biscuit

“What're you doing this weekend?”

“Nothing much,” you lie. “Probably just sit around my house or hang out with friends. Maybe go to the park if the weather's nice.”

“You should come to the gym sometime,” he says. “Build up some muscle. Exercise is good.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You lean the broom back up against the wall. “I'm not really into that. Doesn't seem to be much purpose to lifting weights and all that.”

“You have no idea what you're missing.”

“Pretty sure I do. I've told you about Earth fitness clubs.” You reach for the trash can and then remember the Jolly Ranchers. “Hey, there were some Jolly Ranchers back there with the candy that you told me to toss out. You mind if I have them?”

“Go ahead.”

You go back into the stockroom—you remember right where they were—and stick them in your bra. It’s understandable that ponies have trouble with the idea of pockets in pants.

As you head for the back door again, you pick up the trash can. “I'll dump this on my way out.”

“Thanks. See you Monday.” You set down the trash can long enough to strip off your work apron and hang it up on its peg.

You dump out the trash and set the empty can just inside the back door. If he doesn't put it back where it belongs on his way out, you'll move it back on Monday.

You've got plans, and they won't wait.

You always keep a bag packed—that's something that you learned years ago. You only stop by your apartment long enough to grab it, and then you hurry to the train station.

Your ticket is for a semi-private first-class seat, which is nice. As soon as the conductor shows you to your compartment, you tip him a bit, lock the door, and pull the shades down.

It's a little bit uncomfortable to change your clothes in a pony train car—the compartments really aren't sized for humans. You briefly consider how Jim Jam would find it, and decide that he'd really hate it. The first time he stood up, he’d stick his horns in the ceiling and have to pry himself loose.

Of course you're just lacing up your boots when the train starts moving, knocking you off balance. Luckily, here the small compartment comes to your rescue, and you're able to brace against a wall before tumbling, undignified, across one of the couches.

And then it's time to sit and wait. Sitting and waiting is boring, and you wish that you'd thought to pack a book in your ready bag. That's something to remember for next time.

At Baltimare, an older mare enters your compartment. She's about the most bland pony you could imagine—she's got a grey mane and tail, a dun-colored coat, and a piece of paper as a cutie mark. Her blue eyes are sharp and clear, though, and you know she never misses a detail.

“Evening, Pure Clear.” That's not her real name.

“Hello, ‘Banana.’ Have a good day at work?”

“Sure.” Your mouth turns up into a small smile at your codename. “If you're already thinking of Christmas—Hearth's Warming, we've got snowglobes in. They're really clever. Music boxes built into the base, the whole deal.”

“Maybe next time I'm in Manehattan, I'll buy one.” She opens her saddlebags and pulls out a folder. “The Orrery of Antikythera—what do you know about it?”

“Never heard of it until now,” you admit.

“Well, rumor is that it's located in the Temple of Eleia. Lotta trouble if it gets in the wrong hooves.”

You nod. This is not the first time that an ancient artifact has resurfaced and threatened all ponykind.

“Predates even Princess Celestia's rule, if you'd believe. Back when the Andravidans were trying to control the sun. We don't know if it still works, but—“

“But I probably shouldn't push any buttons on it,” you say. “Got it. Any idea what it looks like?”

“Nope.” She taps a hoof on the folder. “It's all in here, best guesses and all that. You know the routine.”

“Yeah.”

“I've got to get off at the next stop,” she says. “That's the bad news. So you ought to skim through the folder.”

“What's the good news?”

“I was just getting to that. You aren't going alone.”

“Who is it this time?”

Her face twists up into a rare smile. “Do you really want me to spoil the surprise?”

Pure Clear was right that it was a surprise. Your companion is none other than Daring Do. She's wearing her cloak as a disguise, but as soon as the train leaves the station, she takes it off, revealing her adventuring clothes underneath.

“Hawes,” she says quietly. “I've heard about you. They say you're the cleverest monkey in the agency.”

“And you're the best birdhorse,” you tell her, totally deadpan. Inside, you're having a minor fangasm—Daring Do is a legend; she's the Indiana Jones of ponykind. Well, except that she's real. And a bit stuck up, but that's to be expected, given her track record.

“I guess I deserved that.” She plants her pith helmet firmly on her head and sticks out a hoof. “What do you like to go by? Banana is just silly.”

“Usually just Hannah,” you tell her. “Doesn't really lend itself to nicknames. My little brother called me 'Hannie.'”

“I'm not one to step on little brothers' tails. Hannah.” She glances over at the folder. “What do we know? I didn't get much of a briefing.”

“Not a lot. It's an orrery, it's in a temple, it might still work, and if it does bad things will happen.”

“Got it.”

“So no pushing buttons on it.”

“Right. How about the temple?”

“Built by crazy cultists.” Aren't they all? “Andravidan, dates before Princess Celestia's ascension. Recently discovered: the first expedition from the Bitish Museum gave up after one trap too many. Dr. Caballeron is known to be interested; last report has him chartering an airship. I'm reading between the lines a bit here, but if the orrery works like it's supposed to, using it could wrest control of the sun from Princess Celestia.”

“Good thing that Nightmare Moon's been vanquished—that sounds just like the thing she'd’ve wanted to get her hooves on.”

“Did I mention that the Andravidans are a New Lunar Republic cult?”

Daring rolls her eyes. “Of course they are. Anybody else interested?”

“Not according to this.” You set the folder aside. “It's not really Ahuizotl's thing, and I can't see the Mane-iac going for it, either. Pharoah Fetlock's in prison, Tirek's in Tartarus, and—“

“Grogar?”

“Maybe. He hasn't been seen for a while, so I wouldn't rule him out entirely.”

“Never worked with a human before,” Daring says, studying you intently. “What have you got as assets?”

“Opposable thumbs and a cutting wit.”

“And I've got wings and a pith helmet. Sounds like we're all set.”

“Yeah.” You slide the folder over to her. “There's a map of the temple in there—it's not complete, of course. But it's better than nothing.”

“You've seen one cursed temple, you've seen them all,” she says, but she opens the folder anyway.